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o The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o I don't believe in categorizing things. "I don't want to o
o be typed therefore I don't type things myself." I think it's o
o a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises o
o that you might not have even thought of looking for. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Baton Rouge (MF)
by Mr. Sparycan <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>
Disclaimer: Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough
to be reading this. If you don't like femdom stories, this isn't for you.
This item is of fictional nature. All persons and places in it are
imaginary and no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended.
Responsible note: don't try this at home, maybe? Then again...Ah, go on!
It'll do you good! Caution: the anti-glare coating on monitors may be
damaged by splatters. Check directly with the manufacturer. No illicit
behavior is endorsed or condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the idea.
"Puritanism: the sneaking suspicion that someone, somewhere is
having a good time."
'Ironic Eroticist' or 'Filthy Fucker'? You decide.
*Copyright* is claimed, 1997 by Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes, and for
the author, Mr.Spraycan, who chooses to be 'anon'. For entertainment
purposes only. No commercial use is warranted without permission. Repost
only with this notice intact.
It wasn't all plain sailing walking to the lobby at the Paddleboro Hilton.
I almost bumped into a middle-aged businessman -- actually, probably not
much older than me -- backing out of his room, dragging a suitcase. A big
'hello' smile at my little girl outfit, and then a kind of crumpling of the
face as he saw he was looking at a rather plain woman. I bet the other
possibility, that it might be a guy, didn't dawn on him for an hour or two
. . .
There were also at least two cleaning carts to be squeezed by. The
room service maids there gave me that dead-eyed stare and ritual 'hello'
you get from service industry people who daren't respond with what they're
really thinking. Each encounter had been less "hello, little girl" than
"hello, little . . . yeuck, what the hell is this?" And I'd thought it
looked quite convincing, with the make-up. Oh well.
The real nightmare was finding the lobby area busy. Swarming might
be a better word. Groups of yapping old women with walkers, little old
white-haired men in cartoon color clothing. I kept circulating. The tacky
gift shop, the USA Today machine, postcard rack, ladies' room (well, where
else could I go, dressed like this?), past the coffee shop, back again. Ten
minutes by my little pink pussycat watch, and I was beginning to
hyperventilate. Empty vessels sure do make a lot of noise. I didn't want to
get into a conversation with any of these wrinklies.
Then, almost together, a tour bus pulled up and attracted the
senior citizen gang, and a small van marked "Littlemont Academy" pulled up
right behind it. Seems like I was the only passenger for the latter. The
driver, a huge black guy in a grey uniform, stepped out and looked around
with the relaxed (or is it stunned?) self confidence of ex-footballers.
With him was a large woman in one of those pastel colored suits that seem
like semi-uniforms no matter who wears them. This one was a sort of feeble
pink color, going on crayola orange, and also seemed about a size too small
for her. She had bulges in all the right places, and quite a few in the
wrong ones too. She was in her late thirties, I guessed. The ex-cop, loony
ward nurse type, with a tight lipped 'no nonsense' expression.
I swept through the swing doors, trying to remember to do the girl
thing, and not stride over in guy-like "Dr.Livingstone, I presume?" mode.
The duo saw me, made wry smiles, and beckoned me to join them.
"Hello . . . Little girl," the black guy said loudly, making
several of the oldsters turn their heads.
The woman consulted her clipboard and said, quite clearly, "Alice?
All ready to check in, dear? You finished up everything with the hotel?"
She looked at her board again. "We're expecting one more new pupil
. . . ah, here she is."
Detaching herself from a chattering pair of veterans, a small woman
of Middle Eastern appearance, in her twenties, wearing a plain grey flannel
dress -- yes, I really was envious -- and a light blue cardigan. This must
be a senior girl, someone coming back after her basic training. She kept
her dark eyes downcast as she arrived. She was rather plain, but pretty
enough. Her long black hair and olive skin were good features, a faint
mustache and quite prominent eyebrows were not. "Fatima, nice to see you
again," the woman said with a phony-sounding friendly tone in her voice.
"Into the van, please, girls," the woman instructed. Politely, I
let Fatima go first, and got my first inkling of their methods when she was
grabbed by the arm as she was halfway into the van. The black guy held her
effortlessly, while the nurse lifted the hem of Fatima's skirt high, and
peered under it. She, I, and anyone else in the area could see the woman's
bare ass, and her pubic bush.
"Good, you remembered this time," Ms.Nasty said with a slightly
disappointed tone. "Okay, take a seat. Now you, Alice."
I climbed up on to the step, and found my arm being powerfully
gripped by the football player. Ms.Nasty lifted my skirt.
I hadn't been able to decide if I was supposed to be wearing
panties, or not. The instructions were quite ambiguous, I'm sure on purpose.
"Aha!" the nurse crowed. "Regulation panties, yes. That's good. But
don't you read? New girls aren't supposed to have them on . . ."
"But . . ."
"Well, aren't you a girl? And you're new, aren't you?" she snarled.
"Yes, ma'am, but . . ."
Fatima was looking at me sorrowfully. The other two were very
pleased with themselves, obviously happy to see me caught out.
"Take them down, Clarence," she told the driver.
His huge hand grabbed my panties and pulled them to my ankles, then
off. My cock was erect, and on show not only to these two, but to the
wide-eyed Fatima, several goggling geriatrics looking out the coach
windows, and for all I knew, anyone still hanging around in the hotel lobby.
"Oh! You dirty thing!" she shrilled. "How dare you! Girls are _not_
supposed to arrive in a state of sexual excitement, either," Ms.Nasty
pouted. She had her clipboard and pen ready, and was writing furiously.
"Alright, Alice . . . that's five punishment units for the panty
offense. And, let me see, fifteen for this filthy display. In public too!
Really! I'm shocked! Now, get in the van at once . . ."
She stepped in behind me. There wasn't much room for maneuvering.
Fatima was seated in the first row of seats, behind the driver, and I was
put in the second row. Ms.Nasty started to make arrangements. "It's quite a
short drive, but I've got to make you both comfortable, and secure . . . "
For Fatima, that meant placing her ankles in heavy steel shackles bolted to
the floor under her seat, then pulling her hands behind her and attaching
them to the rear of the seat. The ballplayer had climbed in, and leaned
over the back of his seat, raising her skirt to waist level and pinning it
in place with clothespins from the ashtray nearby. He unbuttoned her
cardigan, then the buttons at the front of her dress, down to the waist.
Last of all, he pulled the dress open, half off her shoulders. She wore no
bra, and her small breasts were completely bare. This was obviously a treat
that the guy looked forward to, the major perk of the job.
Ms.Nasty did the same with me, shackling my ankles, cuffing my
wrists and lifting my skirt to bare my cock. About this time, one of the
hotel porters appeared with a little trolley, with several bags, including
my own. They were tossed in the back. The porter stared, then shook his
head as though he'd seen it all before. Ms.Nasty had looked through her
shoulder bag, and pinned a badge to my blouse. A small round red enamel one
with figures in white: '20'
Satisfied that we were both exposed and secured, they set off. A
short drive is whatever you think it is, I suppose. First we went for a
long tour of the Paddleboro area, through downtown and out to the west. I
looked around nervously, wondering if anyone could see in the van. But none
of the others seemed the least bit bothered. I realized that they either
knew we were invisible, or they didn't give a damn. I had to take the same
attitude.
After a while, the van turned off onto a side road. At first,
expensive looking houses set back from the road. Then, driveways leading
nowhere. Just before this road narrowed down to a track, a turn off through
electrically controlled gates with a little security post. The van paused
there for a moment, while IDs were flashed. The gates closed behind us, and
we drove round a long winding single lane road, before emerging through
some trees into the huge open area in front of the house I'd seen in the
brochure. We pulled to a stop.
"This is Alice's stop. We're taking Fatima straight to her morning
class, she's a day late. . ." the ballplayer announced. The woman gave a
sudden sob, her first show of emotion. "Yes, she's going straight over
teacher's knee for that, too."
My ankle shackles were unlocked, and my hands freed. "Make yourself
decent," the nurse told me. "And then, move it . . ."
I stepped out. My bag was dumped beside me, and the van drove off
with a roar. There on the steps of the school waited the #1 woman here,
Danielle Manet. I recognized her immediately from the brochure photo. Tall,
slim, fortyish, well-preserved, patrician, with grey-highlighted blonde
hair. Dressed in a plain grey woolen dress accented with gold jewelry,
pearls. She looked at me with withering disdain: obviously, a man in
schoolgirl clothes was beneath her contempt.
At her side, a second woman. Small, with short dark hair, in a dark
blue velvet dress with small spherical brass buttons up the front. In her
late twenties, and extremely pretty. Her eyes were bright with unconcealed
excitement. She spoke first.
"Alice? I'm Amanda Smythe-Hawthorne. We exchanged some E-mail. And
this," she gestured, "Is Madame Manet."
I knew better than to leap forward and give them a guy's "hi
there!" handshake. But what to do? Hesitantly, I grasped the hem of my
skirt, and curtsied daintily. "Madame Manet? Ms. Smythe-Hawthorne? Thank
you for inviting me. It's an honor . . ."
The older woman chuckled, then said in a lightly French-accented
voice: "Very good. You are not completely inept, like some *men* who are
sent here." She said the word 'men' in the same way a preacher would say
'Satan,' or you might say 'dogshit' after having just stepped barefoot in
some.
The younger one grinned, then concurred: "His owner says he is,
well, quite sensible. And that he does understand his role as a
subservient creature . . ."
Danielle was looking at me with a calculating expression. "Well, we
get plenty of young women sent here by their middle-aged lovers, who want
them whipped into shape, don't we? The brutes. But it's much less common to
have a guy of his age, sent by a young woman. Hmm. That's intriguing, eh?
She wants him treated quite meanly, didn't you say, Amanda?"
The younger woman was smiling happily. "Oh, yes. Very meanly. I
think I may have to take a hand in supervising it myself, having spoken
with her several times . . ."
"So, what did the inspector think, then?" Madame Manet asked,
looking closely at my lapel button. "Oh! My word! Incroyable! C'est vrai,
ca? Vingt? Tu vois?"
She was shaking her head in astonishment. Amanda had her hand over
her mouth in amazement, trying not to laugh aloud. What was the big deal
about this '20' button? I wasn't going to find out yet, it seemed. But
apparently, it must mean more than, say, twenty taps on the backside. That,
at least, I'd figured out.
"This way," Amanda said, prodding me with a stiff finger. I was
feeling much less confident now. She was grinning happily, pleased at my
submissive attitude. I had every reason to be submissive, that was for
sure. Right there on the steps, she'd had me crouch down and open my zipper
suitcase. Then she'd had me strip off my clothes, and put them away tidily.
"Everything off, except for those cute little shoes and socks, and your
ditsy hair ribbons," she'd commanded. I was dizzy with fear and excitement
as I carefully folded up my little girl clothes, then stood, showing my
stiff prick to both the women.
Madame Manet frowned her disapproval. "Oh, she was right. He does
need a thrashing. No manners at all."
Amanda had agreed. "And he'll get one." She'd pulled out a pair of
cheap plastic handcuffs. "We'd better put these on you," she'd said with a
frown. "As a 'confirmed wanker,' Alice, you'll have to wear handcuffs at
all times. Hands behind you, now." She clicked them on, and gently patted
my ass.
She'd led me away, up the stairs into the dark school entrance.
Down long panelled corridors, smelling of all those horrid 'school' smells
of disinfectant, chalk, sweaty socks and cabbage. I was beet red with
shame. It was busy indoors. Young women, other guys dressed as girls (at
least they were dressed!), magisterial older women, all greeting Amanda
with deference or familiarity as she swept along, towing me by the arm.
Smirking, laughing aloud, scowling at my shameful nudity.
We reached her office. A secretary, no older than in her teens,
stared openmouthed as I was led right by her desk, my bowsprit only inches
from her. Amanda told her: "No calls," shoved me ahead, and pushed the door
half-closed behind us. Amanda pointed to a leatherette guest chair. "Sit
down."
Now I found out what was in the Littlemont Academy's 'rulebook,' as
she leafed through one for me to peruse. All bad news, I realized. Nothing
but restrictions and prohibitions, a thicket of traps for the unwary. And
staring at the first section of the volume laid out on her desk before me,
I uncovered the horrible answer to the question that had been echoing round
my mind for the past half-hour.
"I expect you've been wondering, just what is a 'punishment unit'?
Yes?" Amanda said mockingly, enjoying my predicament. "Oh, you poor dear.
Well, let's explain, shall we?"
It transpired, she pointed out with a slowly moving finger, that
one punishment unit equated to a complete day of nudity, and either 250
strokes with a Grade 1 instrument (meaning, one that would draw blood if
used hard enough), or 500 with a Grade 2 (one capable of merely bruising or
welting), both on the bare skin. So, by the mere act of wearing panties and
betraying my excitement with an erection, I'd earned myself 5,000 vicious
strokes (or maybe even 10,000) before the Academy gates had even opened for
me. I must have looked panic-stricken. She came and sat on the arm of the
chair, and gave me a hug, then whispered: "Don't be such a baby. You
desperately want to be thrashed, and you're going to be. Long and hard.
Don't pretend I don't excite you, either. Think you can hide it, you dirty
beast? With that big smelly thing sticking up like a tree trunk? Really!"
Her fingers were trailing over me, checking how well I had shaved and
waxed. My legs, my underarms, my chest. "Nice and smooth, Alice darling. So
like a girl, hmm?"
And the worst thing was, she was right. I was truly in love with
Kim, but this brisk, tiny woman had me in a mood of rampant excitement. I
could sense that she was aroused by the prospect of mistreating me. And I
was acutely aware that I wanted her to be merciless and uninhibited in
doing so. I murmured: "Please, my lady . . "
"Please, yes, or please, no?" she giggled breathily.
"Yes, yes," I gasped.
She gently bit my earlobe, and I heard her faintly whisper: "Accepted."
She stepped away, and looked out of the window for a moment,
collecting herself. Then I also learned from Amanda that thrashing wasn't
all I could expect. "After today, for the next two weeks, you will be lucky
to wear anything at all, or be able to do anything to stop us." She looked
at me with a big-eyed stare and said: "I can promise you a perpetual round
of punishment, sexual humiliation and teasing, just like your owner
wanted." So that was why a large wardrobe hadn't been required. Just enough
to show up in, looking foolish. Clothes would be provided only to remove,
to amuse someone.
She stared at me with a barely controlled hunger, and licked her
lips. "I'm going to take a personal interest in you, Alice. And do you know
why? Because your owner is quite a good friend of my sister's, and she's
asked me to. She's told me lots about you, how filthy-minded you are, how
obedient, how much you like to be hurt . . ." A little shiver of pleasure
from her. I felt cold sweat trickling down my back.
"So you're going to be my little project, darling. I'm very
interested in seeing how dirty a guy's mind can be! Although I have a good
idea, already. I'm looking forward to seeing how you react to being
assfucked, that's for sure. You do like that, don't you?" I nodded. "And
I've heard some stories about you getting your prick caned. Are they true?"
I nodded again, very nervously. "Oh, that's weird. But, I've got a few
ideas about how to do it right!"
"And I'm really looking forward to experiencing your tongue, Alice.
You're a real cuntslurper, I understand. But do you really lick assholes?
Drink piss? Ha ha ha! Yes, I didn't believe it, but now I'm getting
convinced you do, from that look in your eyes. Oh, what fun this is going
to be!!"
She nodded. "On your knees, Alice. I need a few signatures on
things, and then we can get to work on you."
I knelt in front of her desk, and she arranged a selection of
papers there. Then, unlocking my handcuffs, she gave me a pen and said:
"Sign them all. Don't bother reading them. It's a mere formality." And so,
I did.
Then the handcuffs went on again, despite a rather dumb pleading
look from me. This time, heavy chromed steel cuffs from her desk drawer. "I
have to," she explained. "Don't pretend that you are not a compulsive
masturbator, Alice. It's very well documented indeed. Isn't it?" I nodded.
"So, I'm going to make it impossible for you to wank, until such time as I
want to see you do it, understand?"
Another nervous nod of agreement. Kim was very partial to teasing
me like this too.
"It's always very nice to build up the frustration, get a guy
brimming with spunk, so he is completely reckless, totally fearless,
willing to do anything if only he's allowed to squirt. That's when you get
the best out of a guy in terms of licking, sucking and everything else.
That's what I think, anyway . . ."
She'd walked round the desk, and tidied up the papers, dropping
them into her out tray. She stood by me, looking down with bright eyes on
my nudity. I bent forward, and kissed her shoes.
"Ah. Good," she purred. I licked them, submissively. She kicked one
off. With a sob I started to suck her toes through her stocking, which was
very foot-flavored. The other shoe came off. I sucked. Something fell,
brushing my face. Her panties, black lace, and reeking of her pussy. Oh,
did she want . . .? She bent down, grabbed my hair with one hand, and
hauled me up. Her other hand had lifted the front of her blue velvet dress'
loose skirt, and she had parked her backside on the edge of the desk.
"Eat it, Alice," she growled. "Then I'll reward you, you filthy
bastard. . ."
I didn't need to be told twice. Her black pubes had been carefully
trimmed quite recently, leaving the hairs on her pussy lips only a
half-inch or so long, and stubbly and clean-shaven round her clitoris, with
her bush neatly shaped for string bikini options. She was extremely wet,
and hungry to be licked. Her hand pressed my face into the junction of her
thighs, and held me there tightly. She didn't waste any time coming, and
kept me at work until she'd had two, maybe three, loud, hipshaking orgasms.
"Okay, dirtbag," she finally said breathlessly, letting her skirt
fall back, and bending low to pull up her panties. There was an audible
liquid squelch as she stepped away. "Let's give your ass some exercise,
shall we?" She pulled me to my feet, and tied the end of a five-foot-long
piece of pink ribbon to my swollen cock. She daintily led me towards the
door by the other end. I longed to wipe my face, which was richly
splattered with her vaginal drippings. I even had some curly black hairs
stuck to my lips and cheeks, one on the end of my nose.
Outside, the teenage secretary still sat. But she seem ruffled,
rumpled, rather sweaty and red-faced. Had she been peeking through the
half-open door, and rubbing her magic lamp, wishing? I thought so. And
waiting with her, Ms.Nasty and Madame Manet. The former looked at me, give
a snort of amusement, gazed down at my heartily tumescent prong and
laughed. "Hello again, little girl. Pleased to see me?"
"Oh! Look at his face ... eeooough!" I heard the teenager comment,
awestruck.
Ms.Nasty curled her lip and tutted: "Pink lipstick, yes. White
lipstick, no."
Madame Manet instructed with a thin smile: "Unless you have any
better ideas, Amanda, I think Alice would benefit from a public spanking in
the lunchroom today. Agree?"
"Definitely. And, soup of the day?" Amanda suggested.
Now they were all smiling knowingly at each other. A private joke.
I closed my eyes and prayed.
Note: To get a recent catalog/manifesto, list of stories . . .
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