The Schooling of Carolyn

whatever it was, must have been bothering him, or he wouldn't have looked so hang-dog. But then he turned his gaze to her, and licked his lips, and the Enforcer scolded before she knew she'd felt anything at all, and she decided she'd better pay attention to her own testing.

This time he went after the nipple, biting down so hard it made her scream, even with his lips covering his teeth. He tugged and sucked like he was trying to tear it off, pulling her breast up and away from her chest, then turned his head to twist the tender nub of flesh, and then, without giving her any slack at all, started grinding his teeth, the bottom row going one way and that while the top remained in one place.

She dug her nails into the table, heard a moan escape, felt tears fall, but all that was distant, unimportant. All her attention was on not moving, not coming, not screaming, not … oh, God … the Enforcer's shocks grew closer, and she so desperately wanted to give in, but her tutor wanted her to do her best, and she could still resist, so she must, all she had to do was not breathe, not move, not feel…

'Time.'

Wait. Wait.

'Tom!'

Wait…

He let go reluctantly, suckling until the last, and she shuddered and tried to stay still until he was gone. Hands unbuckled the Enforcer and pulled it away, and she finally, carefully, released her breath. Her crotch was sopping.

Bertha smiled. “You pass.'

They gave her no time to rest, but ushered off to an area laid out like a children's playroom. The Law instructor asked her to demonstrate certain activities-the test was that he referred to them by the laws they broke. “Demonstrate, if you will, a violation of Texas Penal Code 21.06.” She thought she did fairly well.

And then she went to Grace, who laughed as she held out a pointer and motioned to Tom, now bound to a St. Christopher's cross. “Can you make him come in three minutes or less?'

Carolyn looked at the display, then the pointer, and back. He's not ticklish at all. Good control. They'd shared enough classes for her to know that. Likes French, but that's no help for me. She remembered a scene in the dining hall, the look on his face when he'd sucked Sherry dry. And the look in his eyes earlier, when he had helped test her.

'May I use another method?'

Grace made a lovely, graceful gesture-Carolyn tried to memorize it-inviting her to explain.

'I think Tom would come in seconds if I offered him my breasts.” She trailed a finger down between them, then used both hands to press the flesh together. “Wouldn't you, Tom?'

He didn't answer … in words.

Grace actually applauded, as did several others from various spots across the lawn.

She was sent to rest for a bit after that, kneeling in the first position she had learned, a hood over her head so she could neither see nor hear what went on around her. It always frightened her, the not knowing. She figured they knew that, that this might be yet another test, so did her best to remain still and calm.

It wasn't easy, with grass tickling her crotch, and myriad breezes whenever people walked by, and the occasional brush of a robe or darting hand. She tried, and told herself that was all she could do, and waited for someone to do something. Anything. Please, please, please, someone-let me come!

Please, sir.

There were different people near when the hood was removed, and she was led, blinking, to a stage: Sherry, on something like a gymnast's bars, her breasts offered to anyone who walked beneath. Rachel, a quiet girl whose bed was near Carolyn's, straddling a balance beam, with weights on her ankles to increase the pressure, and probably a vibrator within. Dave, another cut-up, though not as mean as Tom, crawling on the grass…

She wished she could stare, but knew better. Besides, the stage was fascinating, too. “Since you have proved so able a dramatist,” her instructor drawled, “you may enact a scene from history. Using,” a wave, “these props.'

That seemed to be permission for her to look around, so she did. There wasn't much choice for setting: a block of stone, a narrow wood table, or a white cloth she could drape over either, or lay on the stage floor. And no other “actors,” so it would have to be a solo scene. Something out of History … Most of the stories she liked best had many more than a single person. Maybe the props would be more help. She found dildos of what looked like ivory and jade, obsidian and granite, rough wood and polished. Plugs, harnesses, clamps and clips, whips and scourges and things for which she had no names. And in a box beneath those, she found “costumes'-belts and hats and masks and shoes.

'Curtain in five,” the instructor said, and she made her choice: a gold mask, a headdress with black wig attached, a wide gold and cloisonne belt. Wriggling out of her school clothing took longer than she'd hoped, as did struggling into the new gear. And then there was a moment of panic as she realized she'd forgotten her only prop, and had to dig around for it, but when the instructor called “Curtain” she was ready.

'Oh,” she called, trying for a proper volume, “my precious bees-come hither, and partake of my royal honey.” She flourished Cleopatra's dildo in the air.

Whistles and cheers and catcalls from the audience made her blush, but hidden behind the mask, she decided she didn't care. They wanted a scene from history, that's what they would get. And I'll bet no one ever told Cleo she couldn't come!

Even when she realized the buzzing wasn't mechanical, it didn't stop her. She straddled the stone, trying to angle her body so her tutor would have the best view, canted her hips, and set the tool between her lips. It really did vibrate, softly. She teased herself, and her audience, for a while, then slowly pressed it home, sighing in pleasure as she was filled. And out, all the way, so they could it glisten, and back again.

Then faster, and harder, and more, and the buzzing increased-and a bee not trapped in the toy descended from somewhere and stung her thigh.

Her scream, half pain, half climax, broke the crowd up, and she didn't blame them one bit.

* * * *

The sun had set; attendants brought lamps and lanterns, and a few living candelabras were prodded into place. Carolyn knelt at her tutor's side, unhooded this time, and watched as one student or another was tested. And then an odd low table was brought into the light.

Carolyn moaned when she saw it-she knew what it was for, though she had never seen it before. Knees there, hands there, and, oh, God, he'll have perfect access. She slanted a look up at him.

He smiled back at her. “Carolyn.'

There was no need for further command; she knee-walked forward, climbed awkwardly onto the strange frame, and settled into place. The top felt familiar, like any desk fitted for sex, cool polished wood beneath her breasts, padded leather hand-grips. The oddities began at her waist: a leather mount held her ass high, there were cups for her knees that kept her spread and separate, and the leg supports were individual. The posture was not only perfect for corking or whipping, but there was no way she'd be able to stimulate herself, not even any way to rub her clit against anything.

She didn't need any help-was close to coming just at the thought of finally having him. The familiar chill of lube helped, a little shock to cut through mounting pleasure.

'Back.” She pushed, opening to his finger, thick and firm and warm beneath the lube. “Stay.'

She quivered at his quick withdrawal, longing to clench down, to keep him in, wanting to please him, wanting his cock.

'Speak.'

'Oh, God, please. Please. Cork me! Fuck my ass!'

From somewhere beyond the lights, a murmur. “Not elegant.” She heard, groaned- failed that test-but couldn't think of other words.

He laughed, and his voice took on that velvet tone she loved. “Surely you've learned some manners in your time here?'

'Please, sir.” Words. Now? She thought back to his first show with her. “You taught me to enjoy. Let others see how well I have learned.'