Archive-name: Slaves/mindscp2.txt
Archive-author: Arnora Dunestan
Archive-title: Mindscape 2


	Waiting for her professor has held her up.  She glances at her watch,
noting that she is already late, and an uncomfortable knot begins to form in 
her stomach.  She shifts her weight back and forth on her feet, knowing that
there may be a proverbial hell to pay for her lateness.  Outside the window of
the classroom, the sky has been growing steadily darker, and there is a slow
bowing of the naked branches against the cold panes of glass.  Only one
question, she thinks.  One simple question, can't we take care of it now?  
But the professor is still engaged in slow conversation with one of her fellow
students, and the panic is beginning to build.  Her eyes seem riveted on the
lashing trees beyond the glass, visible only in the tiny area of light from
within.  Her mind unconcsiously follows as the rough, wet bark whips back
and forth, driven by a wind which menaces in silence, as if trying to break
away the branches of the tree by sheer force of will, tormenting the tree
by throwing anything and everything against its unyielding exterior.
	She is willing to wait no longer.  Her pack dangles from her elbow
as she shoulders her coat into place and runs from the room.  The student
and the professor stare after her in surprise; she is not normally given
to frantic outbursts of energy, nor to the sort of almost panicked impatience
she has shown.  But she is gone.
	Running across campus, her coat still open to the wind, she utters
her silent prayers that she is not so late as to be facing dire consequences.
How she wishes she only knew!  Too much, too fast, but as she skips around
the icier parts of the path, something buried deep within her mind tells her
that she wouldn't walk away now if she could.  She is committed; she must
stay to the logical end.

	Amused, he looks away from the clock above the vending machines, and
settles back into his chair.  He passes on this hand, waiting for his
partner to call, and idly shuffles the cards between his fingers.  She is
late, he muses, and I have been more than patient.  Playing out the rest
of the hand is done with only a small part of his attention.  Half an eye
is kept on the clock; half an ear on the hallway outside.  Most of his
attention, however, is several floors above.  A mysterious smile passes over
his face, and he trumps the cards currently on the table, much to the dismay
of his opponents; but then again, surprise has always been one of his better
weapons.  The smile widens as he picks up the sound of someone running in the
hallway outside the Math Lounge, and , sure enough, she appears.  A moment is
necessary to savour her: her face has been rouged by the cold, and the wind
has seen fit to re-dress her hair, which now sweeps wildly around her face.
She stops immediately inside the doors to the lounge, desperately trying to
catch her breath and push the frightened, hunted look from her eyes, which
find him before they can change the expression.  Her mouth falls open in 
surprise; inadvertantly, she glances around the lounge, as if searching for
some way to avoid him.  They both know, however, that such is not really the
case.  
	He enjoys the discomfort his appraisal seems to be causing her; she
is still standing by the door, uncertain of what to do next.  Hesitantly,
she takes a few steps towards one of the other seating areas to wait for him
to finish his game.  He clears his throat.  She freezes, knapsack slipping to
her hand as she turns back to him, eyes wide.  With a nod of his head, he
indicates a space next to him on the floor by his chair, then locks his eyes
into hers as she approaches.  When she takes to long deciding what to do next,
he puts a hand over the crotch of her pants and tugs not-so-gently downward.
"Sit," he says simply.  "You know how."  She looks at the others who are
seated around the table; there are perhaps eight of them, including him, and
although they all regard her from time to time with great interest, no one
speaks to her.  She begins to wonder if they are used to this from him.  
Slowly, trying not to meet anyone's eyes, she settles herself on the floor 
next to his chair, bum on her heels, knees spread slightly apart.  Here
she hesitates again, unwilling to raise her hands to her neck.  This is
public, she thinks.  I am on display for people I go to school with.  There
are very few others in the lounge this late in the afternoon, and for that,
she is greatful; those who do still loiter regard her with surprise.  One or
two whisper to their friends and gesture in her direction.  Blushing, she
turns her gaze away, and happens across his expectant stare.  One eyebrow
cocks in an unspoken statement of waiting.  Grudgingly, she places her hands
behind her neck, taking a moment to clear the hair from her collar.
	Absently, as he reaches for the next hand being dealt, he reaches out
to give her right breast a forceful squeeze.  She gasps softly, and turns
away from the inquisitive stares of the other players.  Their conversation
quickly resumes, and he seems to ignore her presence as the game progresses.
Almost forty minutes pass before he decides it is time to leave, and he
stands, picks up his coat, and walks away from the table.  Several feet away,
he stops and turns back.
	"You will come with me when I leave," he says to her, and she scrambles
to obey, rising to her feet only when he nods.  Turning to the others, he
asks, "I will see you in an hour?"  Two heads nod, and one of them smiles at
her, but his expression is unreadable.  He puts a hand on the back of her neck
and walks her to the elevator.

	Inside the elevator, once the door has closed and they have begun to
rise, he hits the stop button.  Roughly, he reaches for her, undoes her jeans,
and pushes them down past her knees. He turns her to face the door and spreads
her cheeks wide.  There is a brief pause, then the feeling of something cold
and sticky-wet probing her anus.  She must stretch out an arm to brace against 
the doors to keep from falling forward, and turns her face into the collar
of her coat to muffle something that may be a scream as he slowly but
insistently enters her.  There is pain only briefly, and the slow agony of
being stretched wide.  His penetration is deep, and it seems to take
forever for him to pull out.  Twice does he repeat the slow entrance and 
withdrawal, then pulls away from her completely.  With a low moan, she begins
to reach for her jeans, and is pounded up against the doors by the force of his
re-entry.  She cries out, and he grabs her around the waist to hold her still
as he thrusts violently into her.  His own free arm is braced above her
head for support.  With a slow shuddering, he flows into her anus, and pauses,
bent for a moment over her back to catch his breath.  Without warning, he
withdraws, and she sinks to the floor.  Without waiting for her, he punches
the sixth-floor button, fixing his clothes as the elevator ascends.  She
struggles into her jeans, aware only of the feeling of having been reamed,
and she must wipe away the tears quickly when the elevator doors open on a
group of professors and assistants, who look at them quizzically as they step
into the hallway.  He waits for them to close the door behind them, then
stands there, looking at her dishevelled appearance, and smiles.
	"On your knees," he orders, and starts off down the hall.  There
is no belt waiting for her around the corner this time; instead, he has a
thick leather collar, several inches wide across the front of the throat, and 
reinforced with moulded plastic.  With practiced motions, he sweeps the hair
away from her neck and buckles the collar into place, following this by
snapping a heavy, braided leather leash onto a ring by the buckle.
	The collar forces her chin up, tilting her head back to an almost
uncomfortable angle.  He tugs on the leash several times, and sets off
down the hall, tugging forcibly when she is too slow.  When they reach the
door to the office, he ties the leash to the handle, and disappears inside.
She assumes the waiting position, glad for the fact that, this time, she has
been allowed her clothing.  The searing pain has diminished somewhat, although
sitting back on her heels is enough of a discomfort to keep her from settling
back completely.  As she listens, the sounds of desk and cabinet drawers being
opened and closed filters through the door, and the sound of unidentifiable
items being set carelessly down on the desk.  She shivers.  The ache in her
body is not completely from what she has already been subjected to; rather,
there is a tension forming, of its own free will it seems, in her breasts
and between her legs.  Tied to the door until he is ready for her, she waits.
	Minutes tick by interminably.  There are no clocks in this hallway, nor
any windows to tell her how dark, or how late it has become.  Her knees are
becoming sore, and her shoulders have commenced a slow throb from being used
as unfamiliar sources of locomotion.  She continues to shift her weight back
and forth, finding that the slight rocking motion accompanying her adjustments
tends to push the warm flesh between her legs tight against her clit.  Almost
distractedly, she begins to rock a little bit faster, the movements becoming
swifter, shorter, and a little more forcefully.  The muscles in her legs
twitch in unison with the twinges of pleasure beginning to form in her groin,
and she consciously needs to control her breathing; the amplification of the
empty hallway would certainly carry the sounds of her growing arousal through
the door.  Almost oblivious to the slight swing of the leash, she digs the
fingers clenched at the back of her neck into a fist, her legs rocking her
towards an orgasm which, if she doesn't get now, will be forced to wait a
considerable amount of time for, at the hands of her master.  She is aware of
the heat and the wet between her legs, and closes her eyes against the 
onslaught ...
	...only to be jerked forward a moment too soon by the door opening
suddenly.  He stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching her
with an almost amused smile.  She pulls herself back into the waiting
position, uncertain of whether or not he is aware of what she had been doing,
and frustrated by the incompletion of the act.  He unties the leash from the 
handle, but does not lead her into the office just yet.  From the shelf next to
the door, he takes a long slip of dark-coloured fabric, and kneels in front
of her.  It is a blindfold, cut of black fleece, and it feels very warm and
comfortable - albeit rather snug - against her face.  It admits no light.  Some
of his gentleness remains as he guides her, using the leash, into the office,
deftly guiding her around or away from otherwise painful encounters.  With a
slight tug, he makes her rise to a standing position in the middle of the room,
wraps the leash tightly around one hand, and reaches out to undo the buttons
of her shirt.  She stands impassively, hands still behind her head, as his
cool hands run over the flesh of her sides, her stomach, her breasts.  She is
very aware of the currents of breath as he draws in to kiss her skin, his lips
playing at her collarbone, her sternum, her ribs, around to her spine.  The
gooseflesh is hard to avoid, and she flinches lightly away as his mouth
reaches a certain ticklish spot alongside her spine.  His hands join the game,
running over the fabric of her pants, up the insides of her legs and across
her still tender buttocks.  His lips travel again to her stomach, nibbling in
bits as he moves, and his hands are reaching for the closures on the front of
her jeans.  With a series of tugs, he removes her pants, guiding her feet as
she steps out of them, and he casts them away, intrigued by the sight and
smell of her obvious state of advanced arousal.  He is suspicious that perhaps
she may have been left too long alone in the hall, driven to find her own
source of amusement, and not at all disposed to wait for his approval.
	She senses his pause, and shifts her weight uncertainly, straining to
hear the slightest hint of his potential displeasure.  Yet all she is granted
is the feeling and sounds of him moving away, and the sound of something being
picked up from the desk.  His lips return to where they left her skin, and
begin the long trip back up.  He never touches the moist tract between her
thighs.  Up over her breasts, which he stops long enough to free from the
confines of her brassiere, up under her chin, along her jaw to her ear, and
then across her cheek to her own mouth, his kisses leave a trail of small 
shivers.  At first she is uncertain of how to deal with his direct kiss, his
tongue which pries gently at her lips.  Her body already cants towards his, and
his insistence is difficult to resist.  Yet when she does finally open her lips
to him, it is not his tongue she meets, as she had hoped; instead, her mouth
is invaded and spread wide by a hard, cold substance, something almost conical
in shape, that spreads her jaw almost to its limits, before her lips meet the 
solid leather strap to which it is attached.  She is gagged, and before she is
given a chance to protest, he slaps the buckles into place behind her head and
wrenches them tightly shut.  In a fluid motion, he sits on the corner of the
desk, pulls her over his knee, and begins to apply the palm of his hand 
liberally to her skin.  She grasps at the desk leg and cries into the gag; 
tears soak into the blindfold almost before they leave her eyes, and he is
unrelenting.  After fifteen spanks, he stops and returns her to her feet, his
arm a warm, strong support for her as she cries.
	"Don't ever start without permission again," he says softly, his lips
against her ear, before he lets go of her.  He moves her to a new place; the 
accoustics suggest that she is now in a corner.  Taking her hands, he wraps the wrists in soft leather cuffs, then stretches them up to attach to something overher head.  He then pushes her legs apart, increasing the tension in her arms,
and likewise wraps her ankles in the cuffs.  To rings on the cuffs he clips the 
ends of a long piece of wood dowling, assuring that her legs will be kept at
their present distance.  He stands back to admire the picture, pleased with
its aesthetic quality, but certain it is missing something.  With a smile
only he himself is aware of, he settles himself close to her on the desk, and
runs a light touch up the inside of her thigh.  Her shivering, and a quiet
gasp around the gag, reward him; both increase as he brushes through the mat
of damp hair, probing deftly for the little nub of flesh that waits for his
touch.  She groans, her hips minimally shifting towards him.
	His fingertips probe gently along the inner lips of her vagina, and
her body tries to play a frantic game of catch; his touch returns to the
clit which she is certain even he can feel pounding in frustration.  Every
nerve seems alight at his touch, yearning to be filled, thrust into, left to
his whims.  Her body is pulled taut between the reach of her arms and the 
spread of her legs, every muscle shrinking into tense balls of energy, just
waiting for the one release she craves.  He feels the gathering of energy in
her body, the spring being coiled for release, and pulls away.  Watching as her 
body tries to follow him, he reaches for something on the desk behind him.  Her
head shifts slightly as she tries to fathom his movements from the sounds she
hears.  But before her mind can piece together the puzzle, she feels his
fingers swiftly part the flesh around her vagina, and she is filled almost
brutally with the hard cold plastic of the dildo.  There is no chance to catch
her breath, as she feels him slip between her and the wall behind her, one hand
sliding between the cheeks of her ass, rubbing something warm and wet over
the edges of her anus.  The penetration there is more painful, and she bites
down on the gag to keep from screaming.  He remains behind her now, hands
skimming lightly over her body, down between her legs from the front and from
behind, to pull her tightly to him by rubbing her clitoris with vigour, then
stopping as her breath speeds up.  His breath is moist on her shoulder; she
leans into his hard body, moaning slightly as he sinks his teeth gently into
her skin, hard enough to make her whimper, but the insistent hands between her
legs will not let her pull away.
	There is a knock at the door; he laughs a litte as he feels her
body go rigid, and wonders whether she is afraid.  She tries to pull back
against the wall, as if trying to disappear into the cool stones, but tied
as tightly as she is, her movement is limited to almost nothing.  Straining,
she hears the office door open, and there is a pause where she cannot pick out
the words being whispered.  She feels something like horror, something like
shame, something like arousal.  Even as she tries to disappear into the wall,
she is very aware of the heat between her legs, of the unconscious gripping
of the dildoes he has left there.  The current of air from the open door washes
over her skin, leaving her nipples hard and tingling.  The flow is abruptly cut
off, and she hears the door close.  Through the heavy fleece, she cannot
hear movement; she cannot hear voices anymore, not even whispers. If there is 
anyone in the office with her, she is unaware.  The uncertainty, she finds, is
horribly arousing, and her body flexes within its bindings almost unconsciously,
seeking some method of achieving some form of release.
	Her mind registers the burning sting in her thighs almost before her 
ears hear the slap of something stiff but flexible.  Something like a riding crop  falls again on the inside of her other thigh, and every time she tries
to pull her body away from the insistent sting, she feels it in other exposed
places.  Not even her labia is safe, and the reflexive tightening of muscles
and flesh causes the dildo to ride a little higher inside her.  Composure is 
a thing of the past for her when an unfamiliar set of hands appear from nowhere
to massage her breasts, still sore from their own share of the small crop 's
terror.  Unfamiliar fingers work the nipples into tiny knobs of hard flesh, and
an unfamiliar mouth begins its trek from her neck down her body.  They stop
just shy of the edge of her pubic hair, and withdraw.  Unconsciously she
flinches, expecting to feel the bite of the crop again, but all she senses is
quiet laughter at her fear.  There are more whispers, and the sounds of small
things being moved around.  Someone is close to her, reaching up to release
her hands from their overhead hook, though leaving them bound.  Another pair
of hands - also unfamiliar to her! - take position on her legs, and guide them
carefully away from the wall.  She is positioned against the side of the desk;
the unfamiliar hands assist her as she is bent backwards desk; feet are
freed from the dowling and attached to the legs of the desk, hands are laced
to the far edge.  He reaches down now and gently unties the gag,
working it slowly out of her mouth.  Slightly calloused hands she knows now
stroke her face, wiping the sweat from her forehead, and massaging the joints
of her jaw with practiced motions.  With the same light touch, he traces
phantom lines down her stomach, distracted little doodles over the welts on her
thighs, ignoring the dildoes to gently tweak her clit; without warning, he 
grasps both plastic inserts and jerks them out simultaneously.  Her almost-
scream seems to echo from the walls of the office, cut short by the feeling of
a warm mouth between her legs.  There is a short pause which ends with the 
positioning of a warm body between her legs, and the slow penetration, seeming
an almost endless motion.  Her fingers twine tightly around the bindings which
hold her wrists to the edge of the table; the thongs bite into her flesh with
an delightful agony.  Only vaguely is she aware now of the mouths which feed
on her breasts.  Hands grip her hips, digging fingers into skin and bone as
the rythm of movement increases steadily, driving up the heat in her body;   
the slight layer of sweat forming between their bodies serves well, working
to spread the friction along her entire nervous system.  Her hands are slick 
and sticky; the raw feeling along some of her fingers makes her think she is
bleeding perhaps, and the pain and pleasure blend in her mind.  She is being
carried up and back by each thrust now, almost crying into the binding over
her eyes as an urgent message travels outward from the pleasure centres of her
mind and body, gathering momentum, gathering strength.
	The release is monumental when it comes.  Uneven breathing is aborted
from screams by a mouth which covers her own, sucking hard on her tongue  
at the crucial moment, biting down softly to hold it there as her body contorts
on the slick desk top, stroking it until she subsides.  Her feet are unbound,
though her hands are left tied.  Again the hands guide her movements, turning 
her onto her stomach, stroking her back with light touches to help dry the
skin.  The textures of denim and wool cover her skin as someone lays over her,
kissing a line down the track of her spine, while hands she still does not
recognize reach down to undo and remove the denim she feels against her legs.
Hands which not-so-gently push her buttocks apart; fingers which less-than-
softly pry into her anus, holding her open for the insistent penetration.  She
presses her forehead into the cool surface of the table, gritting her teeth
against the pain as her own muscles instinctively contract around the intruder,
and she becomes aware of his laboured breathing as he picks up his own pounding
rythm.  She clutches at the desk edge, lips pressed hard against the top,
trying not to cry.  Someone is stroking her hair, and the welts on her back
scream at the contact with the wool of the sweater which covers her.
	Abruptly, the voiceless breathing behind her ear takes on a moan-like
tension; the withdrawl is swift and painful, and she fliches involuntarily as
the warm spray settles heavily over her back.  The body behind her staggers
back unevenly, one hand in contact with her body as it tries to assist in the
balancing act.  Then all contact is broken, and she is left with nothing but
the slight sound of moving fabric.  Her own breathing seems loud and rather
frantic in her own ears, but she is aware of a short pause before the door opens
and closes.  Instinct suggests she is alone.  She knows that it may displease
him, but she draws her legs up onto the desk, curling her raw body into the 
fetal position, concentrating on trying to steady her own breath, to drop her
exaggerated heartbeat back to normal tempos.  Her mind has been blasted
clean; she seems to drift endlessly on the tide of sensation feedback from her
body.
	To his amusement, and almost to his worry, she seems to be dozing
when he returns. She does not react to the sound of the door, nor to the sound
of his setting the bowl of water, the cloth and the towel next to her on the
desk.  Concern that he may have pushed too far, too fast toys annoyingly in
his mind.  He unties the bottom of the bindings on her hands from the desk, not
wanting to tackle yet the slick knots she has created by rubbing the flesh on
her fingers away.  She stirs slightly, and he is relieved to hear her breathing
settle into normal, deep rythms.  Next, he pulls her damp hair free from the 
blindfold and tugs out the knot.  She blinks uncomfortably as her eyes try to
re-adjust to the daylight, and through half-covered eyes, she smiles up at him.
With something bordering on reverence, he manages to free her hands from the 
mess of knotted bindings.  Only chuckling at the sight of the blood, she says 
nothing.  He dips the cloth in the bowl of water, and begins to wash away the 
sweat, the blood, the semen.  With his help, she sits up, held close against
him as he administers the cool water to the welts on her skin, then towels
her dry.  He dresses her, then seats her in his comfortable, padded chair behind
his desk, and brushes her hair until it is dry again.  When she is ready, he
reaches past her to open the bottom drawer of his desk, retrieving the familiar
shape of a flower, wrapped in florist's decorative paper.
	"Don't open this until you get outside the building," he warns, as he
hands the package to her.  She accepts it cautiously, then nods and slips
into her coat.  Closing the door behind her as she leaves, she pauses
momentarily to shrug the pack into a position which will not irritate the marks
on her back, and heads off for the elevators.
	Before stepping out into the cold evening air, she opens the top of
the envelope.  Inside, is a single blood-red rose, and a note which reads 
simply, "Again.  I'll let you know when."



Jan 20, 1991  copyright Arnora Dunestan.

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