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Unraveling The Threads Of An Ordinary Life
by Amanda Earl © 2004

"I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger as reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I cannot transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls."   —July 7, 1934 from Incest by Anais Nin

After class that first day, the day it all began, he'd called her over to his desk and asked her to walk with him to his car while they continued the talk about Anais Nin's writing. Actually he didn't really ask, he told her. And she obeyed. She admired him so much as a professor. He was erudite, intelligent and very attractive with his black hair, tinged with silver, tailored suits, and black leather shoes.

His car was a Jaguar XK with a robust V8 engine. He asked her to join him for a drink so they could discuss Nin further and she found herself agreeing. It wasn't forbidden to associate with faculty, just frowned upon.

In the car, she felt like the professor was inspecting her as his eyes lingered over her tight black skirt and thin braless blouse. Yes, perhaps it was a bit over the top, but heck, one of the reasons she was taking university classes was to meet men. She hadn't thought about professors as possible candidates for bedding, but he certainly turned her on.

"You like to dress like a slut, don't you, Clare?"

This surprised her. She blushed and slouched down on the buttery black leather seat.

"Hey, if you don't like my outfit, or my company, why don't we just forget about the drink?" This wasn't anyway to talk to a professor, but he'd called her a slut.

"I didn't say that I didn't like your clothing, Clare. To the contrary, I find it very alluring. Do you think being a slut is something to be ashamed of?"

Clare sat up a little taller in her seat.

"That's it girl, show me those long legs."

Clare found herself complying, strangely proud of her body. She used to hide it behind layers of clothes, but she'd lost weight, rather a lot of weight. The curves remained, but now she was much fitter and trimmer, and she loved to show it off. And her professor was right, she did wear those clothes to be a slut, to find a man, men to fuck. She smiled up at him, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

"You know, you're right. Why deny it? I am a slut."

"That's a good girl. And what are sluts good for, Clare?"

Clare's cunt got wet as she listened to David, his voice sliding lower, the car mesmerizing her with its sensual rocking motion and the gentle purr of the engine.

"Being used, sir?"

"That's right Clare. You are such a quick learner." David stopped the car in front of a hotel surrounded by rolling hills and farms. Clare looked around. She hadn't been paying attention to the drive at all from Concordia University in Montreal. They were now up in the Eastern Townships, a beautiful area of Quebec. She was rather surprised. This man was very presumptuous, and yet, she was also curious and turned on by his presumption.

"Now that we both know you are a slut, girl. Let's enjoy it shall we?" He grabbed Clare's arm and walked her into the hotel.

"Saint-John, checking in." he said to the front desk clerk.

"You've got the usual room, Professor Saint-John. Here's your key."

He just marched Clare into the elevator, and she said nothing. Her cunt was moist, her breasts tingled and she felt so sexy and powerful, being able to get a man to want her like this, to command her. In the elevator, David unzipped his pants.

"What does a slut do, girl? Show me."

Clare looked at the massive cock, poking its head out of the open fly of the professor's pants, and she knew. She knew exactly what a slut does. She got down on her knees and took it in her hand, held it reverently and then said "she worships it, sir."

"Yessssss" said David as she lavished adulation over his cock with her tongue, then took the head into her mouth and sucked it down, feeling the hardness thicken, filling her. He continued to stroke for a while inside the willing wetness of her mouth.

"Up now, girl. I have so much more to teach you," he said as the elevator slowed down. Clare rose and he allowed his erection to subside a bit before zipping up his pants. The doors opened to an empty hallway.

"One day you will crawl down this hallway for me, girl, and you won't care who sees."

Clare tried to visualize his words. Her body responded, nipples turning upward toward his hands, legs spread for his touch, her cunt moist and ready. But the idea seemed hard to imagine intellectually, and yet...

"Are you willing to come into this hotel room with me? Are you ready to let yourself go? To surrender control to me? Because once we enter this room, I will expect you to do so. If you don't I will be a stern master. I will punish you for it."

Clare's lower lip trembled as they paused outside the door. "Uh...I'm not sure sir. I'm uh well I'm nervous about it. I don't know what you expect. I don't know if I can comply." A tear rolled down her eye. "I don't think I'm ready."

"One day you will be my little slut. One day you'll beg for me to strap you down onto a bed, to cover your ass and back with long red lashes. I know this. But for now, you've shown honesty and courage, and even a bit of trust towards me. That's enough. Let's go have that drink."

"What?" Her whole body shuddered and she expelled the breath she'd been holding on to. "You mean you aren't going to...uh, we aren't going"

"What I have to teach you is so much more than sex. Now come along."

Clare was quiet as they rode down the elevator. He did not force her to do anything else. The silence should have been awkward, but it wasn't. Her curiosity and arousal alleviated the awkwardness.

That night David chatted with her about literature, asked about her taste in music, wine, art, and travel, but the subject of power did not come up again. Clare found herself enjoying the evening very much and relaxing. Professor David Saint-John was a master at everything, including charming conversation.

He escorted her back to her apartment, a hole in the wall near the University of Montreal that she liked to think of as Bohemian. She used to live in her own house, but now that she was a full-time student again, she'd needed the cash, so she'd downscaled. It was very late, but she invited him in.

"Not this time, Clare." He took her hand lightly in his and looked in to her eyes. "You have slender wrists, Clare. Imagine them bound with cuffs and chains, my slut. See you Monday. Have a stimulating weekend."

Clare spent a restless night, tossing and turning and using her vibrator. The image of kneeling below him as he stroked her head, the memory of the taste of his precum, and the word "slut" culminated in a massive orgasm. She had never really thought about sex in terms of control and surrender. Mostly it served to relieve a temporary itch, and she always hoped that it would provide intimacy, but none of her relationships with men had done that so far. There was always something missing. Perhaps this was it.

Her workload at the university was heavy, so she spent the weekend working on papers, researching in the library and reading. She stayed up late with her collection of Nin books, reading until the early hours of the morning.

On Monday morning, she lingered over her toilette, shaving her pussy, legs and arm pits smooth and dabbing jasmine on her erogenous zones: the valley of her neck, behind her knees, around her areolas. She gazed at her face in the mirror. Was she pretty enough? Was she young enough to hold a man like David's attention? She had lived such an ordinary life; what could he possibly see in her? She realized that she'd been in hibernation all her life. Maybe she didn't want to sleep anymore.

She couldn't concentrate in any of her classes that day. David's class started at three pm; it was her final class of the day. She wondered if he would like her dress. She'd chosen her most sophisticated black dress with abalone buttons all the way down the front, almost to the floor. But she'd left the buttons undone from mid-thigh down, hoping to give him a flash of her long legs. She imagined undressing for him, unbuttoning the buttons with clumsy fingers as she trembled with excitement. Would he punish her if she took too long or had trouble undoing the buttons? Maybe he'd lash her with a whip, unraveling the black threads of her ordinary life.

She sat through the entire class, not saying anything, not raising her hand. His voice crackled against her skin like fire. She watched his hands poised on his thighs as he sat on the desk and remembered how they held her head. His suit pants were the same ones he'd worn on Friday, the ones she'd knelt before and unzipped. She thought of crawling over to the desk on her hands and knees and opening her mouth to suck his cock, to take his come down her throat.

"Clare!" she heard suddenly. The sternness of his voice brought her out of her reverie. "Please see me after class." The other students tittered.

She trembled nervously, fidgeting with her papers and pen while she waited for the slow tick of the clock to turn over to five pm. At the end of class, an attractive well-endowed blonde lingered by the professor's desk. Clare felt that David was stretching the conversation with the young student just to torment his willing slut. Finally the blonde left and they were alone.

"Close the door. Quickly." Claire drew a sharp breath and rushed to close the door, her long black dress rustling against her naked legs.

"My slut has been daydreaming today. What about?"

Clare blushed and hesitated and then answered truthfully. "About Friday sir, and everything we talked about."

"Is that it?"

"Uh, no. I also thought of undressing for you. Undoing my buttons at your command."

"Good girl, you have such a natural instinct to obey, don't you?"

"I don't know, but I thought about what would happen if I took too long. Would you punish me?"

Clare took shallow breaths as the professor moved gracefully toward her, like a leopard to his prey. "Do you think you deserve punishment, my little slut?"

"Yes, I do, sir."

"What for?"

"For not paying attention to you, sir."

"That's right, smart girl. Now come here and bend over my desk."

Clare wobbled on unsteady legs to his desk and pressed herself over the solid wood desk.

"I don't need you to unbutton your slut dress, girl." He yanked it up above her breasts and the buttons went flying off, abalone shining in the light from the blinds, which were closed against the late afternoon sunshine.

Clare cried out. "I'll make you crawl for those buttons later, girl. And you'd better find every single one."

He placed his hand on her finely shaped ass cheeks and caressed the soft curves of her naked bottom. "So soft and unmarked, girl. I think it's time you were spanked."

Clare felt a draft of air move over her body as he lifted his hand and slapped it hard against her ass. She drew a sharp breath and let out a tiny squeal.

"Do you deserve to be punished, slut?"

"Yes sir."

"Then stop your squirming and take your punishment." With that he began to cover her ass with sharp stinging slaps, alternating with circular caresses. Clare held herself still and quiet from then on, but couldn't help the juices from overflowing her aroused cunt and trickling down her leg. She felt his fingers trace the come along the inside of her thighs.

"Well, girl, you are wet. I'm going to enjoy taking you. Making you mine." His hand resumed spanking her ass. "Next time, I'm going to cane you, like the bad little school girl you are."

Clare moaned as the thought of being punished like a naughty schoolgirl aroused her body and her mind. She felt his fingers enter her sopping sex.

"You are wet, girl. What kind of a slut gets aroused by a spanking?" He plunged his fingers in and out of her, but she forced herself not to move. It was difficult, but she did it, biting down hard on her lip to keep from screaming. Her ass was hot and sore from the strong hand, which had smacked, cupped and then caressed her flaming buttocks. She'd never had a spanking before. And she wanted it. Wanted him to keep going. But he stopped. Removed his fingers from her cunt.

"Get up, girl. Are you ready to crawl for those buttons?"

"Yes sir," Clare said breathlessly.

"Get on the floor, on your hands and knees, my slut. Pick up every one with your mouth and deposit them at my feet."

Clare lowered herself to the floor, her open dress causing her to feel cold tile against her nipples and cunt. She raised herself onto her hands and knees and crawled along.

"Spread your legs open when you crawl. I want to see those cunt lips, slut."

She spread her legs and awkwardly crawled to the first button, trying hard to retrieve it with her tongue, which was parched and dry from her deep breaths of desire and frustration.

"Bend lower, girl. Use those teeth." The button was large and flat, and eventually she managed to secure it with her teeth and keep it between her lips as she crawled back to the professor's feet.

"Now drop it, girl." She allowed the button to drop and it bounced, landing quite far away from the professor's black leather shoes. "No, slut, that's too far. Go back for it and put it at my feet."

Clare moaned in frustration but would not give up. She retrieved the button, the floor beginning to wear on her knees and hands. Her body was sore at the end, but she managed to find all of the buttons and place them at his feet.

The professor brought out a plastic bag.

"Now open the bag, girl."

She sat at his feet, looking up at him wearily. What was he going to make her do now?

She snapped open the bag and pulled out a beautiful silk dress, gasping at its beauty.

"I'll take your black dress and get the buttons sewn on by another one of my slaves. This is your reward for being so obedient and truthful girl. Now put yourself together so we can show you off. Dinner is at 7:00 pm. I expect you to be ready."

"Thank you, sir." The dress fit perfectly, and Clare went in to the women's washroom to fix her makeup and calm herself.

Once again that night the two spent a pleasurable dinner and afterward, David drove her home, but once again did not enter her apartment.

He did not contact her the rest of the week, and by Friday, she was feeling insecure and angry. Maybe she deserved an ordinary life. In an ordinary life, men kissed her but she never felt intimate with them like she did with David. Men came into her apartment and fucked her, but David never did. They'd never even had sex. She was confused and frustrated.

In Friday's class she made sure to pay attention. After class, he didn't call her over and she marched past him. She was walking quickly through the parking lot when suddenly she heard his voice, not loud just strong: "Clare, stop."

She did not stop at first. The parking lot was empty. She didn't know what to do. She wanted what he did to her, but she wanted more, and he wouldn't give it to her. She knew that if she ignored him, their relationship, or whatever it was, would be over. She would be back to occasional sex with unmemorable men. Back to her ordinary life.

She stopped. He got into his car and drove over to her. "Get in."

She entered the car and fastened her seat belt. Not sure what to say. He just drove on until they reached a hotel in downtown Montreal. "It's up to you, Clare. We can go into the hotel where I have a room for the night. You can let me control your body. You can let me into your mind. Allow me to unleash your deepest fantasies. I can tie you down and whip you, or you can leave now."

Clare thought of the spanking and how good it felt. She thought of how freeing it felt when he held her head as his penis took her mouth. She wanted him to take her again. She needed more than an ordinary life.

"Yes, sir. Please take me."

The two rode up the elevator and she assumed her position at his feet.

© 2004 Amanda Earl.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Amanda Earl is a 40-something truth teller who lives juicy with her husband, Charles, in an aerie in Ottawa, Canada where she writes. She is the copy editor of Moist. She is the managing editor of and the Bywords Quarterly Journal, a site and journal for Ottawa poetry.

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