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. Emily assumed she’d face pain and humiliation… but didn’t expect Ffion’s flatmate to demand a blowjob. Luckily, in Part 2, Ffion punted her flatmate’s balls across the kitchen.
Friday Evening
Emily
It feels oddly comfortable — and comforting — to sit on the floor, lean back against the bed, and swig Diet Coke in the close embrace of a pair of iron-hard thighs while a gentle hand strokes my hair.
I’m less comforted by Ffion’s aggrieved tone: “I hurt my foot defending my pet’s honour.”
That’s no surprise. She kicked him so hard, Rufus is probably still curled up on the kitchen floor clutching his broken balls.
“I’m sorry you hurt yourself, captain, but I’m happy you hurt him.”
“Well, I’m not happy. Kiss my foot better.”
One knee rises, and now her calf is in front of my face, and her foot is in my lap.
I do not like feet. I don’t hate them, it’s just they’re not sexy, and there’s another part of Ffion I might prefer to kiss.
But I probably won’t get the chance to find out if I’d enjoy that unless I’m a good, obedient pet, so I unlace her trainer and slip it off. Thankfully, there’s not a hint of funky odour, even when I peel off her white sneaker sock.
Before I met Ffion, I imagined female rugby players as big, butch beasts with hairy toes, but the foot I’m holding in my hands is suprisingly delicate and smooth-skinned, and her coral pink nails are perfectly painted. It’s still not sexy, but it is pretty.
“Where does it hurt?”
She lifts her foot towards my face. “Just below my ankle.”
I plant a tender kiss on the soft hollow below the protruding bone, and Ffion returns her foot to the floor.
“So much for reflexology. Still, good girl! But also,” and the hand stroking my hair becomes a fist, tugging my head back until I’m looking up at a stern-faced Ffion, “bad girl! Rufus is an incel dickhead, and you were going to suck his cock. That’s gross, and I have to punish you for it.”
“I was only going to kiss—”
“Liar! You’re a filthy slut, and sluts get the crop. It’s in the bottom of my wardrobe.”
“Huh? What is?”
“My riding crop, slut! Get it!”
She lets go of my hair, which is a shame because that moment of being seized and controlled sent tingles through my scalp which were just starting to spread to all sorts of interesting places.
I’m not so sure about the riding crop, though. A wooden ruler is one thing, but an actual whip? Something people use on horses? That’s scary… but the sort of scary which makes my core quiver.
* * *
There are even scarier implements in the bottom of Ffion’s wardrobe: a wicked looking bamboo cane, and a short whip with like a hundred leather tails. Next to those two, the swishy black rod with a tiny leather paddle at the end looks almost benign.
“This?”
“Yes, of course that! Present it!” She must see the confusion on my face because she continues, “Kneel in front of me. Don’t look at me, look at the floor. Lay the crop across your open palms, and silently offer it to me.”
I do as I’m told, hoping eager obedience will ease my punishment. I don’t look up when I feel her take the crop, I just rest my hands on my knees and wait.
“Stand up! Go to the top drawer of my dresser. I need the handcuffs, the sleep mask, and the ball gag.”
Okay! A little restraint is always fun, blindfolds intensify everything, and I’ve been wanting to try a ball gag since forever. The combined vulnerability of those three could be hot… if they weren’t going to leave me vulnerable to the sort of treatment that compels racehorses to run until they drop.
I hadn’t realised how nervous I was until I jumped to my feet to obey and felt my legs wobble as I took the two steps to her dresser.
Her top drawer is clearly her toy chest, because there’s all sorts in here. She’s got the same wand as Professor Deacon, half a dozen different bullet vibrators, a cute little rose gold clit sucker, and a big bottle of lube. There are three different gags — ball, bit, and spider — together with what looks like a human-sized dog muzzle, a collar and leash, handcuffs, manacles, and a hank of purple rope.
This girl is freakier than I thought, and she seems to have everything.
I collect what I was told to, and turn back, which is when I realise what was missing; what it is I’ve got that she doesn’t. “You don’t have any dildos.”
Ffion sneers. “I don’t do dick. Not even fake dick.”
“So what’s the lube for?”
Her sneer slides seamlessly into an evil grin. She raises her right hand, brings her fingers and thumb together to form a bird beak, then thrusts upwards.
Oh fuck. I should probably beg for mercy now.
“Don’t panic, Emily! You’re not ready for that. Besides, fisting is a reward, not a punishment.”
Now I don’t know whether I should behave or not. But I will comply, at least until I find out how much the crop hurts. I’ll be a good pet, hand over everything I’ve collected, and wait for instructions.
And it looks like I’m going to wait in the dark, because the blindfold goes on first.
“Open wide.”
“Wait! How do I use my safeword if I’m gagged?”
“By remembering what Rufus was probably never taught: knees together means no. If you need me to stop, just close your legs. Okay?”
She correctly reads my wide-open mouth as consent, pushes a silicon ball between my teeth, and buckles the leather strap behind my head. The ball has holes in it, so I can breathe easily, but my mouth starts flooding with saliva as soon as it’s in. I bow my head, hoping I can drool around the gag, or maybe through it.
Cold metal snaps around my wrists.
Ffion takes my hand. “You’re going to shuffle forward until you feel the edge of the bed. Then you’re going to kneel on it. I want you prostrate, like Rufus was: head down, ass up, knees apart, and your arms stretched out in front of you. Okay?”
Okay. I take tiny steps until I stumble into her bed, then crawl onto it and arch my back. It’s a familiar position, except usually I adopt it so some boy can pound me, not for a girl to punish me… and I typically don’t have my face pressed into a duvet rapidly becoming damp with drool.
I feel a gentle tap on the inside of my left thigh. “Knees further apart! As far as you can manage without hurting yourself, because that’s my job.”
I slide my left leg sideways, until another tap tells me to stop, then all I can do is wait anxiously for the pain… which doesn’t come. I feel a light touch trailing up my back, from my neck to my tailbone.
“You’re a good girl, Emily. You’re brave, and beautiful, and you obey your captain. But sometimes, you do bad things.”
She emphasised ‘bad’ with a stroke of the crop: a sharp tap delivering a sharper sting. It hurts less than a playful spank while I’m being fucked, and without any of the brief pain lingering as heat.
I could enjoy this.
Ffion
There is no finer sight than a girl bending over and showing me her ass, whether it’s a number eight at the back of a scrum, or a solid nine like Emily awaiting her fate.
Emily has potential as a sub, I’m sure. The professor certainly thinks so, and hopefully she’ll reward me for exploring Emily’s limits. But with a naive girl like this, potential needs to be teased out. That first little sting on her tattoo was just a warm-up; stroking will make her warmer still.
I trail the keeper over her soft skin. Sometimes it follows the curve of her buttocks, sometimes it switches to the taut lines of her inner thighs, or ducks to flutter across her belly then back up to kiss her neck. But when the teasing has gone on so long that she begins to squirm at the gentle touch of the crop, I brush the flap of leather lightly along the length of her plump lips.
The sigh which escapes her gag tells me her pussy welcomed the attention, but I didn’t need vocal confirmation: I can see her glistening gratitude smeared on the keeper.
Still, this is a punishment. It can’t be all fun and games; not for Emily, at least.
With the keeper positioned midway between her thighs, and high up — almost touching her pretty pussy — two quick flicks of my wrist sting the tender skin of her groin, first on one side, then the other.
I move the crop down a couple of centimetres and repeat, a slightly wider swing producing a sharper sting, and a muffled squeal.
Moving down again, the slap of leather on skin is louder, the sting is harsher, and the squeal more sincere.
Another step down produces two faster, harder smacks, but this time the squeal sounds more like an appreciative moan.
My hand is almost on the quilt now. I can’t go lower, and Emily is ready, I think: time to position the crop dead centre, so a rapid swish straight up sends the keeper crashing onto her clitoris.
I knew I should have used the wrist loop: Emily rolls onto her side at such speed that her clamped thighs snatch the crop from my grasp. She brings her cuffed hands down to hug her knees and writhes in the fetal position.
I can’t make out the words struggling to get past her gag. It’s probably a plea for mercy, but that’s not necessary: bringing her knees together was the red card. I unbuckle her gag with my right hand and stroke her shoulder with my left, all the while telling her what a brave girl she is.
Then she opens wide, spits out the ball, and I can finally understand what she’s saying.
“Again!”
“But you—”
“Again!”
She scrambles back into position, bringing a pillow down to her head and burying her face in it.
I should probably ask how much of it she wants again, but if I ask, I look weak. A captain can’t afford to look weak. And I can’t just spank her clit again: not cold, not after that reaction. So she’ll get an abbreviated version of the entire punishment.
This time, my right hand sends the keeper to stroke the curves of one buttock, while my left performs the same subtle dance on the other side.
A single drop of cyprine hangs from Emily’s entrance, matching the sheen that’s smeared on her thighs. I long to collect that drop on a fingertip and feed it to her, but this is still a punishment and she asked for ‘more’, not ‘different’.
The crop tick-tocks down her legs once more, harder this time, leaving little pink spots in its wake. When I reach the bed, I pause to enhance Emily’s anticipation before the keeper flies up to re-connect with her clit.
This time I manage to snatch the crop back before her legs can close on it. But they do close, and she rolls on her side again.
There’s no mistaking the word Emily shrieks into the pillow she’s holding against her face: “Fuck!”
But that exclamation sounds more like a command when she immediately rolls back onto her knees, legs apart again, head down, arms outstretched, and ass up.
I hear a muffled, “Again?”
I can’t. I won’t.
“Sit up, Emily.”
I expect obedience from my pets, so I’m rarely grateful for it. But when Emily swivels to sit on the edge of the bed, and extends her handcuffed wrists for release, I can feel unacknowledged tension melting from me.
I sit beside her, press the quick release button on her cuffs, raise her blindfold, and coax her chin round so I can look into eyes brimming with tears. “Not again, Emily. You’re a brave girl, but that’s enough.”
“No! More? Please? It hurts so much, but it’s so good!”
“No more. All I have left is a kiss better.”
Her smile lights up her face, and her eyes shine, but her joy doesn’t last long. I don’t know if it’s the soft kiss I plant on her forehead, or her disappointment that her punishment is over, but something flips a switch in her and the brave girl falls apart: she leans into me, her shoulders shake, and all her accumulated emotions escape in heaving, guttering sobs.
I can do nothing but hold her close, whispering over and over again that she’s a good girl… and hoping I haven’t broken her.
Because if I have, Professor Deacon will break me.
* * *
Ffion and Emily’s story will continue in Touch Judge:
. . .
“How would you rate them, out of ten?”
Muskan stares critically at Emily’s breasts. “May I touch them?”
Emily says, “Yes,” at the same time as me, which is gratifying, although I might have to punish her for thinking her permission mattered.
. . .
I absolutely love the dynamic. Love that Ffion was relieved at Emily's obedience, love how Emily wanted more, and I love that last sentence!
Going to explore further. I like to two different POVs