To Redeem Myself
* * * * *

I knelt on the dark mahogany floor of the university's art gallery, which had once been the town's chapel. Against the exposed stone walls, an intimidating St Andrew's cross stood. I shuffled nervously, unable to pull my eyes away from it. A shameful warmth bloomed between my thighs.

"Strip," Miss Sullivan called out, startling me.

She sat on my desk with her long legs crossed, her verdant eyes watching me as I slowly removed my top. All my movements felt slow and heavy, as if I were underwater. How could I have been so foolish as to leave that drawing on her desk?

My hands shook as I brushed my dirty blonde hair behind an ear. A warm glow grew inside me as my bare chest turned a faint red, hinting at the wetness of my virgin pussy. Against the cold air, my perky nipples peaked, begging for attention despite my timidness.

Unbuttoning my skirt, I pulled it away and looped the elastic of my damp panties around my finger. I gulped as I pulled my panties down. For the first time ever, I was about to expose myself to someone.

No longer could I hide behind my plain, baggy clothing; all my imperfections would be on display. I squirmed uncomfortably at the idea, cupping my breasts, which were too small, and squeezing my thighs together to hide my arousal. The mocking laughter would come any minute now, followed by the usual tirade of insults; I braced myself and looked over to where Miss Sullivan should have been on my desk.

What? Where did—

My teacher's warm arms wrapped around me as she slowly licked my neck, her breast pillowing against my back.

When did she move?

My skin tingled as her breath cascaded over my nape, then she nibbled my ear. I purred, slowly leaning back into her embrace.

She tugged on the collar I didn't know I was wearing, one that I had never seen before. The leather collar was tight, caressing my neck with soft satin lining the inside, exactly like the one I had drawn a few days before. She pulled me around to face her.

As I looked into her verdant eyes, a soothing warmth melted away my fears. My hands dropped from my breasts. Miss Sullivan was beautiful in her tight latex dress. The light licked her curves as it shimmered off the shiny material. I gasped as my eyes drifted to her chest pressed plumply together within the seductive dress; she had a woman's chest, unlike mine.

Her kisses were soft at first, gentle and sensual, while her sultry lips massaged mine. I wished I knew how to kiss, rather than the fumbling attempts I made. I groaned softly as she bit my lower lip. Her latex-clad hand caressed my cheek before she leaned in again, pressing her tongue into my mouth. Our tongues entwined, dancing in Sapphic desires.

I closed my eyes, losing myself in the moment. Embracing the role of teacher, she instructed me on the art of kissing. A smile crept across my face, and my nervousness drained from my body. Miss Sullivan pulled away, leaving my cheeks aglow, wanting more. Saliva trailed between our lips, extending the embrace before snapping and falling over my chin.

Closing my mouth, I bit onto a knotted rope gag that appeared from nowhere. Blinking away the confusion, I found myself bound to the St Andrews cross. My arms and legs stretched open.

How the heck?

"Was this what you wanted when you drew those pictures?" Miss Sullivan asked. "To be bound, helplessly at my mercy?"

My answers turned to muffled mumbling behind the rope gag. Drool dripped from the corners of the gag and trailed down my chin before dropping onto my breasts. My saliva caressed my nipples as the chill of the air kissed them.

Miss Sullivan stood in knee-high boots in front of me, rubbing her pussy while her latex dress squeaked. Lost somewhere between lust and hope, I nodded my answer to Miss Sullivan.

"Do you think you deserve it?" she asked with a moan.

Laughter came from the door as Cassy wore my old college uniform, fixing her spiteful gaze on me. She had started taunting me daily since learning my old college nickname. Apparently, being the most popular girl wasn't enough for her.

Twirling her red tie through her fingers, she sauntered in and kicked up her feet over my desk, which moments before hadn't even been there. Beside her, Hope appeared, also in the college uniform. She had discarded the stuffy tie, allowing her thin blouse to billow open, showing hints of her gorgeous body beneath as she nibbled on her onyx-black hair.

"I knew she was a freak," Cassy scoffed and turned to Hope. "I mean, really, who the fuck gets off on this shit?"

Miss Sullivan stepped past them both without even glancing at them. She picked up a small paintbrush from Cassy's desk and effortlessly twirled it between her fingers as her eyes rested on me. From a desk beside Cassy, Hope watched me, camera in one hand and her chin resting in the palm of the other. Her expression was unreadable as she studied my predicament.

"Bet you do this because no one loves you," Cassy sneered.

I mumbled into my gag. How could Miss Sullivan not notice them? She ran her paintbrush slowly along my inner thigh. The brush's bristles lapped up the dampness with every passing inch. Red in the face, I moaned. Slowly, the brush moved closer to my pussy while Miss Sullivan kissed my neck.

I shuddered as a deluge of passionate lust rushed over me. The paintbrush licked my lips and teased my glistening clit from her hiding place. I squirmed against the cross.

Over the top of Miss Sullivan's head, I could see Hope lifting her camera at me. Cassy rolled her eyes at Hope.

"This is the last time I'll say it," Cassy snapped with a surprisingly gruff voice. "Hope! Put your camera down for more than five minutes and pay attention in class."

Sleeping Through Class
* * * * *

My chin slipped off my palm as, with an embarrassing snort, I jolted awake, heart racing, at the back of my English class.

For once, my cheeks and fingers weren't stained black with charcoal. After everything that happened the week before, whenever I sat down to draw, I would see Miss Sullivan's disapproving gaze.

Down the row, Rebecca, the new transfer student, was giggling at the snort I had made when waking up. She mimicked wiping her chin. Looking away bashfully, I cleaned the drool from my freckled cheeks and chewed the end of my pen, wishing the day would finally end.

The art gallery dominated the hill across the courtyard, an ever-present view from the classroom's third-storey window. I no longer had the courage to attend my art classes, not since committing my crime. If I simply stayed away for long enough, would I escape the consequences?

My English Literature teacher, Mr Adams, quietly shook his head at me.

"As I was saying…" Mr Adams resumed his class lecture on foreshadowing.

Hope sat two rows in front of me, now trying harder to hide her camera. She wore her aquamarine earrings that matched her oceanic eyes. I shuddered at the thought of those bright, blue eyes watching me in my dream.

I often wondered what sort of photography she did. Of course, I had seen some of her work along the walls of the art department. But she had taken those photos for her course. I wanted to know what her passion was.

Several months ago, I stole a glimpse of her camera screen. It looked like a black-and-white photo of someone beautiful, probably a model. Once she had noticed my wandering eyes, she quickly hid her camera. That might have been the only time I've seen her flustered. She was usually so confident and in control. Nothing fazed her, but that day I saw a carefully concealed vulnerability in her eyes.

"Excellent point, Simon," Mr Adams said. "The aim is not to trick the reader but to give them enough hints so they can look beyond the red herrings and find the truth at the right time..."

The class carried on as Mr Adams enthusiastically shared his thoughts on the use of foreshadowing from the classics of English literature.

Half-listening, I doodled on my notepad. My eyes hadn't been this heavy since I crammed revision at the end of college. Following last week, one thing was clear: I desperately needed to change my life and get my rampaging hormones under control. At some point, I would have to face Miss Sullivan. How I could explain my actions, however, remained a mystery.

"Have you heard the latest gossip yet?" I overheard Alice whispering to Hope.

The swimming team's beauty lifted her eyes from her camera, and she softly shook her head. Listening, she sipped her bottled water.

"So, Steph told me that Neil heard from someone else that last week Anne found a thong left in the art supply room," Alice went on.

Fuck, I forgot about that part of it.

I hid behind a hand and stared blankly at my notepad. Shading the corner of my page, I nervously eavesdropped on the gossip. How much was actually known of my second crime? It had been such a rush, leading to one of the best orgasms I've ever had. I could still remember the warmth trickling down my thighs when I came out of the room, almost crashing into Hope.

"The supply room?" Hope narrowed her eyes at Alice.

"Yeah, the art teacher, what's-her-name, was so pissed. Sounds like whoever they belonged to was masturbating or having sex in there." Alice tried to keep her laughter quiet.

"It's probably bull." Hope shrugged. "That room's always locked, and only faculty have a key."

I nervously watched her.

Did she not remember me coming out of the room? Maybe I was too low on the hierarchy to even register in her mind; an insignificant nobody who one day just happened to cross over her path to greatness. Insidious memories of Hope watching me in my dream slithered into my mind; once again a shameful warmth blossomed between my legs. Did I want her to know? I rubbed my weary eyes.

Panic gripped me as I looked down at my notebook. What had started as an idle sketch was quietly transforming into one of those drawings. Despite the lack of detail, I could already tell what it was becoming.

It was a drawing of Hope pressing me, face first, against the wall of the changing room shower. Both of us were naked as she drove her fingers deep into me, using me as her celebration for winning yet another swimming race.

I quickly scribbled over the drawing of my defilement. So, that's what happens when I don't masturbate for a week.

A knock came at the door, and my chest tightened; the person who had stalked my dreams for so long stood at the door. With tremendous difficulty, Mr Adams managed to restrain his renowned passionate ramblings, pausing for Miss Sullivan.

"Ah, Laura. What can I help with?" Mr Adams asked.

"Sorry to interrupt your class, but I was hoping for a moment with one of our students." Miss Sullivan looked directly at me.

Unnerved, I silently rose, and in hushed voices, the class began to gossip. Hope, however, sat silently fiddling with her aquamarine earring, curiously observing Miss Sullivan.

Detention
* * * * *

She stood opposite me, hand placed on her hips. Scratching my forearm, I silently stared at her feet, hoping the world would swallow me up. Just over a week ago, I would have loved to be so close to Miss Sullivan. But now, after revealing my secret to her, I was terrified.

I glanced towards the door leading to the stairway, feet itching to run. Thousands of unseen eyes watched my shame with rapt interest. Slowly, I tried to raise my eyes from the floor. Over thick tights, she wore her usual skirt, the one that accentuated her natural curvaceous beauty. With winter quickly approaching, she had a soft, low-cut cardigan on, with the top few buttons of her shirt left open. My face burnt with shame as I saw the beauty mark hidden within her cleavage, which I sketched the week before.

"I assume you know why I've asked to speak with you," she broke the silence with a strict tone.

I nodded, unsure what excuse to give while quickly dropping my eyes back to her feet. She reached out, grasping my chin and lifting my gaze. As her fingers gripped my chin, I breathed quickly.

"You will look me in the eyes as I address you," she chided.

I swallowed as I forced myself to look into her green eyes. A slight blush beneath her glasses highlighted the verdant fields of her eyes. I sheepishly held myself in my arms.

Her perfume swirled around me, reminding me of the countless nights I had spent pleasuring myself to her. A couple of months ago, I pitifully bought a bottle of her perfume to spray a pillow with so I could cuddle it at night.

My sleep-deprived mind tried to convince me that for a moment she nibbled her alluringly soft lips while watching my vulnerability. I craved to know what her lips tasted of and how they felt pressed against my own. I let out a soft sigh and pulled my face away, looking at my feet. My dirty blonde fringe hid me from her.

"Not even going to try to give an excuse, huh?" Miss Sullivan stepped closer, almost pinning me against the wall.

My mind scrambled for something to say, finding nothing but confessions of my blatant guilt. I held my incriminating tongue in shame.

"Fine. You'll be in my office ten minutes after your class finishes," she said matter-of-factly.

Miss Sullivan didn't wait for a response. She didn't need one. It was an order in which she expected my complete compliance. When she walked down the stairs, my knees went weak. All alone in the hall, I let out my imprisoned breath and slumped against the wall. Cherubs kissed my cheeks as they glowed red, and then I noticed something unexpected.

My pussy was now wet.

The Walk of the Guilty
* * * * *

"You comin' with us to the cinema?" Alice asked Hope at the end of class.

"Sorry, rain check. I've got something to do," she replied as I walked past their row.

"Oh, swim practices are still on?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll catch up with you, okay? Gotta go," I overheard her reply as I left the room biting my nails.

With a scarf wrapped around me, hiding my blushing cheeks, I shuffled through the university courtyard. Vibrant pink blossom leaves scattered the courtyard from the majestic tree I had spent so much time underneath sketching.

As I squeezed through the crowds, my eyes were fixed on the floor, a habit I developed in my youth as I tried to avoid the attention of others. Frosty grass crunched under my feet as I approached the art department. I blew on my fingers as the cold air cut through my clothes and caressed my nipples, which pressed against a thin bra.

I saw Cassy, wearing her latest boyfriend's red sports jacket, leaning against the smoking shelter with a cigarette in hand. She scowled at me, somehow not cracking the inch or two of expensive makeup that concealed her hateful face. It was becoming more difficult to avoid her with each passing day.

I quickened my pace, hoping she wouldn't follow me, and fumbled in my bag for the key card to the art department's door. Without any classes running that afternoon, only Miss Sullivan should have been in the art department that day.

Rushing through the art department's halls, I glanced out the window to see where Cassy was. The smoking shelter stood abandoned in the cold. Anxiety, my ever-faithful friend, crept through my bones. It shouldn't be possible for Cassy to get into the art department, but she seemed to live by a different set of rules than the rest of us mere peasants. I clenched my fist.

Like a penitent sinner coming to confess, I opened the age-worn door to the converted chapel and quietly entered. Light poured out into the abandoned gallery from Miss Sullivan's office door's window. Slowly, I made my way past the easels left standing from the class in the morning. Each had the beginnings of a wonderful painting; true art, unlike the filth I had submitted. My heart beat faster with each tentative step.

Having returned to my crime scene, the air seemed devoid of moisture. I gulped, trying to satiate my dry throat. Across the gallery, my dream's afterimage of a St Andrews cross appeared. My fingers brushed absent-mindedly along my inner thighs.

Stop it, Faye. Now isn't the time for that.

Remembering Cassy's and Hope's intrusion during the dream, I listened out for footsteps outside. The department remained silent save for the frosty wind rushing against windows and the faint scratching of a pen from the office. I was simply paranoid due to lack of sleep; without someone to let her through the locked doors, Cassy couldn't have followed me; it was impossible. She wouldn't be able to eavesdrop on my confession.

Nervously, I approached the office's door.

Passing by a table beside the office door, I gasped, almost knocking a cup of dirty water and paintbrushes over. Quickly spinning, I caught the cup; the dirty water stained with paint splashed over my dark hoodie sleeve. The last thing I needed now was to make a mess in the gallery. Leaving the cup where it was, my guilt put a collar around my neck and led me into Miss Sullivan's office.

She sat confidently behind her desk, not looking up from her papers; she pointed to the other side of her desk. As the door closed behind me with a dull thud, I gasped and nervously approached her desk.

Here it goes, Faye. Just accept your punishment and everything will be back to normal. I hope.

Faye's Reckoning
* * * * *

For five minutes, silence hung within the room, only interrupted by the scratching pen against paper as Miss Sullivan made notes. I fidgeted, looking around the room. Large windows, frosted from the cold, lined the wall to my left with blinds keeping out the afternoon glare. Behind Miss Sullivan on the wall hung several of her expertly crafted paintings; true artistry. Before becoming a teacher, Miss Sullivan had been a successful artist but gave it up for a more stable career.

The deafening silence of the room was unbearable, yet soon I would come to miss it.

"Well?" Miss Sullivan calmly said, not lifting her eyes from the papers. "Have you really got nothing to say?"

I opened my mouth but found no words. Was there a way I could possibly explain myself? There were no excuses that could redeem me. I had to be honest and hope she would forgive me.

"I'm sorry, Miss." My voice cracked as I spoke.

"Sorry, huh? And what are you sorry for, specifically?" Her eyes remained on her work.

"The..." I mumbled, holding myself and trying to hide within my hoodie.

"Speak clearly, Faye!" She cut my mumbling off.

"My drawing, Miss. The drawings I made of..." I looked away, too ashamed to finish the sentence.

Miss Sullivan leaned back in her chair, expression masked behind her glasses as she watched me squirm. She opened a drawer and pulled out the drawing I had left by mistake. Her eyebrows raised as she looked over the top of the page at me.

Seconds felt like an eternity as I stood waiting for my reprimand, and as one aeon passed to another, my guilty shame intensified. Why was there no shouting? Where was the lecture? My ears burnt red as I scratched the side of my neck.

"They're good, you know?" Her verdant eyes locked with mine. "The cane was a nice touch."

What?

"So, how long have you been drawing stuff like this?" Miss Sullivan rose, placing my drawing in front of me.

She moved behind me as I stared at my drawing, dumbfounded by her comments. They're good? My gaze rested on the final sketch I had drawn, the one where Miss Sullivan had me pinned against her desk. I could feel my shameful warmth blossoming between my thighs once more. Did she actually like them? Miss Sullivan stood silently behind me.

Flustered, I turned to face her and tried to explain myself.

"Face the front," she said sharply.

"I have a theory. You may correct me if I'm wrong." She stepped closer to me as she quietly spoke, her voice laced with sultry tones.

Not daring to turn from the front, I glanced out of the corner of my eyes. I couldn't be certain, but it appeared as though she was smirking.

"I reckon you've been making these types of drawings for a long time. Most likely, you've probably been thinking about it for even longer. A desire buried deep within; dark, secret, uncontrollable. Sounding familiar?" She breathed the words into my ear.

"An all-consuming dream. Swelling inside you, desperate to burst out. They aren't just sketches. They're a representation of a craving, your insatiable need to be controlled," Miss Sullivan stated. "Am I right?"

I chewed my lips and looked at the ground as her soft hips pressed against my rear.

Miss Sullivan chuckled, "You can't even admit it."

She was telling the truth; every word of it. Following the bullying at college, I trained myself to bury those desires as deeply as possible. It had only been in these last few months that they had begun to spill out in my drawings. No matter how hard I tried to ignore it, the itch remained, ever-present.

"I could make it happen," she whispered, her breath rolling over my neck. "All you would have to do is call me Mistress."

I froze at the statement. Her nails trailed along the back of my thighs over my thick tights. A shiver ran through my body.

Miss Sullivan's hand left my trembling body as she placed a small emerald geode next to the drawings. Light danced across the crystalline surface, reminding me of her green eyes.

"Here's how this will work. If you call out Emerald, everything stops." Her hand returned to my rear, slipping beneath my skirt, "No questions, no conditions, no punishments. I'll destroy that drawing and even pretend I never saw it. However, if you call me Mistress, and we both know you will, then I will make your dreams a reality."

She would destroy the drawings, and everything would return to normal. Was she lying? She sounded honest. All I needed to do was to say the word Emerald. I nibbled my lips, staring at the sparkling green rock. As Miss Sullivan squeezed my butt, she leaned in next to me, her soft brown hair brushing my rosy cheeks.

"Go on. I dare you to stop it," she whispered.

It was what I had wanted all week: to return to normality, wasn't it? But what if she really could bring my dreams to life?

Her fingers rolled softly up my inner thigh, tempting me, before fading to nothingness as they reached my pussy. Fuck, this isn't fair. How can I think when you do that? Her hand pressed lightly on my back, leaning me over her desk.

A whimper slipped from my lips as, for the first time in my life, I experienced it.

I had read about it before and even dreamed of experiencing it. At times, while experimenting alone in my bedroom, I believed I was on the verge of discovering it only to have it slip painfully away. But as I leaned over her desk, her hands on my petite frame, I began to fall into it.

That glorious place all submissives seek: their subspace.

It's the euphoric dreamscape that comes to life when the submissive places their trust in the Domme. I slipped deeper and deeper as the sensation consumed me, welcoming me home and caressing my soul.

I reached between my thighs, softly moaning as my cunt burnt with lust. I could say Emerald afterwards; for now, let's just enjoy the moment. My fingers pressed against my anxious clit.

A firm hand struck my butt. I yelped, throwing my head back and gasping in cold air.

"That's not allowed until you call me Mistress or end this with your safe word." She took my hands and placed them on her desk.

She drove me deeper into my subspace, exploring levels of submission I never knew existed. My knees weakened, and my pussy tingled. Miss Sullivan walked in front of me and took my hand, pulling it to the far corner of her desk as she retrieved something from a drawer.

Thick black leather gripped my left wrist as she pulled the cuff tight. As I swam within the subspace of my lustful mind, I began to understand why she had placed the emerald geode in front of me. If she hadn't, there would have been no way my mind could remember my safe word.

She pulled the chain of the cuff down to the base of the desk and locked it in place. The click of the padlock sent a jolt of excitement through to my pussy.

As she leaned over, I could see her cleavage flush with desire. She snatched my other wrist and pulled it to the other side of the desk. My pebble-like nipples pressed against the wooden surface as I was stretched over my teacher's desk, the lewd sketches of my desire crumbling beneath my trembling body. A second cuff claimed my right wrist.

She guided my hand between her soft thighs. My hand quivered as my fingers disappeared beneath her skirt, and heat radiated against my skin. Gulping, I reached with one finger to touch another pussy for the first time. Embarrassed, I withdrew, feeling the wetness through her tights and thong.

She locked my other arm in place, spreading them far apart. Then, face-to-face, she lifted my chin with her finger. Her lips were so close I could almost taste them. My lips quivered.

"Ready to address me as Mistress, then?" Miss Sullivan asked. "Ready to admit what you want?"

Mistress—please. Please make me yours, Mistress! My mind screamed out as my throat grew dry. I whimpered, praying in the old chapel for the courage to say the words.

Miss Sullivan slowly walked around me, her fingers gliding through my hair and down my back as her heels clicked along the floor. Standing beside me, hip to hip, she slapped my ass and squeezed before lifting my checkered skirt over my lower back. The warmth from her slap spread across my rear as my pale skin turned a light pink. She dragged her nails along my spanked ass, scratching ladders into my tights.

My moans flowed more freely while I revelled in transcendental subspace.

She teased her finger along the outline of my panties; my legs joyfully trembled. I closed my eyes as her hand slipped between my thighs, inches from my eager pussy. The wind, carrying an early winter frost, howled against the windows, masking my lustful noises.

Mistress. With fervent passion, my heart cried out in hope, wishing my voice could find sound. I whimpered as her ethereal-like touches faded from existence.

In the years that followed this afternoon, I would learn that in BDSM, the faintest of touches, those your mind normally wouldn't register, could be just as torturous as the stinging lash of a whip. A Domme could make you cry out for mercy just as quickly with a feather in hand or, in Miss Sullivan's case, with her Kolinsky Sable paintbrushes.

I pulled against the cuffs, desperate to reach between my thighs, and shivered helplessly as the desire to pleasure myself was denied for a darker one. All the years I had dreamt of surrendering complete control didn't prepare me for the delights it would actually grant.

Two more slaps echoed around the room, and I answered each one with a drawn-out whimper that transformed into a sensual moan. She pulled my tights down, revealing my pink ass and sodden panties. Miss Sullivan kissed my sore cheek, grazing it with her teeth as her moans mingled with my own. My toes curled as I instinctively arched my back, presenting my ass. Her warm breath licked my virgin cunt.

One simple word would grant my deepest desires. I purred loudly as she bit my rear.

Another slap resounded on bare flesh. The sting blossomed across my pert rear. I had spanked myself repeatedly over the years with hands, spoons, spatulas, hair brushes, or anything I could find in the futile attempt to satisfy my lust. But it was nothing compared to when someone else controls the pace, the placement, and the intensity. The experience transcended the divine, making those ancient Gods of lust and depravity envy me.

Say it, Faye. Please. For once in your life, stop being scared and just fucking say it!

My fingers dug into the solid wooden desk as I mumbled nonsense. Another strike landed firmer, sending a jolt through my petite frame. The sensation reverberated through me, and my legs trembled against the desk.

"Not good enough," Miss Sullivan said, her voice laced with passion. "Clearly, say it properly."

My panties clung to my dripping cunt as two more slaps marked my ass. My tender flesh turned a deeper red and spotted around the edges. I felt as though I had been edging for hours, begging for relief. Bound to the altar of my submission, brazen desperation devoured my soul.

Her finger scratched along the back of my thighs as she leaned over me, her breasts pillowing against my back. She bit my neck, and my breath hitched, while the desk creaked under the strain of our forbidden lust. Her hand slipped under the waistband of my panties, slowly pulling them over my red ass. The gusset clung to my glistening pussy, ashamed to let go and reveal the state of my arousal.

"Say my name," Miss Sullivan whispered, licking my ear. "Confess who you want me to be."

Mini orgasms rippled through my body at the thought of saying that word and finally getting what I had so long desired. My heart thumped the desk with the rhythm of the Devil. A bead of sweat tickled my neck. Nothing else in the world mattered; the only things of import were me and my—

"Mistress," I moaned out long and clear.

Creating a Masterpiece with Five Brushstrokes
* * * * *

With my deepest desires finally confessed, I leant over Miss Sullivan's desk, bound and panting. Strands of lustful juices trickled from my swollen pussy while my nipples dented the oaken desk. Miss Sullivan hadn't spoken since my confession. There were noises behind me, but I lacked the strength to look. Neither did I have the courage to do so.

Was it all destined to be another cruel prank, just one of the many in my life, like when I received my first Valentine's card three years ago? Had she tricked me into confessing as revenge for my perversion? Tears began to swell as self-doubt whispered in my ear and tore my broken heart asunder.

Mistress? Say something. Anything, please.

I clenched my ass, feeling something wooden against my sore cheeks. Without looking, I knew what she had placed against my ass. I had dreamt about them enough and drawn them in countless sketches: a cane.

No, it wasn't just a cane, lifeless and boring; rather, it was the mistress' cane, my Mistress' cane.

"Tiptoes now," Mistress said. "You will remain on them until your punishment is complete. Heels touch the floor, and I'll start from the beginning again."

A tear of joy caressed my freckled, blushing cheeks as I eagerly nodded. With my tights and panties around my ankles, I rose onto my tiptoes.

My Mistress slowly caressed the back of my thighs with her cane, evidently savouring the view of her student's naked ass. A couple of light taps kissed my thigh; a prelude to my impending punishment and the herald of greater lust. My breath hitched with each tap. Anticipation grew, heightening my senses and flooding my mind with euphoria.

"You've never had a cane across your ass before, have you?"

I shook my head as she brushed the cane over the top of my ass, licking my curves and flowing down my other thigh. My calves were already beginning to ache from tiptoeing.

"Remember to breathe. Let the pain blossom into pleasure. If you need to stop, just say Emerald." Miss Sullivan paused briefly. "Now then, you owe me five strikes."

I nodded, and the cane left my skin. Time hung painfully still as I waited. I gripped the chains of my cuffs and listened to the cackling of the wind. Where would the first strike land: my right cheek or left, or maybe even the back of my thighs?

I braced myself for my first caning session.

In truth, I had longed for this moment since the day I first saw Miss Sullivan. Call it what you want. Fate, blind luck, or perhaps my submissive soul whispering to me that she was destined to be my Mistress. I drew in a deep breath, anticipating the first biting strike.

The cane whooshed through the air behind me, sending shivers through my core and enticing a nervous gasp from me. I forced my body to relax. I jumped and whimpered as the cane lightly brushed against my ass. I clenched my eyes shut and bit my lips.

While I leaned over Miss Sullivan's desk, strands of juices hung, dancing in deprived adoration, from my virgin wet cunt.

The cane snapped against tender flesh, biting my ass for the first time. I yelped as the bite reverberated throughout my body. The warmth of the searing line across my ass spread over my cheek, licking my rear with insatiable lust. As my yelp echoed back to me, it returned as an alluring groan. She ran her finger softly along the red line swelling on my ass.

I drew in deep breath after deep breath as the sensation ravaged me. Glancing over my slender shoulders, Miss Sullivan stood smiling at my rear, admiring her artwork. She held the cane in two hands, bending it as she envisioned where the next stroke on her canvas should be, knowing a single stroke of the artist's brush could create a masterpiece.

She caught me, transfixed, watching her, and her smile broadened as she bit her lower lip. The ruby cheeks beneath her glasses confirmed her arousal to be just as all-consuming as my own.

"Eyes forward," she silently mouthed before positioning herself for the next stroke of her brush.

The line across my ass sizzled against the cold air.

A moment later, the artist's brush licked the canvas with a deep red paint. I inhaled sharply and quivered on top of her desk as the sound of the second strike echoed out into the gallery. Quickly the third strike fell just above the second.

As the two lines bloomed into one, I softly furrowed my brow. My heart raced double time as intoxicating lust coursed through my veins. The warmth of the strikes spread, licking the edges of my eager cunt, teasing it for its exclusion.

Thank you, Mistress. My words were lost within the void of subspace.

The cane cracked once more just beneath the crease of my ass; a devilish place to strike. I pulled desperately against the cuffs, though not to stop the caning. I was simply desperate to plunge my fingers into the fiery slit of my cunt. I whimpered as my cunt begged for attention. Miss Sullivan leaned over me, digging her fingernails into my pink ass while she licked my neck. Her perfume caressed my crimson cheeks and enveloped me.

"Good girl," she whispered.

My Mistress stood up, waiting for me to stop squirming. One more stroke of her brush remained: the final chance for the artist to create an unforgettable masterpiece. My calves ached from remaining on my tiptoes.

The final stroke of her brush fell harshly across the first strike. I moaned loudly, and my legs gave way. The desk scratched along the floor as I slumped against it. Down my thighs, my warm juices trickled.

Masterpiece complete, she washed the end of her paintbrush against the shimmering juices of my cunt. My lust coated her cane as the pain distilled into heavenly pleasure.

Miss Sullivan sat glowing in her chair in front of me while I remained bound to her desk, with my tights and panties around my ankles. She licked my juice from the end of her cane as her green eyes, sparkling like emeralds, watched her student shiver.

"I shouldn't have to explain, but you aren't to tell anyone about this," she said, putting her brush down on the desk and softly tucking my hair behind my ear.

She picked up a pen and wrote something across the palm of my hand. "This is my e-mail. Before the night's over, you will send me one of two messages. Either you will thank your mistress for her time, or—"

She paused, and for a moment, through lust-glazed eyes, I saw the mask of a Domme briefly slip, only slightly. In that fleeting moment, I witnessed a sight that was forever etched onto my heart. Hidden behind the role and responsibilities of a Domme was a vulnerability, perhaps even a fear of rejection.

"—Or you simply say emerald, and I will once again become just your art teacher," she spoke, with her mask once more in place.

A Submissive Reborn From the Smouldering Embers of Lust
* * * * *

Slowly, Miss Sullivan unbound me. I pulled up my panties and tights. My skirt fell over my warm butt, which Miss Sullivan had painted burgundy with hints of blue. I wished that afternoon could last forever, but the universe isn't that kind.

Reluctantly, I placed my hand on the door handle.

"Faye?" Miss Sullivan called out. "I'm assuming these are yours."

Draped over her finger, she held the pair of panties I had left on the easels a week before. She giggled as I snatched them back, blushing. Clutching them to my chest, I looked at the floor with a mischievous smile.

"Thought so. No more masturbating in the supply room." Miss Sullivan leaned forward, smirking. "When you get horny, you will ask to use my office. Where you can be appropriately supervised."

* * *

Outside the office, I slipped on a puddle of dirty water running down the table beside the door. I caught the table before I clattered to the floor and steadied myself. Paintbrushes rolled against the table leg. The cup, once full of dirty water, sat empty on the table. I shook my head at my carelessness as I remembered bumping into the desk before entering the office. If I weren't careful, I could quickly earn another punishment.

The warm fog of subspace began to disperse as I picked up the paintbrushes. Putting them back in the cup, déjà vu gripped me.

Wait, I caught the cup, didn't I?

As I looked over at the gallery's main door, fear enveloped me with his countless freezing hands, gripping my throat and strangling me. My sleeve was still damp from the water now pooling around my feet. I was certain that I had caught the cup earlier. So who knocked over the cup?

Had Cassy actually followed me and somehow got into the art department? I looked back through the office door. Miss Sullivan, cheeks aglow with satisfaction, was already busy returning to her work. If Cassy had followed me, how much had she seen?

The insidious claws of fear bore into my chest, seeking to devour my heart.

I jumped and spun around as flapping high in the rafters shattered the impenetrable silence. I sighed in relief as the feathers of a pigeon seeking shelter from the cold fell from above.

Breathing once more, I felt the tendrils of fear flee away. I stole one more look through the office door, pulled my scarf up over my blushing cheeks, and left smiling, already knowing which message I was going to send my first Mistress.

Thank you, Mistress.

The hallways of the art department somehow seemed brighter than before as I made my way back to my car.

* * *

She pressed herself into the shadows of the wall as the cold air kissed her rosy cheeks. She knew it would be worthwhile following her but never expected to see what she did. Smiling, she watched Faye leave the art department.

Waiting until Faye was out of sight, the spy emerged from the shadows. She needed to think carefully about how to proceed. The forbidden acts she had discovered were too precious an opportunity to waste on rash actions. Life at university was about to become far more exciting for her and especially for Faye.

******************************************

End of Part Two
To be continued.
* * * * *

Thank you for reading my story. I hope you look forward to reading more of my series.
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