A Mistress / Slave Love Story
This story is based on a real Domme and a real subbie, and it is dedicated to the actual people who inspired it.
It was thirty years ago. 1990. I was thirty-seven years old, in my sixth year of teaching at a prestigious public suburban high school. It was a cush gig. Not only was it a high performing school with a well-prepped and malleable student population, I was teaching in the International Baccalaureate Program, a prestigious track which tended to attract the academic stars. I taught a most engaging course, Theory of Knowledge, to seniors. Like I said, in the teaching profession this was a great gig.
In my class in this memorable year was a female student, Amanda. She was a ridiculously sexy young woman. Svelte. Great legs. Short skirts. Thin limbs. Flawless complexion. I was still a relatively young, single, horny heterosexual male who loved women. I had quite a few girlfriends, at least to a casual observer, and was apparently living a successful and engaging life. One complication for me was that when it came to sexual relations, I had a strong but repressed submissive streak.
For as long as I could remember, I had this thing, this fantasy, this desire to be bossed around, controlled and dominated by a female, both in and out of the bedroom but especially within her boudoir’s walls. That made dating problematic, at least in the long term. By the time a lady friend and I would start to click, to reveal my sexual predilections was more often than not a deal killer. It is not a wildly popular fetish among women, I learned. So, I tended to repress and keep private those desires. It rendered my female relationships more superficial than I’d have liked. And I had more “I see you as a brother” kind of affairs than I’d care to admit.
Amanda was an exceptionally bright student. Sharp as the proverbial tack. She was somewhat aloof from her peers but seemed perfectly comfortable in that skin. Her comportment suggested that she’d cultivated a good deal of self-assurance out there in the real world, beyond the academic walls. One outlet within school that we were all aware of was her fondness for basketball and track. She was competent, if not gifted, on the court. But boy could she run.
In my teaching position, it wasn’t so unusual for an occasional female student to develop a crush on me. After all, I was not an old man by any stretch and still maintained my lean, boyish physique. And I probably came across to some impressionable youngsters as wise, charming and handsome. To be clear, I’d always been resolute in quashing any such girlish infatuations.
But Amanda was different. She had this penetrating, subtle, all-knowing gaze that I was quite sure she purposely directed at me. My intuition told me that somehow, some way, she knew who/what I was — a submissive at heart. That same intuition told me that she was a bossy young woman who expected to be in charge of the men in her life. With those gut feeling churning, I struggled to quell my imagination, suspicions that she was toying with me, as a Mistress might manipulate a slave.
It was terribly difficult for me to suppress my attraction. It bordered on an obsession. In my fantasy world she was saying to me, “I know who you are. I know what you are. Though O/our roles here are teacher/student, they are actually Queen/servant, Mistress/slave, Domme/sub. You know it as well as I.”
In the privacy of my thoughts she became the object of some powerful fantasies. And in our actual interactions, whenever she foisted on me that incisive gaze, it was always I who broke the eye contact and averted her scrutinizing glare. She’d never blink first, so to speak. She was, disturbingly, calling the shots with all nonverbal communication, not I. The traditional educational roles of superior / subordinate were on thin ice. I often wondered if she knew how dangerously close I felt to breaking through into icy waters.
And then, one day in class while taking a bubble scan test, she scribbled something on her answer sheet. As I walked up and down the rows she pointed to it, without making any eye contact. “Sharpen my pencil for me…NOW!” I read it and walked on, pretending to be oblivious. But I was highly aroused.
Holy shit! I wasn’t imagining. She knew! I couldn’t swallow and my breath quickened. I was frightened yet turned on that this young vixen knew that such a communication would push all my libidinous buttons, would ignite a passionate fire in me. I glanced back at her. With a stern visage, she glared directly into my eyes. She mouthed, unmistakably, a single word, “NOW!” with dead seriousness.
That command rendered me rubbery-legged. I was torn. I wanted to ignore her but I couldn’t. I was like a moth drawn to a flame. I returned to her desk, as though I was making the rounds routinely. I picked up the pencil from the corner of her desk, walked to the sharpener and began cranking it. I pulled the pencil out. It was sharper but the cut was uneven. I thought to myself, bostancı escort Amanda expects it to be perfect. And perfect it would be. An irrepressible erection grew in my pants. This was a problem as it could possibly be noticeable through my slacks. I continued sharpening until the pencil point was fine and the circumference at which the raw wood met the yellow-painted wood was symmetrical. Nervously, before turning to the class, I untucked my shirt to cover my excitement. I looked at her and she directed at me that gaze again. She actually toggled her eyes between my eyes and my crotch. Though mortified, I shuffled as nonchalantly as possible past her desk and dropped off the precisely and conscientiously sharpened pencil. No one else seemed to have noticed the odd interaction. And for the rest of class I intentionally avoided any further eye contact with Amanda.
When running the scantrons later in the day, I purposely studied hers. There it was, “Sharpen my pencil for me. NOW!” And then something that was added later. “Good boy!”
It’s all I could think about for days. Whether dozing off to sleep, prepping for my next class, shopping, eating, exercising — it didn’t matter — images of her issuing me that order, surreptitiously, in a public setting, and my complete compliance and subsequent arousal rose to the fore. “NOW!” she demanded in writing and then repeated by mouthing it. And then complimenting me on carrying out her order, condescendingly, as though I were her pet. “Good boy,” indeed.
I was embarrassed. I was also excited beyond description. And I was nervous. Nervous about crossing into territory that ruins one’s career. Teacher / student relations were strictly verboten, by tradition, mores and statutes. I’d stop. I’d never let anything like that happen again. I was determined.
A few days later, before exiting the room (she was nearly always the last one to leave), she dropped a short stack of three books on my desk without a word. Curious. I looked. There was a piece of paper protruding visibly from inside the cover of one. I pulled it out, unfolded it and read. “These are overdue. Return them and pay the fine.” I’m thinking What the fuck! Who does she think she is? That presumptuous little tart! I stared at the books the rest of the day as classes came and went. As I prepared to leave at the end of the day, I stood behind my desk in the empty classroom, ready to depart. But I was frozen. I just stood there, staring at the stack of books. My conscience said just forget about them. Leave them right where they are. Throw away the note, leave the books as they stand and forget about them. She’ll pick them up when she sees I have no intention of carrying out her ridiculous command.
Another part of me suggested I leave the books there but write a return note. Something like, “You are rude and presumptuous. I have no intention of playing these sorts of games with you. Please knock it off!”
I ran through these scenarios again and again. In my mind I rewrote the note I’d leave her several times. I looked at the clock. I’d been there a full ten minutes, frozen in place. Inexplicably, I grabbed the books and headed directly to the school library. I conjured up some excuse about the tardiness being my fault. Our librarian thought little of it, or at least seemed to be satisfied with my explanation and pivoted on to more important matters, like the latest gossip about the school’s principal. I paid the fine.
Two days later, her class met. As students trickled in she showed up. As usual, in a short, tight skirt revealing those killer legs and perfect butt, and a loose-fitting, low cut blouse. I asked myself, what was the good of a dress code if nobody enforced it? Where was the administration, the deans, the security staff? I tried desperately to avert my eyes, but not before saying as nonchalantly as possible, in a monotone, “Good morning, Amanda.”
“Hi D,” she replied, in a voice so low that she and I were the only ones who could hear. Her eyes penetrated mine before looking at the empty corner of my desk, where she’d placed the overdue books. As she slowly refocused on my eyes, I watched a subtle smile grow into a grin. And she mouthed, silently but with crystal clear articulation, “Good boy!” Fuck! This little tease was playing me like a fiddle. I told myself, I’ve got to put an end to this. And every time she popped into my head over the next few days I reiterated my resolve to put the kibosh on her silliness.
About a week later I was filling my car with gas at a local convenience store. They were promoting a new technology — self-serve and pay at the pump, with a credit card. I marveled at how cool this new payment method was.
From out of nowhere, Amanda pulled up in her car, by the pump just in front of the one I was using. That wasn’t so extraordinary, as we both lived in the community and there weren’t that many gas stations. “Hi D,” she addressed me. Students fatih escort ordinarily call me Mr. Davenport, or Mr. D. And my first name is Drake. She’d shortened the salutation to a much more familiar moniker, almost a pet name. Whether it was an abbreviation of my first or last name, it rubbed me the wrong way. At the same time, I was flattered. She had a way of doing that to me. Offending me while making me appreciate her even more. As all this flashed through my mind, she spoke to me. “I’m going to get a soda. Fill it up for me.”
Again, I was nonplussed. The word audacious came to mind. In a flash I thought of the pencil I sharpened, of the library fine I paid, of her patronizing manner of saying “Good boy!” I reminded myself of my resolution to stop this nonsense. But I watched her sashay into the store, killer legs and young, tight rear that only youth can lay claim to. A fellow in the next stall watched as well. He caught my eye and did an exaggerated eye roll, as if to say, “Wow — what a stone fox!” Jealousy swelled in my diaphragm. I thought to myself, back off, buddy! She’s mine! I looked back at her. I was so stupid. She was so sexy. I was powerless to ignore the command.
I filled up her tank, paying for it with my credit card. When she returned she gave me that gaze again. She walked by me and whispered, “Good boy,” and patted me on the butt before hopping in her car and taking off.
I recall thinking, yet again, holy shit. This has gone far enough. This chick is dangerous. What are you doing Drake? Stop this fantasy. And it was I who used the directive, “NOW!” No more cooperation. No more acquiescence. She is dangerous. I wondered how much trouble I could be in already.
The next morning, the first thing I did upon arriving at school was to head for student records. These were accessible to the faculty. I sorted through the alphabet and found her — senior class — Stone, Amanda — and what I was looking for — her birthdate. Turns out she’d turned eighteen in January. It was now late May. The school year was nearly over. She was one of the older students in the class. Though I was still determined to end this nonsense, I was at least relieved that her age alleviated some potential liability on my part.
Final exams arrived. She’d be graduating soon. The energy of the seniors was on test preparation and getting the hell out of Dodge. I got a call from Mrs. Stone, Amanda’s mother, asking if they could hire me for some tutoring before the exams. It was not so unusual. Several of us teachers rented out our services for tutoring, especially this time of year. In the case of Amanda, who was so prominent in my thoughts, I was nervous and declined. But her mother was persistent. She told me that Amanda suggested the appointment and explained how she could really use the assistance and felt comfortable with me. I finally agreed, thinking that with her parents as chaperones, all would be safe.
It was a weeknight. I showed up at her home. Upscale neighborhood. Very nice. Obviously, quite well-to-do, for sure. Spacious, classy. Well-manicured yard. New BMW 700 series in the driveway. Times must be pretty good in the Stone household, I told myself.
Her mom was quite a looker herself. “What a beautiful, mature woman,” I thought to myself. Then I realized she was not a whole lot older than me. She let me in and announced that she was going to run some errands. My nervousness rose immediately. The safety harness was off. She called her daughter and Amanda came half way down the stairs, to escort me upstairs to her room. It was a little sloppy, to say the least. Unkempt. She sat at her desk and said, “I’m fine for exams. I’m on top of it. I just need to study. You, however…” She began pointing around the room. “Make the bed, fold those clothes over there, tidy the place up. NOW!”
As several times before, I was shocked by her boldness and lack of restraint. I hesitated, thinking (again) What the fuck! But she glared, actually pointed her finger at me, and declared in a firm voice, “NOW!”
I recognized this as a point of no return. A decisive moment. It was just the two of us and she was trying to take control of the situation. The best course of action would be to tell her to stop her antics, insist that she leave me alone and simply depart. She swiveled her torso toward me. Her tight little top revealed her nipples and small but enticing breasts. She crossed her legs. Those killer legs. She expected me to look. To admire. She folder her arms just below her breasts in exasperation. No one else was watching. It would be the perfect time to set things straight. I surveyed her, from head to toe. With secret lust. She pointed directly at me and repeated, with an air of complete superiority and uncompromising expectations. “NOW!”
Almost involuntarily, I complied. I couldn’t believe it. I capitulated to her authority. I succumbed to her will. I went to the bed, undid the linens and began to make bağcılar escort it from scratch. I was fastidious in my performance. No wrinkles or creases in the sheets or blanket. I gathered clothes, divided them and folded them into neat stacks and created a pile in the corner for those that appeared most worn. I straightened knick-knacks. And each task contributed to…I had to admit it…my sexual excitement. I developed an erection.
“There’s a vacuum in the corner,” she said, without looking up from her studies.
I grabbed it and turned it on, sucking up the dust, crumbs and scraps that littered the floor. I was embarrassed by my dedication to the task at hand. But I became fully aware of my obsessive desire to please her. I wanted to do a great job for her.
After about twenty minutes of diligent cleaning, I stood silent, as if to say, okay, I’m done, now what?
She pointed to the floor in front of her and said, “Good boy. Now, down…on all fours!”
I didn’t want to do it. But at this point an overpowering desire to obey squashed my sensibilities. I knelt and then dropped my hands to the floor. “Crawl over here and kiss my shoes,” she ordered me. “And hurry up, before my mom gets home.” The incongruity of her being in charge yet under the jurisdiction of her mother was ironic. So, what did I do? I dropped to my hands and knees, crawled to her and placed my lips on her sandals. I offered the most affectionate kiss I’m capable of.
“Good boy, D,” she told me. “You’re a sweet man. Thanks for the help with the tutoring…see You at school.” And she swiveled back to her desk and her studying and then added, “Do you remember the way out?”
I departed confused, disconcerted, feeling a little humiliated. I had been beguiled, baffled and manipulated by a mere teenager. But one whose gaze revealed that she knew me better than i knew myself. She was perfectly willing and capable of showing me that she was a savvy domme, way beyond her years. As crazy as it was, it was undeniably erotic. She was hot. For the first time, I admitted to myself that her spell over me was disturbingly indomitable.
Soon came finals and, for me and my classes, the end-of-term essays. I administered my exams without incident, that is, I made it through without whimpering in front of Amanda, the vixen domme.
I resigned myself to a couple dreadful evenings of grading a stack of essays. About half way through I pulled up Amanda’s. I couldn’t control my heart pumping a little faster as I thought about the pencil-sharpening incident, the library books, the gas fill-up and the “tutoring” session. I tried to put all that aside and simply grade her paper as I would any other. I began reading…
Claim: “A firm foundation in the social sciences is a critical component in the intellectual repertoire of a knowledgeable citizen.”
“In assessing that claim, I suggest an experiment,” she wrote.
“Pretend there were no social sciences. In a republic, how would we make decisions on war and peace; wealth and poverty; growth and conservation; political power; production and distribution of goods and services? In a republic, these questions must be answered collectively, through public policy, hopefully reflecting the will of the people. Individual leaders have their own pet “solutions” to each. How do citizens know which solutions to choose? Which leaders to elect?”
“Might not a citizen who really understands the social sciences be better able to distinguish faulty thinking and demagoguery from solid social science and rational choice? On what other basis would a citizen make these choices?”
“Before I go any further, D, I’m giving YOU an assignment.”
I was startled by the change in direction. Oh my god, I thought. Here we go. This chick never lets up. She’ll never let go. I continued reading.
“You will research for me the nature of the reverence for Goddesses among the common plebeians in ancient Rome. How intense was it? How did they demonstrate their reverence? Have it ready to present to me when I ask for it. You want to obey me. You HAVE to obey me. I am your Mistress and your Goddess.”
And then she went on to finish her essay.
Oh, what an audacious temptress she was. She received an A- on the paper, deservedly so. And at this point you will not be shocked if I reveal to you that I did the homework she assigned me. She was obviously quite confident that I would fall in line with her attempt to reverse the roles of teacher and student between us.
Yes, I recall thirty years ago, when Amanda was a brash young student, just graduating from high school. On her final exam she went rogue and ordered me, her teacher, to research the nature and intensity of devotion of the ancient Romans for their Goddesses; to come up with examples of their reverence.
I was nonplussed and hesitant. Okay, I was more than a teeny bit insulted by being given an assignment by this young woman. But I followed up. As I visited the card catalog in my library, I fantasized about a day when all the information accumulated by humanity would be immediately accessible electronically. Meanwhile, I used the Dewey Decimal System and pulled books and articles from the shelves and archives.