The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

---

The incident in her classroom seemed to remove a lot of boundaries for Carol as a submissive, and she no longer fought the impulse when it came. In fact, she became very creative herself.

Not long after that episode she called and asked me to come over, and when I arrived I found an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and inside the envelope was a small key. There was no answer to my knock—but when I entered I found her kneeling on the floor, wearing only a pair of bright yellow panties printed with blue ducks with orange beaks and feet… and she had gotten some handcuffs and used them to bind her hands behind her back. She said nothing when I came in—just opened her mouth as wide as she could.

The classroom itself became a favorite playground for some of her fantasies. As an assistant teacher she had a key to the school and could get in anytime. One afternoon I found a note under my door, which read: “Carol is being kept after school for being a nasty little girl.” And when I arrived at her classroom I found her standing in the corner with her face to the wall, hands behind her head, as if she had been stood there for punishment. Not only that, but she had dressed herself as a little girl: shiny black shoes and lacey white ankle socks, a short, pouffy pink dress and matching barrettes in her hair.

And when she heard me enter she bent over, still keeping her back to me, and pulled her dress up over her hips, revealing a pair of equally pink panties, covered with rows of white frills. Then she reached down, grasped her ankles and was still.

She had written on the blackboard: “Carol has been very naughty and needs to be spanked,”—a pair of dashes followed this and underneath was written, “and then fucked in the ass.”

There was heavy wooden ruler and a jar of Vaseline sitting in the middle of her otherwise empty desk.

I had taken to bringing my camera with me whenever I met with Carol, and recorded all of these details: Carol bent over, holding her ankles; the writing on the blackboard; the ruler and jar on the desk.

Then I had her stand and face me and, while I recorded the whole process, take off her dress (she wore no bra) and then in just her shoes, socks and panties crawl up to the front of the room to fetch the ruler and crawl around the room several times holding it in her mouth. When I had enough pictures I took the ruler from her and allowed her to lie across my lap. I held the camera as high as I could in my left hand to get shots of her in that position, gave her a few whacks with the ruler just to warm her up—trying to time shooting a picture with the ruler’s impact on her behind. Then I put down both camera and ruler, lifted her left leg and spun her so that the top of her head was on the floor between my feet and her legs were spread on either side of me. She rested her head on her arms while I used both hands to spank her: right cheek… whack! Left cheek… whack! Right cheek, left cheek… She thrashed around and cried out and begged me to stop, her feet, still in their shiny shoes and ankle socks, waving around in the air.

When I thought she’d had enough I picked up the camera again and took a shot of her from that angle. Then I reached over for the Vaseline and got a large glob of it on my thumb, which I slipped under her panties and between her now-tender cheeks. I began to massage and lubricate her there, gradually working my thumb further and further up her passage. She squirmed and moaned and made little whimpering noises while I did it—I took a close-up shot of my hand inside her panties, then pulled them down far enough to show what I was doing and took another. But when I put the camera down again, slid my free hand between her legs and began caressing her through the crotch of her panties she began to writhe so spasmodically that it looked like she was trying to swim off my lap.

“Oh god—do it now! Please… please do it now,” she begged. But when I merely continued what I was doing she realized what I wanted her to do and cried out, “Oh! Oh god… fuck my asshole! Pull down my panties… and put your cock up my ass!” Then, when I only continued, she screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE PULL DOWN MY PANTIES AND FUCK MY ASSHOLE!”

I could hardly resist such a genteel invitation, so I helped her to stand up then stood up myself and took pictures while I allowed her to kneel and pull down my pants and underwear, and as she worked frantically to lubricate my cock, first with her mouth, then with a coating of Vaseline, moaning as she did so. When I was ready I pulled her to her feet and roughly bent her over her desk. I took a few quick shots, yanked her panties down to her thighs and took a few more, then got rid of the camera, grabbed her by the hips and entered her, pushing my cock into her rear passage so hard, and penetrating so deeply, that her feet were lifted off the floor and she had to support herself on her hands and forearms as she arched her back and cried out loud.

To an outsider it would have seemed almost as if she were jumping up and down as my thrusts lifted her off her feet again and again. Her cries came faster and faster until they became a continuous wail that rose like a siren, her mouth hanging open—then suddenly cut off with a screamed, “AH!” –pain, pleasure and revelation combined.

For a long time afterward she remained silent, staring down as if entranced at the blotter on her desk. Looking over her shoulder I saw several dark patches on it, and I realized they had been made by drool from her mouth. And when I withdrew my cock from her behind she quickly turned and sat on the blotter, holding her buttocks apart, allowing my semen to drip out of her to join the other stains there. I got a picture of her doing that, then she had me take one of her standing in front of her desk—still wearing her shiny black shoes and lacey socks, ruffled pink panties half-way down her thighs—and holding up the blotter, glistening with various stains, like an award. And even though the stains became almost invisible when dry she took the blotter when we left

When we got back to her room she took a marker and circled the stained areas on the blotter, then thumbtacked it to the inside of her closet door. The panties she’d worn on other occasions were no longer hanging there, and she told me that she had run out of room so she’d gone out and bought the largest scrapbook she could find and transferred them to that. She showed it to me: each pair of panties was now fastened—and she had sewed them in by hand—to a page of black paper and had a small white label below them, giving the date and a short summary, such as, “9/17/04 (My room): ‘Miss Santiago’ punished for stealing—Forced to crawl down the hallway and back in these, then to suck Jonathan’s cock in front of my doorway—He came on my face” or “9/26/04 (Jonathan’s room): Tied up, forced to lick out Jonathan’s nasty underwear, electric toothbrush in my pussy. Bent over a chair, made to wet these and then fucked in the ass.’

She had even gone back and added the white cotton panties she’d been wearing during our first encounter. She’d put them on the very first page, along with a label, which read, “9/16/04 (Near the reservoir): Jonathan pulled these down and licked me – I rubbed his cock with them and let him come in my mouth.” The later entries were followed by printouts of the pictures I’d taken of her.

Which gave me an idea. I gave her the camera and told her to keep it with her at all times—without telling her why.

Then in the next few days I started sending instructions by email. For example: “This morning at 10:45 you’ll pretend to drop a pencil behind your desk. When you get down to look for it I want you to put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for at least 30 seconds. Use the camera to document it.” And when I’d get back to my room in the late afternoon the pictures would be in my email. On the occasion mentioned above there was only a single shot, apparently taken from under her desk. It was shaky and badly composed because of being taken with the camera held out in front of her in one hand. It was taken from inside the recessed area beneath the desk and showed Carol crouched down behind it. Her eyes were just visible below the upper edge, and she appeared to be looking anxiously at the camera as if to make sure it was pointed properly. Her skirt was hitched up nearly to her waist, her knees were wide apart and her right hand was pressing against the crotch of her panties.

Another day I left the following message: “Wear the vibrator over your panties today. Carry the control in your purse and turn it on between all of your classes and all through your lunch break. At the end of the day go into the bathroom and take off the vibrator. Then take off your panties and lick out the crotch. Then put your panties in your mouth and walk home. Make eye contact with at least three people and smile at them.”

The pictures I received later that day began with a series taken in a stall in the bathroom. The first was taken from as far away as she could reach with her arm—which meant she had to straddle the toilet to take it—showing her holding up her dress to expose the vibrator. The second was a close-up, without the vibrator, showing just her panties—purple with huge red and yellow polka dots—and the wet stain in the crotch. Next was a shot of the same panties, but down around her knees, followed by a more distant shot of the same thing, showing herself still holding up her dress. Then a series of close-up shots of her face, showing her looking straight into the camera with her tongue out as she licked the crotch of her panties, inside and out. A shot of her with the panties stuffed into her open mouth. Several shots of people outside, mostly looking at the camera with a puzzled expression. And a final shot of her back in her room, smiling and holding up the panties, wrinkled and damp from being in her mouth.

She would send requests to me as well: “I’ll be under our usual table in the dining hall at 1:00. Banana pudding for dessert today—I want to lick it off your cock.” Or: “I have to go to the library tonight. Please come and make me rub you with my panties.”

She had of course long since gone through all the ‘little-girl’ panties’ I’d had her buy, since she usually only wore them for me once before adding them to her scrapbook. I’d told her she could go back to wearing regular underwear if she wanted to but she’d decided she liked them—liked the combination of innocence and sexual submission. She’d bought more on her own, and often would email me pictures of others she’d found on the internet or scanned from catalogues, asking for my approval before buying them, accompanied by little notes like, “Would you like to see these when you make me take off my clothes for you?” or, “How do you think these would look in my mouth?” Or “Anyone who’d wear these deserves to be spanked, don’t you think?” or “I’d love to rub your cock with these and then lick your come out of them.”

Of course now that she was taking birth control pills she often found reasons to have me inside her. “Miss Santiago’ was brought back for an encore more than once, with the difference that after the usual preliminaries instead of crawling down the hall she was forced to strip naked and either straddle my cock as I sat in her chair or bend over her desk and be taken from behind.

But there were often new and sometimes unexpected discoveries to be made as our erotic obsession with each other deepened. For example, the night she had me meet her at the bus stop outside her dormitory. It was October and the nights were getting cold, and when I saw her she was wearing calf-length black boots and a black cloth coat that came down to her knees. She was wearing her glasses and carrying some books and looked very studious.

There were a few other people in or near the plexiglas shelter. They all looked ghostly in the dim light from the street lamp. Carol pretended not to know me. She was standing in front of the bench, near one wall of the shelter and when I sat down next to her she moved closer to the wall to make room for me without actually acknowledging me in any way. From this I deduced that I was to be a stranger.

And when, under cover of darkness, I slipped my hand under her coat and lightly brushed the back of her knee, and she reached down and pushed my hand away before shuffling closer to the wall, I knew I was right. I also knew that I wasn’t supposed to take no for an answer and slid over even closer to her than before. She immediately moved away again, but her shoulder was now against the plexiglass. She had nowhere else to go unless she wanted to run away—which of course she didn’t.

So when I slid my hand back under her coat she grabbed my wrist and there was a silent tug-of-war as she pretended to try to keep me from going any further. There were people sitting next to me on the bench and standing in front of us as well, some of them talking among themselves, but they remained oblivious as the silent struggle in the dark went on.

A bus came, people got off, some people got on, and it left again. Some of the others stayed, waiting for a different bus. During the commotion I used my free hand to pluck hers from my wrist and in no time had run my hand up the back of her thigh and onto her behind. She gasped as I did so but it was covered by the noise of the departing bus.

Unexpectedly, one of the people getting off the bus was a fellow student-teacher of Carol’s, a somewhat gangly woman with blonde hair who was also, it seemed, quite talkative, or at least she was that night. She recognized Carol even in the dim light, walked up to her and immediately launched into a monologue about the movie she’d just seen.

It was fortunate that Carol didn’t have to do much more than nod periodically, as I—the stranger sitting unacknowledged at her side, staring straight ahead and apparently lost in my own thoughts—was now fondling her behind through her panties, my arm hidden from view behind her. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I was sure it had turned a deep red. This was probably not what Carol had had in mind when she’d asked me to meet her there, but I, at least, was enjoying it.

When she felt my hand slipping between her legs she tried to clamp her thighs together, but realized she couldn’t struggle too obviously without being given away and eventually she surrendered, allowing me to cup and squeeze her sex though her panties while she pretended to be fascinated by the conversation. She continued to do so even when I pulled the crotch of her panties aside and the tip of my middle finger sought and found her clitoris and began to stroke it.

But when that same finger suddenly slid all the way inside her, she couldn’t help herself and gasped out loud. Her friend, interrupted in the middle of describing a favorite scene, inquired what was the matter. Carol stuttered something about a hot-plate possibly left on in her room and sped off, leaving me barely enough time to withdraw my hand and place it at my side as if it had been there from the beginning. I watched as she yanked open the dormitory door and hurried inside.

I couldn’t follow her immediately, of course. I had to wait until her friend had gone away before getting up, as if tired of waiting for my bus, and walking casually towards the dormitory.

To my surprise she was waiting just out of sight inside the door. She was angry and immediately began castigating me in a furious whisper about the need to keep our activities private. I would have mentioned the fact that it was her idea to meet at the bus stop but she didn’t give me a chance, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs as she continued to upbraid me.

I assumed she was leading me downstairs towards the basement instead of upstairs to her room so she could yell at me more freely, as that floor was mostly used for storage. So when we got to the bottom of the stairs I was astonished when she turned her back on me and, still telling me how thoughtless and selfish I was, dropped her purse to the floor, pulled up the back of her coat and skirt—revealing a pair of white panties with blue ruffled trim and decorated with pink birthday cakes—then bent over, her coat and skirt now up over her hips, and supported herself by placing her hands on the third step and spreading her feet apart.

She stopped talking and with a grunt of annoyance reached down for her purse, pulled it up to where she could open it, found the camera and held it out to me, all without straightening from her position. Her glasses fell off as I took the camera from her and she grabbed them and slapped them on top of her purse, as if they were the cause of her exasperation, before returning to her position. “Hurry up!” she said, glaring at me upside down from between her knees, her short black hair hanging straight down.

It was something I should have realized almost from the beginning, but it was just becoming obvious to me now: the combination of anger and submissiveness was highly erotic for her. With that in mind I took a few shots, then just stood there, making her wait in that uncomfortable position. We stared at each other—it was almost a contest except that I had the advantage of being upright while she was bent over with the blood rushing to her head—and finally she spoke first.

“What?”

“Touch yourself.”

She frowned at me (upside down it looked like a smile, of course), gave an exasperated sigh, and grumbled, “All right, all right.” Then she reached up with one hand and actually managed to give me the finger while beginning to stroke herself through the crotch of her panties, still glaring at me. I took a few shots, including some close-ups of her face, now dark red and grim, as if she were mad at herself for being so aroused.

After a while I said, “Pull your panties down and keep going.”

“Oh!” she huffed angrily, and straightened just enough to free both hands momentarily while she yanked her panties half-way down her thighs, then returned to supporting herself with her left hand while stroking herself with the fingers of her right.

I watched closely until she fell into the rhythm of what she was doing and closed her eyes. As silently as possible I put the camera down on the floor and unbuckled my belt, sliding it noiselessly out of its loops and doubling it in my hand as I walked toward her. I waited until I was sure she was well aroused—her finger, glistening with her juices, sliding rapidly between the lips of her vagina, her legs shaking slightly with the strain of holding her unnatural position—before raising the belt and giving her a quick, vicious slash across her naked behind.

Her reaction, not surprisingly, was instantaneous.

“OW!” she yelled, loudly enough to be heard on the top floor of the dorm, I was sure. Her body snapped upright as she whirled to face me. “You BASTARD!” she yelled again… and attacked me.

I let her push me against the nearest wall and take a few ineffectual swipes at me, cursing under her breath the whole time—”… bastard son-of-a-bitch that really hurt, you asshole… ” etc.—before grabbing her wrists and twisting her around so that her arms were behind her back. I used my belt to secure them there despite her struggles, then spun her again and pressed her back against the wall. She continued to curse me—”… let me go, you son-of-a bitch, get your hands off me… “—as I unbuttoned her coat and reached in with both hands to squeeze her breasts, roughly, through her blouse.

She gasped and fell silent, panting and glaring at me as if she hated me, as I continued to fondle her. Even when I reached under her skirt and jerked her panties the rest of the way down to the floor, lifted one of her boots just enough to free it from her panties and spread her legs apart, lifted her skirt and tucked it into her waistband, leaving her completely exposed—she said nothing, other than with her eyes. But when I started to unfasten my pants and pull my zipper down, she hissed, “Don’t you dare… “

“What?” I replied, as I lowered my pants and underwear and stood with my palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, my erection pressing against the dark thatch of curly hair between her legs. “Don’t what?” I asked insolently, my eyes close to hers.

“Don’t you dare… ” Her eyes suddenly closed for a moment, and when she opened them again the expression in them was somewhat crazed. Her voice was a cracked whisper: “Don’t you dare… fuck me.” Then her head darted forward and she kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth, before falling back against the wall and thrusting her hips forward against mine.

It was almost instantaneous: I grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor and thrust into her. Her back went absolutely flat against the wall so fast that she banged her head as well. She took one gasping breath… then seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Suddenly all was completely silent. We stood unmoving, a complicated sculpture: Carol suspended against the wall, her long black coat hanging down on either side of her like dark wings, her lower legs dangling next to my hips; me standing pressed between her outstretched thighs with my cock inside her, leaning in as I held her up with my hands and the clenched muscles of my legs.

She stared into my eyes, transfixed, for a long moment then took a long slow breath through her mouth as if she had just remembered how, then let it out as something between a sigh and whisper: “Ohhh, you bastard. You’re… fucking me!” And with that she suddenly crossed her legs, her feet still in their long black boots, behind my back as she arched hers, raising her hips until only the very tip of my cock was still inside her… then dropped heavily and impaled herself on my shaft to its full length. She grunted—”Unh!”—and immediately began raising herself again—as slowly and deliberately as a roller coaster car climbing the first hill.

When she was again poised as high as she could go she hissed, “Don’t you dare… ” and, as she let herself drop again, “… fuck me!” This time I met her downward motion with an upward thrust of my own, driving deep inside her, and the shock of pleasure caused her to bang the back of her head against the wall again. For some reason this set her off and she began to raise and lower herself on me as fast as she could, spitting out words with each thrust: “Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuck me! Don’t!… You!… Dare!… Fuh… UH!… UH!… UH!… AHHHHHHHhhhhhh…!”

And with that she began to sort of melt, sliding down the wall, the now limp weight of her upper body pushing me back so that while I was still holding her up by the hips her head and shoulders eventually wound up on the floor. Probably uncomfortable for her, especially with her arms still bound behind her and her legs still locked around my hips, and certainly painful for me as my erect cock was still inside her and being bent in a direction it was not accustomed to. I had to pull it out and when I did it sprang up and bounced back and forth several times like a metronome.

Carol, feeling me withdraw, managed to open her eyes slightly and looked up at me. She gave me an adoring, affectionate look, smiled and whispered, “God, I hate you.”

And when her glance fell to take in my as yet unsatisfied cock her smile widened. Then she whispered, “Don’t you dare fuck me again,” and with a single jerk of her leg muscles pulled me down on top of her.

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