The Secret Journey by Paul Christian Page B

into her I
nearly passed out. I meant to send her home promptly, mindful of
parental curfews, but she told me her parents were away. I could
have her as much as I wanted. Later that night she crawled for me.
She kissed my boots, licked them, worshipped them. She knelt for me
and sucked me, exactly as in her story, and then I fucked her
again, and again, and again.
    It was not lovemaking, it was sex, raw and
violent, passions unbridled. It was conquest and submission, each
of us playing our half of the duet. But when it was over, when I
had fucked her and whipped her and tied her and pumped her so full
of sperm that my balls ached, wrung absolutely dry, when we were
both so drained neither one of us could stand, then the inevitable
emotions set in. I lay on my bed, sweaty and sated, exhausted and
trembling and she put the tangled mop of her hair on my chest and
cuddled close and said “Thank you, Sir,” with a purr of
contentment, and I held her until it was far too late, and she
finally went home just in time to beat the dawn.
    She came in her own car I learned. Her
parents had bought it for her birthday. It was the same one she had
taken into the city, to the Club, to follow an instinct she was
only now beginning to understand. I fell asleep when she left,
exhausted and with just three hours before the alarm was due to
wake me. Alea iacta est. The
die was cast, the Rubicon left far behind. Julie and I would play
this out, as far as it would go.
    I learned over the next month just how far
that might be. There was nothing she would not do. My memory of
that time is full of images flash frozen in my brain with sexual
intensity, Julie kneeling to suck my cock, Julie kneeling with her
tongue extended and covered in sperm, waiting for permission to
swallow. Julie’s face in the mirror, contorted in mingled pleasure
and pain as I came hard up her tight little ass. Julie with her
nose in the corner, skirt up to expose a fresh set of welts, Julie
with nipple clamps, with cunt clamps, Julie gagged, Julie trussed,
Julie crawling, Julie begging for punishment, for orgasm, for me to
cum on her and in her. Julie used and abused and degraded every way
I could think of to do it. She lapped it all up, and then demanded
more.
    I changed her arrival time to seven to give
me more time to take her, and my world became Julie. Her parents
spent a lot of time away, which explained her ease in staying out
late. That was purely lucky for me because by then I didn’t care
about getting caught. Psychoanalysis might hint that the reason she
came to me, the reason she needed what I offered, was due to her
parent’s emotional absence, but my role in her life was not to
provide analysis but catharsis. And Julie provided me with what I
needed in return, provided it in full measure. She was my drug,
addictive and compelling, lithe limbed and pliant, soaking up
everything I could give her. And all the time her schoolwork got
better and better, she kept her side of the bargain. I checked her
file after midterm exams, and her marks were all either A or A+.
The other teachers in the staffroom remarked on the change in her
attitude, little guessing what was bringing it about. Her writing
changed too, from dark themes to light, from despair to hope. I’ve
seen that change before, in the women who respond to what it is I
offer. I’ve never seen it so dramatically as in Julie.
    I took risks, too many risks. I trained her
to spread her legs on a signal in class, so I could see her wet
cunt while her classmates paid attention to what I’d put on the
board. I trained her to climax on command, and then gave her that
command while she had her legs spread in class. I fucked her in the
classroom after school with the door locked and her wrists cuffed
behind her back. I fucked her at lunch with a ring gag in her
mouth. She came to school with rope marks burned red into her
wrists, and her ass was always marked and sore. I don’t know how
she dealt with that in the