Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Schoolgirl training, part 1

After that, Charles decided that we had been away from school for long enough. The vibe here was fantastic, because although he is a wonderful constructivist teacher in real life, his fantasies, like mine, have always revolved to a large extent around the old-fashioned schoolmaster and his rattan cane.

His study became our school-room. (In Emily's Sister-Wife, you may remember, fantasy-Charles has built a school-room in their enormous basement. Alas, real-Emily's house isn't quite that big.) I resumed my garter-belt and stockings, but they were now put under a kilt and a white blouse and white school panties.

We had Latin lessons. It was goofy, but so, so wonderful. He wrote these terrible little erotic stories in Latin, and made me translate them.

I think the first time I got in trouble was for mistranslating a true perfect (I have fucked) as a simple past (I fucked). Or, rather, I got in trouble for arguing with my Latin-master's judgment that it was a true perfect rather than a preterite.

"No, Miss Tilton, 'I have fucked' is the better translation here."

"But, Sir, isn't the baron talking about this festival specifically? Preterite is obviously correct."

"'Obviously,' Miss Tilton?! I don't like your tone, young lady!"

"What tone, Sir?"

"Right, Miss Tilton," said my Latin-master. "We'll have you over my desk with your knickers down, please."

Was he remembering the scene from Aphrodizzia that had driven me to absolute distraction when I was fourteen? Where the terrible schoolmaster puts the screens up so the girl-pupil can't see what he's doing to her bottom, how he's fucking her untried little pussy, and then her even-less-tried little bottom, and she has to guess what it is he's putting there that feels so strange and wrong and yet so lovely, as he takes his schoolmasterly pleasure?

Anyway, Charles desk had been cleared of its usual mess of bills and exam papers for the occasion, and I got the lovely scared-wet-fluttery feeling in my tummy as I rose, playing defiance (Godammit, simple past was correct! Why would anyone write "I have fucked many maidens in the stable," when referring to a specific festival? No, "I fucked many maidens in the stable" was clearly the best translation!), and flounced over to the desk.

Once, late at night, I had made Charles fuck me in the library, just so I would never have to hang my head when others spoke of their library exploits. That had been the last time I had been fucked over a desk. It had lasted approximately two minutes, and the only real excitement had been around the question of whether Charles would be too nervous to keep it up.

This was different. Bending, defiantly, yet submissively, over my Latin-master's desk was one of those things that threw me into my fantasies so thoroughly that I got lost between what was real and what was fictional. Was I his wife or his student? Was it wrong for him to cane his wife? Was it wrong for him to fuck his student?

He really was (and is) a Latin-teacher. He would never think of uttering a harsh word to a student, let alone of caning her, let alone of fucking her. I have ensured over the years that he has told me about those students who have excited his fancy in that way that no teacher can help, and I have encouraged him to fantasize about them while he's fucking me. He has called me "weird" for this, but he has never denied that it turns him on to call me "Chloe" or "Madison" while he's fucking me, when (and I've seen them at school teas) he has a particularly attractive Chloe or Madison in his sixth-form Vergil class. God bless BDSM.

I bent over his desk, which stood against the wall. I grasped the opposite edge, and turned my face back over my shoulder with the best scornful look I could muster, as I watched him approach, rattan cane in hand. My scornful look vanished, I'm pretty sure.

"Oh, no, no, no," I said. "What the fuck is that? I thought we established that the cane doesn't work for us."

(See Emily's First Caning.)

"Miss Tilton," he said, "you are just making it worse for yourself."

He had clearly ordered a cane from the many places one can order a cane from, these days, and he had finally decided that he wanted to try to master the art. Now he was challenging me to safeword, to see whether I thought I might be able to get into it. I swallowed. Maybe things had changed since I wrote the thing about the cane not working. If there was any time to find out, it was now, in this schoolroom scene.


  1. Oh wow. Emily, you're writing in this is top-notch! I love the scenario and that 'lovely scared-wet-fluttery feeling', I know exactly what that is. I read that line, my stomach actually did it, and--bam!--I was right there in the narrative. Very well done!

    1. Thanks so much! And don't worry about the typo--makes me feel better about how I do it all the time!

  2. *your* sigh. Dang it.