All characters are over 18
Prologue
Forget all the stories of blackmail and compromising photos and videos, forget the strangely cruel and vindictive students, forget the spending spree in the local sex shop and the commanding messages sent to the teacher’s phone every day — if you want to know how a teacher really ended up as a sex slave (and very happy to be one), read on.
All stories have a start, but this one also has a prologue. It was one day when I was marking essays — you know: on paper, written in ink (remember those days?). The essays were on Shakespeare’s use of imagery in Hamlet and I was reading a very good essay by a quiet, soft-spoken and intelligent student called Beth when I put down one sheet of her essay and turned to the next and blinked and stared at the words that came out at me:
I’m a bad girl. A very bad girl. And I know what happens to bad girls. They get spanked. They need to be spanked. They must be spanked. And they must be spanked on their bare bottoms. I need you to spank me on my bare bottom. I need you to discipline me. I will come to you and I will be wearing my old schoolgirl uniform with my blazer and my school tie and my white shirt and my short pleated skirt, and I will bend over and take my knickers down for you and pull my skirt up and show you my bare bum for you to SPANK me — hard!! Because I’m such a dirty girl, such a bad, dirty girl, and bad dirty girls should be PUNISHED and punished SEVERELY!! Spank me! Spank me! Spank me! SPANK ME!! I NEED it!! Please PLEASE SPANK ME!!!!!
Well, that didn’t sound much like Shakespeare’s use of imagery in Hamlet. But what was it? And what was it doing in her essay? I guessed it had got in there by mistake and my instinct was to leave it alone, as if I had never seen it, but I was still curious — partly because it was obviously written by Beth (Beth wrote that??) and partly because I wasn’t sure what it was. A private fantasy? A letter? If so, to whom? To me? That was alarming. Schoolgirl crushes sound very exciting in erotica, but they can be serious trouble in reality. I skimmed through the rest of it for a clue. There didn’t seem to be any — it was all “I’ll loosen my schoolgirl tie for you and undo my top button and bend over your knees and you can SPANK your naughty NAUGHTY schoolgirl” — until right at the bottom of the second side I found a reference to something she and her anonymous spanker had obviously done one Saturday night (it sounded as if he had pulled her knickers down and fingered her arsehole behind a bus shelter and she had loved it). Phew. She was obviously writing it to her boyfriend, not to me.
But it still raised the question of what I should do with it. Had she missed it? Was she frantically looking for it? (imagine if her parents had found it!) I did briefly wonder about burning it, but it was her property, not mine. However, when I gave it to her, she would die of embarrassment, that was obvious. What to do?
So, in the end, I marked her essay (it was very good) and put the spanking scene in a plain envelope and gave them both back to her perfectly normally in class, taking care to give her a broad smile as I did so. She looked rather puzzled by the envelope and peeped inside. Then her face went white and her jaw literally dropped — I’d never seen that actually happen to anyone before. She looked absolutely mortified, poor thing. At the end of the lesson she seemed in a hurry to go, but I asked her, very nicely, to stay a moment. She came over to my desk looking very nervous. I decided to put her at her ease.
“Very good essay, Beth,” I said.
“Thank you, Miss Brewer.”
We both knew we were avoided the real point. I looked her in the eyes and smiled.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s fine. It’s natural, it’s actually quite normal. And I hope you have a lot of fun. Just be careful where you leave your letters.”
She looked relieved.
“I thought I’d put it in an envelope for my boyfriend,” she said. “I don’t know how I got mixed up. I’m really sorry. You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Why on earth should I mind?”
“I thought you might think me a — ”
“A what, Beth?”
“A pervert.”
“There’s nothing whatever perverted about it,” I said. “As a matter of fact –”
She took a moment to catch my meaning and then she looked at me, her eyes wide.
“You mean, you like it too?” she asked, scarcely able to believe it.
I just smiled. This wasn’t erotica; it was life. You don’t want to burden a girl with too much information, especially not about her teacher’s private life. “Thank you,” she said, and she left the room. We never spoke about it again.
At least, not while she was at school.
Chapter 1
Fast forward seven years. I was in a new job at a different college and my life was falling apart. The job was a promotion but it was looking like a mistake. Exam results were disappointing, mistakes were being made — not all of them my fault, but it looked as if they were — and my ten-year marriage had ended. It would help if I could tell you it was all his fault but it wasn’t. Stephen was a nice man, he was always kind to me but that’s all he was. There was no spark, no sex, no children — nothing. In the end I suggested we get divorced, he agreed because it was what I wanted, and I ended up hating myself for it. I moved into a small flat which I didn’t like and which was a bit more than I could afford, I quarrelled with an old friend who thought I’d brought my troubles on myself, and I lost my purse and had to cancel all my cards, but not before the bastard had spent £400 of my money. As I said, my life was falling apart.
A couple of girlfriends at work suggested a long weekend in Amsterdam.
It was the half term break so we booked into a cheap hotel and hit town. It was cafes and sightseeing and cafes and bars and cafes — well, you get the idea — until Saturday night when we hit the Red Light district. We gazed at the ladies in the windows and giggled like schoolgirls when we saw men negotiating to go inside. We browsed in the sex shops and stared open-mouthed at some of the positions in some of the photos. But we knew what we were waiting for and when the time came round we set off excitedly — we were teachers, for heaven’s sake — to a sex show. That sex show changed my life.
At first it was just funny. You went downstairs into a dim-lit cellar, with a thumping bass beat coming out of the speakers and tables round the central area where topless waitresses went round selling drinks at outrageous prices. We had expected that and we all clubbed together for a bottle of red. Then the show started. At first we just giggled — there were a couple of strippers, who got the men all excited but didn’t have anything to impress us; then a man who combined stripping with some quite good magic tricks; then a full floorshow, with four girls in leather straps asking for volunteers to lick their cunts. Two men, two women went forward; we stayed put. It was fun and it was sexy but that’s all it was; even in those pre-internet days, it was all stuff you’d seen before.
And then the dominatrix came on.
She had all the gear: black leather boots, black leather trousers, black underbust corset with magnificent tits sticking out, a high collar to give her a sense of command, and a long whip. She looked round at us with such withering contempt. I had never seen anyone like her, not for real, and I was blown away. I thought she was just amazing, beyond anything I had ever dreamed of — and that was when she caught my eye. It was just for a moment, a fleeting moment, but we connected. I wanted to submit to her — and she knew it.
She had three slave girls with her, all naked except for their slave collars. They knelt on the stage in front of her, their eyes cast down, and they did exactly as she ordered them. They licked each others’ cunts and tits, they licked her boots — all the way up them and under the soles — and in one incredible moment (I just stared) they opened their mouths and she pissed into them one by one — and they all swallowed. Then two of them tied up the third, with her arms high above her head, and the dominatrix started to whip her. Slowly and lightly at first, little twitches of the whip, though they must have hurt. The girl called out, “Thank you, Mistress!” after each one. Then the domme started to whip harder and faster. And after each one, the girl called out, “Thank you, Mistress! Thank you! Oh, thank you!” until she was virtually screaming it. I thought she must collapse at some point from the pain, but when her two fellow slaves finally released her, she ran over to her Mistress and lay down at her feet and kissed her boots as if she had just saved her life.
I was enchanted. I had never seen anything like this, never even imagined it. The whole audience had gone quieter, as if she had mesmerised us all. My friends, Cathy and Sue, were fascinated (“Oh my God — they’re drinking it!” “How can she stand the pain?”), but my eyes were alight: it was a moment of revelation, of self-discovery, call it what you like. I knew now what I wanted: I wanted to be one of those slave girls, serving a domme. I didn’t want to have to make decisions and get them wrong or try to be in charge and get blamed any more: I wanted someone to submit to, someone to order me about and tell me what to do and someone to punish me if I got it wrong. I wanted a Domme. Then, at that exact moment, she asked for a volunteer.
Oh, the feelings inside me! I was on fire — I desperately wanted to submit to her, I desperately wanted to wilt under her sneer, to feel her hand squeezing my cheeks and her cane beating my bum. My heart was racing, I was trying to breathe, I gripped the arms of my chair and started to get up. Cathy and Sue were suddenly aware of what I was doing. “Louise?” they said, really startled. I glanced at them both and nodded. They looked surprised but impressed. This was it. This was the moment when I would come out to the world – I was a submissive, a teacher slave, to be ordered about and pissed on and humiliated and anything else this wonderful woman might want to do to me.
She chose someone else. I told you my life was falling apart.