Campus Captive by John Warren
When he first entered the classroom, I got that little tingle in my pussy that said I wanted him. Maybe it was his walk. It suggested that if a brick wall suddenly materialized in front of him, he would walk on, trailing a cloud of dust, and leaving a man-sized hole behind him. Maybe it was his build: broad shoulders tapering to a nicely shaped pair of buns. Or his attitude: serious and intent but with a dusting of humor hinting that he took the world on his own terms.
However, I waited. A doctoral-level grad student has a very special status in a university. We are much more vulnerable to political ebbs and flows than the happy-go-lucky undergraduates, and an unwise liaison has ended more than one promising career. That didn’t stop me from being more than usually careful with my appearance. Every time I walked into Dr. Warner’s classroom, my long black hair was brushed until it shone, my makeup was perfect, and I chose clothing that suggested rather than emphasizing my figure. I looked up his dissertation in the school library and asked questions in class that showed I was interested in the topic. Several times during the semester, I visited him during his office hours to ask questions about my research.
All my careful preparation bore fruit. When I went to his office to pick up my research paper and learn my final grade, he smiled and asked me if I would like some coffee. I agreed, and we walked over to the student union.
With a bit too casual a tone, he remarked, “I’ve really enjoyed having you in my class this semester. I don’t suppose that I’ll have you in class again.”
I responded, “No, my program is really set in concrete. I’m booked solid for the next two years until I take my comprehensive exam.” Then I smiled. “Actually, I’m both happy and sad about the situation. You’re a fine teacher, but…” I paused and looked at him. “Well, the teacher-student role is so confining, you realize.”
He had stopped and was looking at me. I could almost see the wheels going around in his head. I held my breath. “I’m sure you realize,” he said and a lump caught in my throat, “that you are a very attractive young woman. You are also extremely intelligent.” I stopped breathing. “And intelligent women turn me on.” The lump disappeared, and I could breath again.
We made a date for that evening.
Jack was everything in a lover that I wanted: intense, tender, sure of himself. He was something more, something that I had needed but had never realized that I did.
He began slowly. On our second date, we were making love. As my orgasm approached, I felt him guide my arms above my head and grasp my wrists in one hand. Something about that grip made the orgasm, that had been slowly building, arrive with a rush. As I bucked and hissed through my teeth, I was aware of him looking down at me, smiling. He soon had regained his erection and we were thrashing around in the bed again. This time my arms “got tangled in the covers.” Rather than being upsetting, the feeling of helplessness was intensely erotic.
After the big ceiling fan in the bedroom had dried the passion sweat from our bodies, he gently moved my body over his and hooked one of his ankles over each of my own, pinning my legs to the bed. Then he took my wrists in his right hand and held them firmly together. With his other hand, he reached around me and began caressing my body. I thought I was too tired for another orgasm, but the gentle touch of his fingers began to excite me. It was like he was tracing lines of passion on my skin. His touch was gentle, but there was an insistence there, a control, that I could not deny or control. There was something else. The way he was holding me, I was completely helpless as he started yet another fire in my cunt and spread my legs even further apart.
Men had played with me before, but this was completely different. Now I was helpless. Yet, I burned with even greater intensity. I had always been in control in my affairs. Even while I was writhing in the grip of ecstasy, a small part of my brain had been aloof and calculating, deciding on how to please my lover more or how bring myself to a higher plateau of passion. I had decided when we would stop and when we would begin again. If my lover was reluctant, my tongue and fingers would quickly brush aside any objections.
Now, I was helpless, an instrument for his — and my — pleasure, and his fingers were playing me like those of a musician playing a violin. The excitement was coming both from my wet cunt and my pinioned limbs. For the first time, that calculating part of my mind was silent, gone as if it had never been. I had no coherent thoughts; sheer sensation filled me and I was carried along, thoughtlessly by it. When I built to a climax this time, instead of hissing, I screamed.
I hadn’t thought much about bondage and discipline. The term had conjured up images of rape and sadism, neither of which turned me on much. I enjoyed pleasure not pain. The idea of being humiliated turned my stomach. But as Jack explained, I realized how different it was from my perceptions.
“It’s really fantasy,” he said. “We all have fantasies. This allows us to act them out. To make sure that it remains a fantasy, you’ll have two ‘safe’ words. One will mean that you don’t enjoy what we are doing right then. Say it and I’ll do something different. The other will mean that you want the entire scene to end.”
“Why can’t I just tell you what I want?” I asked.
“Well, you can if you want, but this is a fantasy, and some women get really turned on begging for mercy, swearing, or something like that. This way, you can say anything that comes into your mind, and I’ll ignore it unless you say the safe word.”
Before I left, he gave me a few copies of a bondage magazine with instructions to look over the articles.
The next evening after classes, I settled down in bed to read. It was an education like nothing I had gotten at the university. I kept flipping back to one picture of a naked woman tied spreadeagled on a bed. Something about the way her eyes seemed to meet mine said, “Sister, join me.” As the buzzing in my pussy got stronger, I put aside the magazines, dipped my finger in a jar of Vaseline and got down to some serious masturbation.
Usually I can bring myself off in three or four minutes. That night the orgasm was illusive. It would build and build until suddenly it would dissipate leaving me frustrated and increasingly angry. Then, almost without thinking about it, I hooked my heels on the edges of the bed and grasped the brass bedstead with my free hand. The blissful explosion came within seconds, and I was asleep almost instantly.
That weekend brought my introduction to real bondage. As he stripped my clothes off me, Jack whispered, “I have quite a time planned for you my darling.” He had moved a large chair into his bedroom, and in seconds, I was firmly tied into it. My arms were attached to the back of the chair above my head, and my ankles were tied to the arms. Jack used thick nylon strapping so there was no feeling of chafing, and it didn’t cut off my circulation. My knees were almost against my tits and my cunt was more exposed than it had ever been. I felt a momentary feeling of embarrassment, but it was quickly buried in a wave of passion. I was as turned on as I had ever been, and the session had just begun.
He put a fur-lined blindfold over my eyes, and I felt headphones on my ears. There was the click of a tape recorder, and suddenly, I could hear nothing but the sound of rushing water. I had heard about sensory deprivation, but this was a new approach. The blindfold and the white noise cut off all contact with the outside world. My mind began to float immediately. It was probably only a few seconds, but it seemed like much longer.
Then I felt it. Warm breath caressing the inside of my thigh. Then a tongue. Then it was on my cunt. Jack had eaten me before, but it had never been anything like this. There had always been little distractions. I would wonder if I tasted fresh. I liked to caress the top of his head just to show him how much I appreciated it. Now I was helpless to reciprocate. In that moment, I grasped the essence of bondage. It gave me permission to be selfish. I couldn’t do anything. I had to lay back and wallow in the pleasure. It was wonderful. I couldn’t even hear the hissing of my breath. As his tongue moved knowingly over my cunt lips and his lips pursed lovingly over my clit, my whole body became a cunt. I came and came and came. Every time I began to climb down off my peak, his tongue would find another spot, and I would be off on another explosion.
A while later, I was on his kitchen table, hands tied above my head and legs tied apart. He put a small pillow under my head, gently kissed my lips, and left the room. When he returned, he was carrying a pair of scissors, a razor and a can of shaving cream. I had briefly wondered about the shaving cream when I had seen it in his bathroom before. It had seemed incongruous in the bathroom of a man who sported a neatly trimmed beard. I was puzzled for a second, and then I gently ran his fingers through my pubic hair. My eyes widened, and I stiffened. “No!” I said. “You can’t.”
“Yes, I can,” he replied. “Unless, of course, you want to use your ‘word’.”
I reddened. He was right. This was partly MY scene, and I could stop it. All I had to say was “red light,” and it would be over. I looked at him and said, clearly and carefully, “Please, master, don’t do this. No! No! No! I’ll do anything.”
He smiled, understanding my acceptance, and replied, “You’ll do anything anyway. You are, after all, my slave.” My nipples clenched at his words and I could feel myself getting wetter. He quickly clipped most of the long, silky hair from my pussy and, then, covered the whole mound with a hand towel that had been soaked in hot water. I had held still until then, even when the steel of the scissors had sent pleasure tremors all over my body, but this was too much. The hot towel felt so good that I began to shake. When he applied the shaving cream, I came so violently that I feared for the stability of the antique table I was resting on.