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Archive-name: Slaves/mindscp3.txt

Archive-author: Arnora Dunestan

Archive-title: Mindscapes 3

She looks at her schedule for the term and smiles to herself.  Her only

class on Tuesdays, and the last of two classes on Thursdays, happens to

be in the Math building, and since she must stay on campus Thursdays for

weekly evening meetings, she realizes just how much time she has to spare

for ... other things.  It has been a long term, four months since she

last saw him.  He had left without saying goodbye, even though she had

spent day after day passing through the C&D lounge, hoping to see him.

Even now there is a nagging voice of disappointment that he won't be

there when she gets there.  Trying to remain undaunted, she packs her

paperwork into her pack and takes another quick glance around her before

taking that final walk to the lounge.

He is not there.

With several hours to go before she must leave for her class upstairs, she

breathes a familiar sigh and drops herself and her pack onto an empty

couch on the far side of the room, away from the doors, wondering once

again how or why he would have left without a word to her.  In a way she

is surprised at the bitterness of that disappointment, knowing full well

that she had once hated him for the bruises and markings left on her

body, and the sense of shame he made her feel, shame not only for her

actions, but for her enjoyment of their games.  Now she would be more than

content just to be kneeling at his side, with little more than a casual

touch from him now and then as an afterthought.  Burying herself in her

book, she sharply drags her mind away from her daydreams and into focus

on her reading.

It is a long cold walk from where he parked his car to the Math building,

but it is so good to be back that he is undaunted, although a coffee is

starting to feel like a splendid idea.  There is another reason, he

knows, for his desire to stop at the third floor.  He wants to see if

she has waited for him, if she has still maintained her old habits and

routes on campus.  He does not allow himself to think that she may have

graduated, or left for a work term, or simply given up waiting.  He has

had plenty of cause to wonder if simply disappearing was as good an

idea as originally he had thought; yet they had started in anonymity, and he

had chosen to finish that way as well, in spite of all the potential

consequences.  Now, however, he is back, and he braces himself for the

impact of seeing her again.

It isn't enough.  He draws up short just outside of the lounge, almost

spilling the hot coffee he's just poured into his insulated mug.  As

if no time had elapsed ever, there she sits, curled into a lounge chair

and buried in a book.  In that split second, he notes the new clothes,

the new coat, the new haircut that frames her face in a softer, more

flattering style.  He is unprepared for the emotional surge, and the

abrupt realization of how much he has missed her.  He almost feels shy,

but the old reflexes are being stirred, as are a few ... other things.

Quickly he puts aside the urge to run to her and hold her and apologize

for leaving her; he is quite certain she would not know how to take that

kind of behaviour from him.  He did teach her better than that.  A smile

spreads over his lips as he wonders just how much of that teaching she

will have retained after four months with no practice.

A seat just behind her becomes available, and he slips himself into it

as surreptitiously as possible, trying to avoid attracting her notice. In

sidelong glances he admires how good she looks in her stirrup pants and

loose, baggy sweater.  His hands remember the feeling of her skin, hot

from a spanking or damp from exertion.  His mind fills in the scents and

sounds of her breathing, the sensation of her fingernails drawing blood

across his back as he rewards her good behaviour.  Soon his own head is

reeling with the strength of his arousal, and he gives in to the


She feels the discomfort long before she mentally pinpoints the source.

Someone is staring at her, which she hates.  Yet as she looks around the

room, none of those who are using the lounge meet her eyes, and she

wonders if someone made it to the seating arrangement behind her without 

her notice.  Trying to be nonchalant, she drops her book beside her and

stretches, attempting to work casually into turning around.  She never

makes it that far, for before she can twist her body around, her

outstretched arms are grasped at the wrists and her hands are bent behind

her head.  Stifling a surprised cry, she whips her head around to look, and

in spite of the hair blocking her vision, she knows who it must be.  His

grip weakens for a moment and she breaks his grip to throw herself into his

not-altogether-unwilling embrace.

He feels her body trembling against him and tightens his arms around her -

briefly.  Then, gently, he disengages himself and puts her at arms' length,

taking in every detail close up.  She is still kneeling on the couch, but

submits willingly to his visual exploration, knowing that there will be more,

much more, to come.  Renewing his grip on her wrists, he asks,

	"Do you have a class?"  She nods.

	"Eleven-thirty till one, upstairs."

	"Here?"  He grins; this is almost too perfect, for his last

class will end at 12:30.  He glances at the lounge's wall clock.  It is

shortly after ten.  Plenty of time for a tease.  His only regret is that,

at this early hour of the day, there are far too many people around to

risk anything in either the stairwells or the elevator.  They must go

to his office - and soon.  Silently he beckons for her to follow him,

leaving her scrambling to pick up not only her own things, but his as well.

The coffee makes for a very delicate balancing act up three flights of


In his office, in the familiar surroundings of what has served better as a

playroom than workspace in the past, she sets down her load; after setting

the coffee on the edge of his desk, she stands, turning to face him and

smiling. The vehemence of the slap which greets her smile sends her to her


	"Ah, how quickly you have forgotten, pretty," he whispers,

straddling her where she has fallen.  "You do not stand in my presence

unless told to, and on top of all this, you are still dressed."  He wraps

his hand in a fistful of hair and pulls her head back to look at him.  "Take

your pants off."  Seating himself on the edge of his desk, he keeps the

grip in her hair.  She sniffles, but makes no move to wipe the surprised

tears from her cheeks.  The sting of the slap fades quickly enough, she 

knows, and the delay will only make him angry.  Conscious of his maintained

contact, she wriggles out of her pants and, without prompting, also

removes her underwear and socks.  When they have been neatly added to her

coat and pack, she assumes the postion he taught her, knees spread wide,

hands laced at the back of her head, and waits patiently for him to tell

her what he wants.

	"Lie stomach down on the desk," is the command which comes down to her.

The surface of the desk is as smooth and cool as she remembers; the edges cut

slightly into her shins, and she wriggles up so that both her head and her feet

hang over the ends of the desk.  He watches her settle herself with

something approaching satisfaction.  All of the old feelings and attitudes

are flowing back into him, back through him, and he watches from inside

himself as the persona of her master takes hold of him again.  It is good to

be back, he thinks.  From the bottom drawer of his desk he removes the old

fleece blindfold and ties it almost reverently over her eyes, pulling it

snuggly down over her nose to block out all light.  From behind the books on 

the recently re-installed shelves, he takes a new toy, one she hasn't

encountered before.  A little over two feet long, the crop has a wicked

little flap of leather at its tip; it is a real riding crop , not a switch

as he has trained her with previously, but one he has actually hunted for,

going out of his way to find country tack shops to investigate.  Such

stores have provided him with a myriad of ideas, many of which he plans to

introduce in the future.  For now, however, it amuses him to watch her

flinch involuntarily to the sound of his testing the crop against the

air.  It is obvious she is not familiar with the sound.

It is a cutting sound, and she braces herself for the cutting pain, feeling

the flesh on her buttocks warm itself in anticipation.  She hates the

switch, hates the arousal it produces in her body, hates the way she always

seems to turn towards the painful contact she knows is coming.  Now, it

would seem he has a similar new toy, and she tries to prepare herself

for the inevitable, wondering if he is aware of her current state of tension.

He has left her hands free, and of her own accord, she brings them behind her

back, locking her hands around her wrists. With her head down over the 

edge of the desk, she finds this creates something like a delicious stress

along her spine.  Then she waits.

He watches.  A few experimental thwacks of the crop on the desk near her

head have upset her concentration a great deal, and it pleases him to

watch her try to move her body away from both the caress of the leather

flap, or the stirring of air as he flashes the crop above her skin.  When the

blow finally falls, it is very obviously not where she had been anticipating.

The sting in her feet jerks her into a fetal position without even thinking.

She reaches down to rub the attacked soles and encounters only his steel

grip, followed immediately by the crack of a blow across the offending

palm.  She squeals and pulls away from him.  With a tight grip, he pulls

her feet back down to the end of the desk, spreading them to the corners

to expose her inner thighs.  He follows the curve of her legs with an

approving eye; she has been working out, he notices.  Supple skin shows

the tightness of the muscles in her legs which were strong before, and

now he wonders what it would be like to feel those newly-defined

muscles clench around him ...

She senses his distraction and lies still, knowing that disturbing his

contemplation would displease him.  There is a sense of moisture

forming between her body and the desk, and her back tenses at the

thought of his touch, or that of the crop .  With a patience she did not

possess those long months ago, she waits, trying to still her own

impatience from the inside, without attracting his wrath.  In time, she

is rewarded, but the origin of the trace along her spine is the crop ,

not his warm fingers.  Travelling with an exacting precision, it follows

the bump of each vertebrae down her back, one slow bone at a time.  When

he brushes past the sensitive muscles in her spine, she tenses, trying

to supress that delightful shudder.  His response is the application

of the crop to the soft spot between her thighs.  Then he starts over.

By the time he reaches the small of her back without disturbance, the welts

are rising on her legs and buttocks, but she does not flinch as he pulls

her back to the edge of the desk, pressing her feet into the floor.  He

leaves her hands to grasp the edge of the desk, then steps away from

her long enough to step out of his own pants.

	"That was much better, pretty," he whispers, "and you deserve

a treat."  With that, he spreads her labia wide and plunges himself

into her.  There is no thought, no deliberation to the action; they have

both waited long enough.  There is a brief hint in his mind of all the

things which he will do to her as he wishes, but he has missed her too

much to relinquish the joy he now takes in her body, her presence, her

wanting to be there.  They synchronize.  They fall into the patterns

and rythms established long ago, not the movement of a master taking

his slave, but of two bodies who have learned the reactions of, and how to

react to, each other.  The muscles of her vagina hold him in an

embrace which will extend into a real one later; she gives him everything

she can, and in return, they give each other release, slow, shuddering

fulfillment.  He collapses against her flushed skin.  She can feel his

sweat through his sweater, and delights in the scent of him filling

her nose.  Lips press softly along her spine, and she waits as he pulls

away; yet rather than dress as she expects him, he peels off his shirt

and sweater, and drops himself into the great chair behind his desk.  

Reaching out, he takes her hand in his larger one, and pulls her into his

lap.  She needs no permission to snuggle her head against his shoulder as

he leans around her to retrieve a towel from a bag near the chair.

	Ever so gently does he dry the streams of perspiration which have

trickled over her body, though, with a wry grin, he does allow her to dry

between her legs herself.  Without a word, she resettles herself against

him, encircled by his arms, his breath in her hair as their bodies climb

down from that exquisite peak.  Slowly does he turn her chin to his face,

pressing his lips almost reverentially against her own.  There is no need

for more now; there will be time enough for play in the future.

	The room grows dark before either one of them thinks to stir; he

is almost certain that she has fallen asleep when he moves to brush the

hair from her eyes.  Soon she will leave, but now he knows he has, in fact,

come home again.  He puts his head back and rests.

Jan 20/92

Arnora Dunestan


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