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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


	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


	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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