“Come with me,” I’ve used the voice. I know you’ve felt the thump of butterflies rushing to your knickers. Felt the compulsion to obey without question.
I take hold of your arm and guide you through your friends, across the dance floor and out of the party at the beautiful Oxford College.
The Quad outside is warm, quiet, and the light of the summer night glows from the stonework. Calming.
I walk you to the top corner of the ancient courtyard, our footsteps softly echoing in the night. You follow my guiding hand leading you behind the raised stone planters. It’s not much of a shield, but it’s enough. Unless any of your friends decide to leave.
“Lift your skirt,”
Looking down, you raise the front of your skirt. Slowly gathering it, gathering your petticoats inch by inch, revealing to me your legs, your thighs and your knickers.
“Don’t let go,”
You feel my hands around your head, raising it, raising your mouth to mine, being kissed deeply by me as you hold your skirt up.
“Take your knickers off,”
Your hands keep hold of your skirt and underskirts but wriggle your knickers over your hips, more wriggles of your legs making them fall to your ankles.
I slowly lower myself to my knees. My hands follow me, stroking from your head, over your breasts, your stomach, past the clothes bunched up in your hands, over your precious little cunt and down your legs. Reaching your knickers, you step out of them.
You feel my tongue on your thighs, seeking out the drips from your little cunt. Tracing their path upward, reaching their source. My lips close around it, sucking your clitoris deeply.
I feel your legs falter, all your strength focused on obediently holding your skirt. I stand, threading my arm under your shoulders, behind you, taking your weight, my other hand between your legs, pushing up, hooking my fingers inside you, closing my palm over your clitoris, you feel me squeeze, feel the hard movement inside and around your tight cunt, lifting you again and again, only my arm behind you preventing you collapsing at my feet. Your only strength left concentrated in your hands, holding your skirt for me.
Through our kiss I feel you suck in your last breath, your body tighten, the breath forced out into my mouth in two convulsing sobs as I hold you through your orgasm.
Letting your wet run on your thighs as I take my fingers from you, raising my palm to my mouth to suck the rest from it, tasting you.
“You can let go now,”
You let your dress fall from your hands, smoothing the layers a little as you gather yourself.
From somewhere distant, you hear me tell you proudly “My good girl, all mine,”
“I’m all yours, Mister,” We both know the truth of it.
I’ll keep your reward until we’re back in the Bad House. For now, you feel my guiding hand on your arm again, taking you back into the party, your knickers safely in my pocket, to dance. Knowing you’ll feel my hand on your knickerless bottom, reminding you of the bruises I put there earlier, and the promise of more to come.
© Charles Rochester 2016