The Making of a Mistress
I grew up as a Catholic schoolgirl, so discipline was hardly a novel concept to me. Sister Perpetua was quick to reprimand us for every minor infraction with a swish of her meter stick or chalkboard pointer—maybe we had talked out of turn, or perchance she'd caught one of the boys peering up the girls' skirts with a mirror taped to his shoe. Most of the kids trembled under her perilous gaze, but she was always, shall we say, a little bit more . . . lenient . . . with me. The tiniest disobedience would normally warrant at least twenty licks, but she managed to conveniently overlook the great havoc I constantly wreaked upon the class—the way I would distract my fellow students by sitting with my legs spread wide, unbuttoning my top button to expose just a hint of my budding breasts, staring at the little boys' crotches as they squirmed uncomfortably in their seats. Even in my adolescence, I was aware of my rare power and commanding presence—people thirty years my senior, like Sister Perpetua, knew that I was a force to be reckoned with.
I didn't really learn just how powerful I was, however, until I left my little town and went off to the big city for college. I was very socially active as a freshman and dated lots of people . . . nothing too serious, as I was content just to explore my new environment. By the following year, though, I had settled into a semi-serious relationship with a boy named Craig, who caught my interest initially because he seemed somehow different from the other boys—and kept my interest once I found out exactly how "different" he really was. You see, shortly after we first met, I came home to my apartment one night and found him lying on the floor, wearing my bra and panties . . . He'd crawled in through the window, he admitted amidst damp tears, and rummaged through my drawers. He couldn't control these impulses, he confessed, yet he was terrified to come right out and ask my permission . . . It was only natural, therefore, that I'd ensure he had JUST THAT from that point forward. After discovering his transgression, I made him beg me for every kiss, every stolen glance, every touch, and every bit of satin his little sissy cock needed. In return, he showered me with adulation, gifts, and unending servitude.
Although our liaison lasted but a semester, my bitchy, demanding streak remains—and I'm always looking for some new men to abuse. Step up to the blackboard!