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Archive-name: Slaves/mindscp1.txt

Archive-author: Arnora Dunestan

Archive-title: Mindscape

   He sometimes watches her as she sits in the Math Lounge, a place she

seems to always be between classes, or during spare hours on campus; often,

she is even there in the evenings, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company

of groups of men who, for the most part, treat her in a warm, friendly,

but platonic manner.  There is nothing specifically striking in her

appearance, but she seems enclosed within a sphere that hints at something

much more intriguing beneath its surface.  She remains apart from the crowd,

though there is no hint of aloofness in her manner.  Yet there is something

in her which smoulders, that seems to draw the notice of others, always

somehow managing to disturb their peace of mind.  It isn't that there are 

no other women in the lounge; many of them are far more attractive than she,

or better dressed; rather, her casual, comfortable clothes, and the 

dishevelled look of her hair instead suggest the attitude and glow of 

someone recently come from the bed of a lover.  That smouldering sensation 

is one of complete, innate sensuality, brindling occasionally to a full-blown, 

but not tawdry, sexuality.  Such dynamicism must surely be felt by every 

male - and even by more than a few of the females - within the confines of 

the lounge, even though they may be unable to pinpoint the source of the 


   As he watches, she shifts, from time to time, alternately stretching her 

long body from the seat to the table, or curling, feline-like, into a

tight corner of one of the lounge couches, feet tucked under her body.  To

watch her, one would not necessarily agree that anything she did in 

particular could be called "graceful"; there was, however, an undeniably

attractive elegance in her sense of motion.  It was easy to see that her

movements were unconscious; she moved to ease stress, or make herself more

comfortable in the same casual, unthinking way a cat would, unconcerned -

even unaware - of the efect she had on others.

   There are times when he cannot take his eyes off her, despite the card wars

raging among his friends around him; he finds his mind follows tracks

for which his normal studies leave lamentably little time.  He is by no

means uneducated in the subtler, more pleasurable, human sciences, but

approaching an unknown out of nowhere is usually not his style, though he

admits to himself that it has its own interesting connotations.  So patiently,

he waits, and watches for something - anything - that would allow him the

slightest opportunity to engage in a more intimate interaction.  Sometimes

the waiting becomes a spectrum of delicious frustration.  Illicit thoughts

come to his mind, unbidden, and block out the white noise and sights of the

room and crowds around him.  He sees scenarios of approaches and more.  He

pictures doing things to her body, and of places he could take her, many of

them within the same building.  He formulates countless plans, and counts

formless ideas, marking his time until everything falls into place with an

almost amused, mysterious expression on his face.

   She knows the power she could have over men if she wishes.  Granted, she

has never been one to consider herself a beauty, but given the interest or

the inspiration, it would not be difficult to have any man who appealed

to her.  Most of the time, however, she didn't think of herself as being

in the hunting mode; rather, she preferred to pick a target and manipulate

him into making the advances.  That way, she never had to take the upper

hand, which suited her just fine.

   He is watching again, she notices, though she makes no attempts to

initiate some sort of recognition.  As always, her face is impassive, with

neither invitation nor rebuttal in her expression.  For the moment, she has

chosen to ignore him; hunting is not a high priority for her this day, so

the seat she has chosen in the lounge, which is now emptying just prior

to another class, is with her back to him, several seating-groups away.  With

a small, private smile, she acknowledges to herself the fact that his eyes

are hot on her head, and then turns her thought to other matters.

   Time passes; denizens and regulars file in and out of the lounge

throughout the day, as do they themselves.  Towards the middle afternoon, he

watches her come in from the cold, to sit down across the room, with her

back to him.  She takes off her boots and coat, pulls a book out of her

knapsack, and settles in, in no particular hurry to be anywhere.  It is a

Wednesday; he knows she will be around until sometime near six.  His friends

notice his distraction, but when questioned, he only laughs and says to them

that he is working on a new project in his mind.  The afternoon wears on;

soon there are only a dozen or so people around the lounge, including the two

of them.  He has worked himself up to a keen tension, a certain level of

arousal which would soon begin demanding a release.  For sometime now, he

has been waiting to act, and with pressure mounting, he becomes certain

that the time is at hand.  He watches, marking time with the pages of an

engineering textbook he has barely looked at all day, the weight of which

has become tantalizingly uncomfortable against his lap in recent hours.  He

waits, until ...

   She has reached the end of a chapter in her book, and sets it aside,

glancing out the wide windows, shifting restlessly.  Rising, she crosses the

room to the pop machines for something to do, and taking the cold can it

gives her, returns to her seat, but she does not pick up her book.  Instead,

she shuffles through the contents of her pack, fidgetting, feeling almost

bored, and waiting for time to pass, so that she might move on to her plans

for the evening.  She stretches, a luxurious feeling that brings every

muscle in her back and shoulders and arms back to life.  At full reach, she

wiggles her fingers, then throws her feet across the coffee table to stretch

them also, wiggling her toes as well.  Wriggling into a more comfortable

position, with her feet now tucked up beneath her, she stretches her arms 

along the back of the couch until the strain across her shoulders becomes 

too much, then brings her arms back to clasp her hands behind her neck,

fingers laced under her hair.

   She is somewhat startled by a firm grip enclosing on her joined wrists.

There is an irrepressable, instinctive twitch of her pleasure centres; the

contact is unfamiliar, but the potential meaning of the contact is not.  Given

her current position, she becomes very aware of a sense of vulnerablity, and

something far more intense: an immediate sense of arousal.  Without turning to

look, she is aware of a head approaching her own, and instantly there is the

feel of breath at her ears, and lips, gently tickling the hair that covers

her ears as it is brushed aside.  The whisper, the unexpected but anticipated

approach that would seal her fate, caressed her senses as it spoke:

	"You have a dilemma here.  You are vulnerable, and I have control," it

says, a bare smile almost audible in its tone.  "Does this bother you?"

	"That depends on your definition of 'bothered'", she replies.  He gives

her wrists a sharp squeeze; she must squirm to keep from gasping aloud.

	"I can't allow that kind of attitude," he muses.  "How should I 

discipline you?"  When she does not respond, he crushes her wrists in his

grip almost brutally, feeling her body both tense and radiate heat in response.

"What should I do?" he repeats.  As the familiar trembling starts, she replies,

	"As you wish."  The grip releases her, but something compels her to

leave her arms where they are; nor does she turn to look at the one who 

commands her.

	"Gather your things," he orders, standing up behind her.  Obediently,

she puts her book away, and picks up her coat and gloves.  In her periphery,

she sees him well enough to be satisfied with obvious physical details, but she

makes no attempt to either regard or confront him outright.  She has given

without question thus far, and would see it through.  When she is ready, she 

turns to him, eyes downcast as is proper.  He motions for her to proceed him

from the lounge, and once out into the grand hallway, he turns her in the

direction of the elevators.  All during the wait for the elevator, he takes

the time to admire her long, muscular legs, rounded buttocks, the curve of

her back beneath her sweater; he likes the way in which her hair seems to

spread across the top half of her back in soft, layered waves, and has to give

himself a stern warning so as not to run his hands through that lovely mane.

Not yet, at least.  The car arrives, and they get in.  There are no other

passengers as he punches the button for the sixth floor, noted for the maze

of professors' offices and twisting, turning hallways.  She stands inside,

uncertain of what to do.  Roughly, he reaches out as the doors close, grabbing

a fistful of her hair and pulls her to him, kissing her with something

bordering on fury.  He opens her mouth with her tongue, pleased and aroused

by her acquiesance, but refusing to allow her any response.  As her tongue

moves shyly towards his own, he breaks the kiss and shoves her roughly away.

	"Face the doors," he orders, and as she turns, he delivers a stinging

spank to her undefended rear.  She cringes slightly, but does not break the 


	There is no one in sight when they step out of the elevator.  Taking

a quick look around, he satisfies himself with the emptiness of the hallway, 

then turns to her.

	"You will take off your sweater," he tells her as he runs his hands

over her breasts, squeezing them gently, "then you will get down on all

fours and follow me.  You can carry you pack in your mouth."  Her eyes widen

at this command, and she glances apprehensively down the lighted hall.  The

delay in responding to his command is met with a sharp slap across her right

cheek, causing tears to obscure her vision.  In spite of this, she feels a

wet warmth coursing through her groin, and knows that she would not disobey,

even had she wanted to.  He compells her, and she is his.  She drops what 

she is carrying and slips the sweater over her head.  Getting everything

into an easily carried bundle is a more difficult matter, and further

delay brings further spankings.  Granted, the cloth of her pants is enough

to take away most of the shock, but enough comes through anyways to cause fresh 

tears to mark her face.  When she is ready, he turns and walks briskly down

the hall and turns a corner; she must scurry to follow him, lest she get

lost in the labyrinth on offices.  As it is, he has waited for her around the

corner.  He has taken off his thin belt, and now brings its leather tongue

down across her lower back, hard enough to sting and leave a welt, but

nowhere near hard enough to break the skin.  He has no intent of causing any

serious or permanent injury to a body he admires so much.

	In this way he shepherds her far from the elevators, until they 

finally come to a stop before the door of a corner office.  They have

encountered no one in the halls.  Ignoring her, he pulls a small set of keys

from his pocket and unlocks the door, steps inside, and closes the door.  She

is left alone in the hall, and now she can hear distant voices approaching.  

Her fervent if silent prayers are left unheeded as two men walk past the

entrance to her hallway.  One of them glances in her direction; his step

falters, and he stops, as does his friend, who, following his stare, also now

sees her.

	"Are you all right, miss?" asks the first, taking a tentative step

towards her.  She nods and smiles, holding a finger to her lips, hoping

they don't come close enough to see her back and ask uncomfortable questions.

She decides to take a risk in speaking, even with her commander on the other

side of the door.

	"It's a surprise," she explains in a stage whisper.  "It's his birthday,

and you kind of caught me off guard in mid-preparation."  The two men

suddenly go very red, making many excuse-mes, and leave, wishing her luck.

Once they have gone, silence returns, and she forces herself to wait, in

spite of the ache in her back, the bruises on her knees, and the fire between

her legs.

	After several more minutes, he finally opens the office door.

	"Come in and get up on the desk," he says simply.  "I suspect that you

know which position to adopt when there."  She follows his orders, settling

back on her heels, knees spread an almost uncomfortable distance apart, fingers

laced together behind her neck.  She does not meet his eyes, keeping her gaze

instead fixed upon the door beyond his head.  He walks around her, taking her

in with his eyes.  Tension seems to be building to an unbearable point as he

faintly runs his fingertips down along her spine, smiling as she flinches from 

the contact with the reddening welts.  From behind, he reaches to cup her 

breasts, kneading them almost roughly as he brings his lips to her shoulder

blades, feeling her press into him ever so slightly.  With one hand, he reaches

down between her legs, feeling a low pulsating in the cup of his hand, which

comes away warm with her humidity.  He pulls away now from her warm body, and

pulls a chair out in front of the desk.  Seating himself, he motions for her 

to step down from the desk.

	"Get undressed," is all he says.  She obeys without the slightest

hesitation, her movements slow and fluid, gauged to entice the watcher's eye to

every curve of her body.  When she has finished, and her clothes are folded in

a neat pile on the floor, she stands quietly before him, hands at her side.  He

stands and approaches her, and with no warning, pushes a knee between her legs

and kicks her feet apart, at the same time sliding two fingers into her wet

vagina.  Unprepared, she allows herself to fall forward against him, her lips

on his neck.  He pulls out of her abruptly, pushes her upright, and slaps her.

Feeling that perhaps a simple slap might not be enough, he turns her roughly

and bends her over the desk, positioning her hands in a grip of the opposite 

edge.  A small soft-cover book is selected from the book-shelves to serve as a paddle , which he applies repeatedly to the soft flesh of her rear-end, until

her whimpering convinces him of her atonement.  Before she can get her thoughts

together, she is turned, more gently this time, onto her back, the cool surface

of the desk soothing against both old and new welts.  He uses her socks to bind

her ankles to the legs of the desk, leaving her spread wide for his inspection.

Her hands still remain locked at the edge above her head, and she closes her

as she feels his fingers probing gently at her clitoris.  She is unprepared for

the sudden sting of the belt on the inside of her thighs.

	"You will keep your eyes open and you will watch me," he growls, 

pinching the tip of her clit until she gasps out her obedience.  Their eyes,

now locked together, never waver from each other as he lowers his head to kiss

the welt on her thighs.  She makes no sound, but fidgets with the edge of the

desk with her fingers, and tries not to strain against the bindings on her

ankles.  Watching her, he runs the very tip of his tongue over the slightly

swollen strip of flesh on her leg, intrigued by her self-control.  She does

not fight him, but she makes it clear that, at this moment, he does not control

her.  With an almost casual slowness, he touches his tongue to tiny, random

points on her upper thighs and lower abdomen, his eyes twinkling in a smile

his mouth is too preoccupied to provide.  He is rewarded; her breathing catches

in her throat when he finally brings himself to the taut lips of her inner

sanctum; the smell of her instinctive eagerness fills his head as it fills

the room, but he ignores the silent challenge in her eyes and pulls away.

	Caught by her own, beginning frustrations, she sighs, but has no time

for much else as he returns to her, invading her before she is aware of the

fingers thrust deep into her vagina.  Almost angrily, she arches from the desk,

the wind knocked from her lungs by the force of entry, caught back only in sobs

timed to his thrusts before he pulls away completely.

	He smiles to himself.  He has caught her off-guard, and now she is

unsure of herself.  Bringing the chair closer to the desk, he leaves her

feet bound where they are, but pulls her forward, off the top of the desk,

to be bent forward over the chair.  It is an uncomfortable position for her;

her feet are still almost flat to the floor behind her, stretching the muscles

in the backs of her calves and thighs almost unbearably.  Gently, almost

reverently, he touches the fading welts on her buttocks, before releasing a

mighty swing that connects the palm of his hand with her reddened flesh with

a sound that echoes between the four walls of the office.  Another falls, and

another; she loses count of both the barrage and the number of tears which

respond to her pain.  It is perhaps a dozen or so spanks which have fallen, and

in the brief moment of silence which settles afterwards, between the sounds of

her own crying breath, she hears the unmistakable rustle of denim being pushed

down along skin.  She grasps the edges of the chair in preparation, waiting.

	But he is smarter than that; he has seen her tense in anticipation,

and knows that penetration is what she wants.  It is too soon for her to be

satisfied, he thinks as he folds his own pants on top of hers.  With one

strong hand, he supports her as he removes the chair, settling her on the 

floor, feet still tied behind her.  She still regards him coolly through damp

eyes; he may still command, but he does not yet possess.  He grabs her hair

in two handfuls andpresents himself to her, pressing his hardness against

her lips.  She refuses.  He forces her head back with one hand, delivering

a stinging blow with the other.  She whimpers, but refuses again.  He switches

hands and strikes her again.  Swaying on her knees, she raises her face to his

member, for the moment giving up, if not giving in.  Only barely does he wait

for her, thrusting deep into her mouth as soon as he feels the willing

contact, and with both hands, he forces her head into place, feeling her

struggle to breath and swallow, fighting the gag reflexes.  Instinctively her

hands come up his own naked buttocks, but he grabs the wrists in one hand and

stretches them over her head; his other hand return to the insistent grip

behind her head as he begins a fast thrusting motion with his hips.  Her

throat is tight, wet and warm, and he feels her tongue running over his swollen

dick as he plunges into her mouth.  He begins to rock on his heels with each

push, disregarding the occasional contact with her teeth as she struggles to

match his motions.  He feels his own tension beginning to peak, and starts to

ram hard into her mouth, knowing that she is being thrown off balance, but

not concern for her comfort as he feels his crotum constrict in the inevitable

climax.  His own laboured breathing explodes in an almost agonized groan as

her throat swallows around him, accepting as much as she can without setting

off gagging reflexes.  He releases her, pulling out of her mouth as he reaches

for his pants.  Unbidden, she wipes her mouth, risking a moment to settle

back on her heels to rest the muscles of her legs.  There is no reprimand

for this behaviour; rather, he seats himself on the edge of the desk behind

her and reaches out to stroke her hair.  His bare leg brushes lightly against

her bare shoulder, and she shivers at the tingling sensation that trails

along behind it.  There is a delicious feeling to the goosebumps that swell

on patches of already red and welting skin, and she sighs, concentrating on the

pleasure.  This reaction does not go unnoticed by him, and with a single tug

he releases each of the bindings in turn.  With gentle but unyielding hands,

he positions her on the floor, on her stomach, spread-eagled.  There is

nothing to hold her in this position except his will and her whim, but she

accepts his fether-touch without question as he strokes her skin, toying

periodically with the sensitive areas left in the wake of her whipping for

the sake of seeing her squirm in pleasure or agony.  Sometimes he uses the

tips of his fingers, sometimes the smooth surface of his palm, but always he

has the contact with her, touching her feet or arms, legs,back or neck.  He

discovers the sensitive spots along her spine or sides, and the charming 

rippling effect he can evoke with light touches across the base of her neck.

Her head is turned to one side that she may breathe, and he criss-crosses

the exposed side of her face with the touches, until she turns slightly to

kiss his fingertips.  

	Slowly, he brings from behind him his belt, but this time, it is not

meant as a weapon.  Instead, he reaches out, and gently draws both of her

arms together abover her head, binding the wrists with the supple leather.  He

does not speak as he pulls her to her feet and leads her to a space on the

wall between the door and the bookshelves, hooking her bound hands over one

of the shelf struts, and firmly separating her feet.  They lock eyes again as

he runs his hands, somewhat more insistently this time, over her body, cupping

her breasts and bring the nipple of each in turn to his warm mouth.  She

moans slightly as his teeth nip them to an enticing hardness over which his

tongue dancing.  Distracted, he slowly progresses the attentions of his

mouth towards her neck and ears, as his hands independently move to her hips,

squeezing them in a slow rythm that soon encompasses the kneading of her

buttocks as he pulls her unprotesting body against his willing own.  She feels

him waiting for her; she is aware of how desperately she wants her own 

release, but resigns herself to patience, knowing he will do as he wishes when

he is ready.  Her own excitement has been steadily climbing, and this

new, gentler interaction is almost enough to send her crying into her own


	His lips meet her own, and this time, he does not refuse her active

participation, accepting her tongue's contact with his own.  Strong hands

lift her hips slightly, forcing her up on her toes, and she feels him slip

his dick between the outer lips of her vagina.  He lifts her again, and with

incredibly slow precision, settles her down over top of his erection, only

allowing her tiny fractions of penetration at a time.  She quirms against

him, but his legs are bent just enough, his body is just far enough below

her own to frustrate her.  With just the head of his member, he strokes

the entrance to her vagina in slow strokes, listening to the sound of her

breathing as she strains to catch him.  Her head rolls forward as she struggles

but there is no punishment this time.  Crushing her mouth, he feels her body

tense for his next stroke, and, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, and the

other around her waist, he breaks the tension with one thrust all the way

into her, smiling as the sound of her cry of victory washes over them both.

With his second slow, powerful thrust, she brings her legs up to wrap around

his waist, supporting all of her weight from the binding on her wrists as she

throws her head back against the wall.  Even his breath is rasping as he

buries himself in her, forehead pressing against her neck, licking the sweat

from her body.  The pressure has almost reached its zenith; she is grasping

at each of his thrusts with the muscles of her vagina, holding each throb just

a little bit tighter, each breath just a little bit more like that final

groan of release.  She is almost pleading now, almost crying, almost 

screaming.  His fingers are almost clawing at her back, digging almost

painfully into already tender skin.  The motion has become animalistic, tribal,

baser than any other known to man, a rhythmic pumping that has no other

meaning.  Her legs tighten on his waist, and the convulsion forces them both

over the edge.  She slams her body back against the wall, pulling him and his

final thrust with her, driving it deep into her as he releases his own

orgasm with a cry and a violent shuddering, his arms clinging tightly to her

slick body as he churns the last few thrusts, emptying himself.  At last,

there is only silence.  Both of them catch their breaths; heart rates slip

into more familiar rythms, and he finally pulls away from her, lowering her

legs gently to the floor.  Her head is still back against the wall, but now

she opens unfocused eyes to watch as he gets dressed.  He has everything he 

came with ready to go before he unhooks her hands from the shelf and undoes 

the belt.

	"Be in the lounge at the same time tomorrow," is all he says as he 

leaves, shutting the door softly behind him as he goes.


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