Authors: Emily Tilton
Now it appeared I was going to be made to give head, I was going to be tied to a chair whether I liked it or not, and I was going to shave myself between my legs, or… or rule number three—”Naughty girls get spanked.” If Chloe didn’t shave her pussy, she would be spanked, and then, I saw in my fevered imagination, she would be sent to the bathroom with a razor and a woeful look, and told not to come out until her pussy looked the way her master wanted it to look.
I realized that my right hand was on the crotch of my jeans, and that its fingers were moving, squeezing, trying to assuage some of the fire there. Was I breaking rule number four? Certainly in spirit if not in letter, for one layer of stretch cotton and another of denim probably didn’t matter to Geoffrey when it came to whether a naughty girl was or wasn’t touching her little cunt without permission.
I gulped, and actually trying not to think at all about what I was writing, wrote back.
Dear Sir,
I am terribly sorry, but your email made me break rule number four just now. I am in panties and jeans, and so I didn’t actually touch my little cunt directly, but I know that you are a strict, if also kind, master, and that you expect to be obeyed completely. I know I must be punished on Saturday, and I only ask that you show me whatever mercy you think I deserve for confessing my fault promptly.
My seminar was rather stressful, but that was because your suggestion made me speak up in a way I hadn’t ever spoken up before, and that led to some conflict with another student and with the professor, who’s also my adviser. I’m going to meet with her tomorrow to ask about starting a project along the lines your taking me in hand has made me consider.
I’ll recite your rules tonight, and I’ll try to behave. I can’t wait to learn how to please you.
Respectfully,
Your Chloe
I started to make some rice and beans for my dinner, thinking about how I could secure the bathroom for an extended period to do as Geoffrey had asked. Of course, I knew a great deal about depilating one’s vulva, since I had often considered doing it just as something for me, to make me feel like I was at least living one of the erotic things I was always fantasizing about. Having a bare pussy seemed in my imagination to mean that I would be ready to be taken in hand, and only the rational thought that being reminded on a daily basis that I was ready but still waiting had stopped me from going ahead with it. Now, though… I felt the warmth and moisture start up again and my nipples getting stiff at the thought that I had a master. It was an odd little harem in which I was now a slave-girl, I guessed, but even if it turned out it was only something to play for a few weeks or a few months, it was still what I had longed for. It was time at last for my pussy to be kept bare, because that was what my master wanted.
I knew in particular that especially the first time you shave, you don’t want to do it the same day you’re going to, well… be enjoyed? be taught how to please a dominant man? be used? I felt my loins tighten at each of these formulations as I made them to myself. I was going to be used; my little cunt was going to be inspected when Geoffrey pulled down my panties, and then I was going to be used, ridden. Fucked.
I was about to break rule number four again, standing there in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil, with two of my three apartment-mates making their own dinners around me. I went back to my room to check my email. There was a reply from Geoffrey, which didn’t help matters.
Sweet, naughty girl,
Thank you so much for confessing. That tells me that you understand your role in our relationship very well already, which in turn makes me a very happy master. I think I can see my way to being merciful for such a slight infraction, so quickly confessed, especially since it makes me very happy also that my email affected you that way. In fact, I’m so pleased that even though, as you say, I will indeed have to punish you on Saturday, I also want to give you a little reward and let you play with my property, once you’ve shaved it for me. Therefore, you have my permission to touch your little cunt and give yourself an orgasm, as long as, while you play with yourself, you are thinking about how a man like me should treat a girl he owns, once he brings her to his bed.
Fondly,
Geoffrey
I got two towels, carefully concealed my scissors, razor, and shaving gel inside one of them, and brought them to my room as if there were nothing unusual about it, enduring the curious looks of Anne and Nora. I filled a basin with the hot water I had been going to use for my rice and beans; at that point, the curious looks got to be too much, and I mumbled “Ingrown toenail” and took the basin to my room and closed the door.
My room was tiny. I put the towels on the bed, ditto the basin, very carefully guarding against sloshing. Filled with delicious shame, I took off my jeans and panties and sat on the towels, my back against the wall and my feet up on the bed. I put my hand in the hot water, then squeezed some gel onto my fingers and tentatively rubbed a little into the hair on top of my mons, just to confirm that this was indeed going to be very difficult if I wanted to do it quietly. I had emitted a little whimper just at that light touch, which was not really in the vicinity of my aching clitoris.
Then I realized I had forgotten to do what everyone says you should do and use the scissors first. The water was going to get cold, dammit.
These thoughts about logistics at least allowed my blood to cool enough to take care of the scissor work, though the sight of the little pile of pubic hair on the towel was itself arousing. The idea that I was doing this unnatural thing because I had been taken in hand by a man who liked to pull the panties off a smooth, girlish cunt dominated my thoughts, as he had dominated my body the day before, and—I knew, and felt a thrill of fear and arousal every time I remembered—as he soon would dominate it again, even more thoroughly.
The water, in the end, hadn’t cooled too much; and my vulva’s own heat made things reasonably comfortable as I rubbed the shaving gel in—too comfortable, really, for I was hyper-conscious of the permission I had been given, and I kept stopping to rub my labia in an unproductive way, and even to insert a finger or two deep inside myself, thinking—as commanded—about what it would feel like to have Geoffrey’s cock there. What did it look like? How big was it? I tried not to hope it would be somehow as dominant as he was—it was his mind that mattered—but in my fantasy it was enormous, and it filled me in a way I had never been filled. It stretched me to the point of pain, made me cry out, “No, please!”
The shaving thus took longer than it probably could or should have, but I did what I thought was a reasonably creditable job in the end; the difficulty was that my reward from Geoffrey was now the only thing I wanted in the universe, and I was so happy that the shaving was done and so wrapped up in the image of myself face-down on his bed with him poised above me, thrusting into my sex from behind, that I forgot my surroundings and moved to try to imitate the position in my mind, in the process overturning the basin and soaking my bed.
“Fuck,” I said, but although it dampened the proceedings—literally—I simply couldn’t stop myself from the frantic rubbing, adding to it now my other hand behind, prodding gently, making myself wonder about Geoffrey’s interests back there. I turned again to try to escape the huge wet spot on the bed that seemed to echo the incredible wetness of my pussy, and backed myself into the corner of the wall by the head of the bed, never ceasing to play with myself, running my fingers from my virgin asshole along my labia, up to my clit, and then all the way back, desperately biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out.
I looked down at what my hands were doing and gasped a bit at the sight of my bare vulva as the thought came into my mind unbidden, “Chloe is ready for fucking.” Conscious of my duty to my master, to my head of household, I thought of what it would be like when I was brought to his bed in order that I might please him there. I thought of the inspection he might carry out and of him praising my little cunt and my little asshole, of him saying, “You know I’m going to fuck you here, tonight, don’t you, Chloe? Little assholes like this are made for fucking.”
I came. Thank God for my quiet orgasmic tendencies; nevertheless, I still had to grab one of the towels and gag myself with its corner, biting down hard.
I managed to make it to the computer on unsteady legs and reply.
Thank you, sir. I hope you like my little pussy, which is now bare for you. I loved my reward.
Respectfully,
Your Chloe
I emailed Geoffrey in the morning to tell him I had recited the rules and had not violated any of them since my reward. That had been easier because I was sleeping on damp towels, a definitely unsexy feeling, in the wake of the basin spill. I spent the morning taking notes on my still-incoherent ideas about Joyce, modernism, and anal sex, and re-familiarizing myself with various pieces of critical ammunition I wanted to use on Professor Whitlock. I knocked on her door at 1:00 p.m. as arranged.
The meeting that followed was not nearly as difficult as I had anticipated, but that was because it was clear Professor Whitlock wasn’t taking me seriously. I laid out a reading list: Sade, Freud, Joyce, Réage, and a boatload of associated criticism; I laid out a theory: BDSM is a fundamental part of the project of modernism.
The only thing approaching a challenge she threw in my path as I laid out this plan for a tutorial on the roots of BDSM motifs in modernism was, “Chloe, you do understand that people who write dissertations about this kind of thing have a terrible time getting jobs, don’t you?”
My reply was, “Doesn’t everybody have a terrible time getting a job these days?”
To which she said, “I suppose the question is, then, whether with this topic you’d turn a terrible time into an impossible time. Think about it.”
Her comment from the day before rankled, though, and I finally said, as she was (it seemed to me) trying to wrap up in fifteen minutes or less a meeting that if I stayed in academia would probably decide my future, “Look, if I were to say to you that this is because I’m a submissive and I’m trying to own that as an identity, what would you say?”
She looked at me hard for a long moment and finally replied, “I’d say that you probably don’t have a choice but to try to do this kind of thing, but that you should have your parachute out of the academy ready. I really like you, Chloe; moreover, I think you’re incredibly smart. Although I thought you didn’t handle yourself all that well yesterday in seminar, I was very glad that you spoke up, and the point you raised was valid and arguable.”
That was probably the most praise I’d received in the three years I’d been in graduate school from anyone, let alone my adviser.
“And I have no objection to supervising a project in which you get to explore a topic that you’re clearly passionate about and for which you have a sound, theoretical basis. My concern is that you’re going to confuse what interests you with what the right thing is for a woman in your position to work on.”
She was telling me as delicately as she could that practicing submissives weren’t welcome in academia.
“Thank you,” I said. “I guess we’ll have to see what comes of it.” If I were to decide that this was a passing phase, I might still have a career ahead of me.
Walking away from Professor Whitlock’s office, I felt like I should have been angry, but I just felt empty. The passion I had the day before and that morning for the project that would finally tell me that it was intellectually defensible to be who I was seemed to have drained away. The only thing that interested me right now was Geoffrey. When I thought of him, my heart, oppressed by the meeting with Professor Whitlock, suddenly seemed light. As I examined the feeling, I realized that it wasn’t an urge to escape to a new boyfriend; rather, I knew that Geoffrey would actually have real advice to offer, and an intellectual perspective on an intellectual issue. Submitting to him was the hottest thing ever, but as I thought about his words on Wednesday at his house and in his emails, the notion that a more day-to-day, practical, and intellectual—even professional—submission presented a prospect that attracted me on its own merits, and not just because it dampened my panties and made my knees feel weak.
And… Suddenly, even with the cerebral train my thoughts had just followed, I felt my shaved pussy acutely in my cotton panties as I walked across campus. And he was going to bring me to his bed and teach me how to please him. I strode onward, looking at the ground as I felt the blood rush to my face and to my loins.
My phone beeped. I had an email from Geoffrey.
How did it go?
G
Well, well, and poorly. I really want to talk to you!
YC
Busy tonight. It’ll help more tomorrow, anyway. Recite my rules and keep thinking. I’ll have some new rules for you tomorrow morning, and I’ll pick you up at your place at noon. Email before you go to bed, please, with a picture of your little cunt.
G
My mouth dropped open and my left hand came up of its own accord to cover it. A wave of embarrassment swept over me. I wasn’t that kind of girl. I just… the image of me, with my legs spread and my phone between them, swam into my mind’s eye. I realized I was definitely that kind of girl when I felt my thighs shift in a possible violation of rule four, at the thought.
It was only five o’clock; I had at least five hours to get through tonight, even if I went to bed early, and realistically (if I went to bed early), at least five tomorrow before Geoffrey picked me up. I didn’t see how it was going to be possible, unless my hand were between my legs the entire time, and that was expressly forbidden. It wasn’t fair. Domestic discipline was supposed to be hot, not a constant struggle against hotness!
I started to make the rice and beans I had abandoned the day before. (In the end, after my adventure with the shaving, I had settled for a cold slice of pizza for dinner.) I made it very elaborately, comparing three different recipes from two different books and combining elements of all of them, trying to convince myself that really what I wanted to be was an asexual TV chef.