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 inevitable. 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 stairs. 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 knees. "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 --