This story is a sequel to A the Hard Way, but you don’t need to read that series to enjoy this one. Just know Professor Deacon set her sights on Emily, a first-year student she judged might be seduced by discipline. Her successful corruption of Emily was assisted by Ffion, the captain of the university’s women’s rugby team and a former student of hers. In gratitude for her help, Deacon has gifted Emily to Ffion for the weekend.
In Part 1, Ffion explained consent and safewords to Emily. She didn’t explain that she intended to inflict pain and humiliation, but she didn’t need to: Emily assumed that… and chose to stay.
Friday Evening
Ffion
Emily is a lot less nervous than when she first arrived. I’ll need to do something about that.
It’s not so much that I want her to be afraid, although a little anxiety in some subs can be like salt on food: it suppresses bitterness and gets the juices flowing. No, it’s more that I loathe when my pets feel complacent and comfortable. I want her on edge, but maintaining her balance.
So I need to find out where her balance point is.
“What’s the worst thing Professor Deacon did to you, Emily?”
Emily closes her eyes, and I can’t quite read her body language as she recalls her tutorial: there’s either a shudder of distaste or a shiver of arousal. I can read her arms, though; they cross her chest protectively as she remembers what made the strongest impression.
“Oh god. Nipple clamps.”
“Did you enjoy them?”
“No!”
I’m no psychologist, but that answer came too quick. Even I can see through the lie.
“Not even a little bit? You didn’t enjoy the initial pinch? Or the slowly growing pain? Or the relief of numbness? Or the tingling throb when the clamps were released and blood flowed back like electric needles?”
Emily shakes her head to all of it, unwilling to risk her voice betraying her.
I guess I’ll have to find the truth by experimentation.
“Take off your t-shirt, Emily.”
Professor Deacon warned me about Emily’s insecurity over her breasts, so I expected some reluctance. But being in the privacy of my room rather than standing in front the professor’s office window must offer her some comfort, because her top comes off in a trice.
Her bra choice is revealing: she went with a cute, pink, lace push-up, to make the most of what she feels is not enough. Personally, I don’t care what size they are as long as she enjoys hating what I do with them.
“Turn around, Emily. Sit with your back to me, and your hands by your side. Do not move! And no noise, unless you’re using your safeword. My flatmates don’t need to hear you complaining about a little tenderness.”
“Are going to put clamps on me?”
“I’ve never needed them.”
That seems to reassure her, and the relaxed way she swivels round to show me her back reminds me of Professor Deacon’s advice: “Ms Rogers is not a particularly agile thinker, Fee. Do take advantage of that, if you can.”
I get another little frisson of either disgust or excitement when I unclasp her bra, but I hear a soft sigh when I slip the straps off her shoulders. And there is no mistaking the appreciative hmm! she gives me when my hands slide under the cups to caress her soft skin.
Any sense of appreciation is cut short when my fingers find her nipples, and she finds out why I don’t need clamps.
“Oww—ngghh!”
She’s a good girl: after the initial shock, Emily clamped down on her squeal harder than my fingers are clamping down on her nipples. Grip strength is important in rugby, particularly as a fly-half, and it also pays off elsewhere, as Emily is discovering.
“Do you remember your safeword?”
I’ll take her strained ngh-hmm! as an affirmative. But I’d much rather be certain, and the best way to achieve certainty is to hear her say it. And the easiest way to achieve that is to increase the intensity of her experience.
I can’t clamp any harder, but I can pull. And I can twist.
“FUCK! Mercy, mercy, please! Please, mistress! Mercy!”
The relief of release is immediate, far stronger, and less treacherous than with clamps. Emily slumps backwards into my arms, where her surrender can be rewarded with a gentle kiss to the top of her head, and the whispered words, “Good girl.”
I can’t see the smile those words produce, but I can feel her snuggle into my embrace. I get to hold her there for maybe two seconds before she whines.
“You really hurt me!”
Well, yeah. That’s why she’s here. “Yes, I did. And you really enjoyed it. More than Deacon’s clamps, I think.”
I can’t see her pout either, but I can hear it in her silence.
“I’ll do it again, if you ask me nicely. But next time, don’t call me ‘mistress’. I hate that. It makes me sound like I’m fucking a married man. You can call me captain, or skipper, or skip. Okay?”
“Yes, captain.”
“Good girl! So, what else did you do with Deacon?”
“She didn’t like my tattoo. She spanked it with a ruler.”
The professor never mentioned any tattoo. I assume it’s on her ass, but wherever it is I need to explore it.
“You have ink? Show me.”
“It’s on my—”
“I don’t care, just show me! In fact, get naked. I want to inspect my prize.”
I’ve put Emily back into her comfort zone: stripping and showing herself off is her bread and butter. Literally.
She bounces to her feet, shaking her bra off as she rises. When she turns to face me she cocks her hips in one direction, and her grin in the other, before unzipping her skirt and letting it fall. I was hoping to see an absence of underwear, but I have to settle for pretty pink panties, matching her abandoned bra. She turns her back on me again to lower them — no teasing reveal, just a no-nonsense bend and step — then gives me a quick 360 to admire every angle.
“You like?”
Her one tattoo is Lucky you! on her right buttock in florid cursive. I do not like: it spoils the appearance of an otherwise near-perfect butt.
“Did it hurt to get that tattoo?”
“A little bit. Like a scratch, you know? Less than getting it spanked.”
“Which did you enjoy more, the scratch or the sting?”
I’m getting more confident at reading her expressions when I can’t see her face. The half second of silence before she replies, and the softness of her voice when she does, sound like downcast eyes and an awkward grimace. They sound like shame.
“The sting. I liked the sting best.”
Emily
Oh god, she’s staring at my ass. She must have seen me clench when I answered her, now all I can do is brace myself for her hand and hope I enjoy that as much Professor Deacon’s ruler.
“Relax, Emily! I’m only looking. You’re hot! So hot you’re making me thirsty. I need a can of Diet Coke. Do you want one?”
“Sure?”
“Great. They’re in the fridge, on the top shelf. They’ve got stickers with my name on.”
I can’t see a fridge. “What? Where?”
“In the kitchen? Second door on the left. Off you go!”
Right. I’m her slave for the weekend, I guess, so I fetch and carry. I was hoping for less domestic drudgery and more hot girl-on-girl action, but maybe that comes later. I just wish she’d asked for her Coke before I got naked. Now I have to get dressed again.
Except I don’t. When I crouch to pick up my knickers, Ffion stops me.
“I’m thirsty, Emily! I can’t wait for you to get dressed. Go get my Coke!”
I see. She wants to send me out naked, to humiliate me. Ha! Good luck with that. She doesn’t know me very well if she thinks nudity is going to embarrass me. I’d usually get paid for showing myself off, but I don’t mind being seen for free. I know I’m hot, and I’ve got nothing to hide… well, not much, and I can always fold my arms over them if I bump into anyone.
* * *
Maybe Ffion didn’t know Rufus the Dickhead would be in the kitchen. Maybe.
But he is here, and apart from shielding my breasts, I’ll do my best to ignore him.
“Whore.”
I can ignore him. I can. I’ll just grab two Diet Cokes, and leave. That’s it. I am going to ignore him.
“I subscribe to your OnlyFans, you fucking cocktease. So how come a good guy like me has to pay just to watch your crappy videos, but a whole rugby team of assholes gets free blowjobs?”
I was wrong: I am not going to ignore him. “Fuck you, Rufus! One, there never was any blowbang, and no bukkake. That’s a lie made up by someone even sadder than you. And two, if you don’t like my videos, then unsubscribe! There’s plenty of porn out there for you to wank over.”
I grab two cans of Coke from the fridge, turn to leave… and stop dead. Rufus is standing in the doorway, and it seems like he doesn’t need any porn to wank, because his sad little cock is out and he’s pumping it up.
“Rufus! Move—”
“No! I deserve a blowjob!”
I could tell him any man who says ‘I deserve a blowjob’ doesn’t deserve a blowjob, but I don’t think that would help. “I am not going to suck your dick, Rufus. Let me leave.”
“That little rugby bitch will hurt you if you take too long fetching her Coke. So get on your knees, kiss my cock, and you can go. I want you to taste me; I deserve that much at least. I’ve paid for it!”
I could probably push past him, but fuck it: one quick kiss, then I can get back to Ffion before she gets mad. And if he tries for more than a kiss, I’ll bite.
As I kneel, I’m already regretting my choice. But kneeling does turn out to be the ideal position, because it gives me a great view of the fist which appears between Rufus’ thighs. That fist is followed by a forearm, which curls up, catching his crotch in the crook of an elbow and lifting him off his feet. I have to skitter sideways to avoid him as he’s sent sprawling.
“Get up, Emily.”
“Sorry, captain. He wanted me to—”
“I know. I heard. I told you he was a dickhead. Hey, dickhead! Apologise to Emily!”
Rufus is sitting on the floor, hugging his knees. He can’t even look at me when he mumbles, “Sorry.”
That’s not good enough for Ffion. “Apologise properly! Kneel at Emily’s feet, and prostrate yourself. I want your forehead on the floor while you beg for her mercy.”
Rufus’ pathetic cock is still peeking limply out of his fly when he scrambles to kneel in front of me. Thankfully I don’t have to look at it for long before his ass is up and his head is down.
Ffion is standing right behind him, with a wicked grin. “Tell her how sorry you are, and beg her forgiveness.”
As Rufus mumbles the words, “I’m very, very sorry,” Ffion takes two steps back, and one short step to the left.
He only gets as far as, “Please forgive—” before her running kick converts the word ‘me’ into an anguished howl.
“Never talk to Emily again, dickhead! In fact, never talk to any women. Come on, Em.”
She turns on her heel, leaves Rufus rolling around in agony, and walks out. I chase after her, clutching our Cokes.
“Aren’t you worried he’ll report you for assault?”
“What, and explain how he ended up in that position? I don’t think so. Besides, he consented.”
“He did?!”
“Sure. He clearly set out his own standards for consent, and I met them.”
* * *
Ffion and Emily’s story will continue in Up and Under:
. . .
“So what’s the lube for?”
Ffion grins, raises her right hand, brings her fingers and thumb together, then thrusts them upwards.
Oh fuck. I should probably beg for mercy now.
. . .
I have a feeling we're going to hear more about the consent Rufus gave, but I'm definitely more curious about what Fee has in mind for Emily next. The pinching... I could almost feel it 😉