Vanessa Duries - The Classmate

the Ladies’ Room and made herself cum, very quickly. When she came back, Lauren looked at her and said, with her ordinary innocence:

—You look kind of worn out…

If she had only known that at the same time beads of wetness continued to glide down V***’s thighs.

The two young girls eagerly jumped into the warm water of the pool.

Outside it had started to drizzle and it was still windy.

V*** had eagerly anticipated seeing her friend undress, but Lauren was already wearing her swimsuit underneath her clothes—a real swim-team one-piece. While her classmate stepped into the shower installed in the foot bath, her only minor satisfaction was to let her eyes linger on the line of her neck, so desirable, and to the undulation of her buttocks, so tempting.

Lauren was a vine, both in length and in quality. V*** thought that in comparison her hips were too big and her breasts were too large for her small frame.

In the water, it was much worse. Lauren swam like a professional, with a fluent crawl that let her cover two lengths of the pool before V*** had completed three strokes. Then she agreed to swim breast stroke with her, to chat—and while waiting, V*** out of breath, responded with monosyllables. She looked at the drops of water lingering on Lauren’s face like tears—and the desire to make her cry overwhelmed her. Then she recalled her sobs at Master Damien’s. She wondered if these were her own tears that she saw flow down the face of her friend.

They showered together. With native fluency, Lauren slid the straps of her suit off her shoulders. She had very white small breasts ending in a barely defined point. V*** slipped off her bra–she was suddenly ashamed of her breasts, the dark aureoles that testified to her Mediterranean origins more than anything else.

—Your breasts are magnificent, Lauren murmured, —I would like to have such beautiful boobs.

Did she like them?

In the locker room, it was much worse. Lauren, having slipped off her suit completely, finished by drying her blonde pubis—and even there, with a clear gesture of grace. And then she slipped on the inevitable white panties. —You don’t wear panties? she asked V***, seeing her slip directly into her jeans. V*** asked herself what her friend would say if she knew that wearing pants was itself an infraction of the code imposed by J-L, and that she loved to feel the rough fabric cut sweetly into her sex. She smiled mischievously. —I’m an idiot, I forgot them. Apparently, Lauren had not seen the two small rings that pierced her labia.

Afterward they went for chocolate. Just like in the pool, Lauren dominated the conversation. And V***, normally so witty, found little to respond to in the banter of her friend.

She accompanied her to the entrance of her building, rue de la Chaîne, two steps from Saint-Sernin.

—Well, OK, ’til tomorrow, said Lauren.

She turned her cheek. V*** kissed her as close as possible to her mouth, and her friend imperceptibly moved back. She started to laugh.

—A little more and you’ll knock me over, she said.

—Who knows? V*** answered, —maybe you’d love that. Lauren shrugged her shoulders and went upstairs.

V*** remained for a long time in the street. She looked up at the two lit windows on the fifth floor. “I’m an idiot,” she thought, “I’m acting like a teenager.” Then she realized that was what she had missed, precisely that.

Slowly she walked back to her own place. In the mirror, for once, she did not look at her scratched buttocks or manhandled breasts—just her face.

She scrutinized it for a long time. For the first time in her life she saw that it was her soul was broken, and that was more painful than the blows of the whip.

Master J-L would return the next morning. She went up into her tiny bathroom, and she shaved and plucked completely. She observed her sex and her anus up close in a pocket mirror, to make sure that she had missed nothing. “Do I really want to do this?” she thought. “Do I really want to be whipped, this time?”

At the same time, she said to herself, a passion for Lauren was a major inconvenience.

She hadn’t mentioned her to J-L, who without a doubt would insist that she introduce her to him. She would atone for that under the blows of the whip, starting tomorrow.

She had been taken by all kinds of men and women in front of her master without ever having any feelings of betrayal. On the contrary, all that the others did to her reinforced her attachment to him. But the very idea of her love for Lauren was a major infraction—a betrayal.

—Why a betrayal? she all of a sudden said aloud, —I don’t love him anymore.

Having said it aloud made her happy. She lay down, naked, and caressed herself softly, as Lauren would certainly have done if she were there. Her fingers moved on that beardless skin like a prepubescent little girl touching virgin silken flesh. Light touches, an imperceptible stimulation, the scratch of a fingernail…She put her finger in her cleft and dripped steam. “I love you,” she said, I love you, I love you”…She repeated it like a mantra while frantically stroking her clitoris. When she came, she pushed two fingers into her cunt and cried out, drowning her hand in her woman-fountain.

Chapter Four

—We’re going up to Paris this weekend, her Master announced. Make yourself pretty, I want to be proud of you. We’re leaving in two hours, by train—it won’t take as long as by car.

V*** feared these homecomings above all. Nine times out of ten, the sessions led her to the point of breaking, her legs turned to jelly, with the sensation of not being able to take a step–without mentioning the pain, the burns of the whip or the lash, the spasms of her stomach or her ravaged anus. The worst was her breasts, because of the pincers. What had made him so proud at the beginning now made her smile less. And yet for almost fifteen days she had been without her ration of suffering.

—It’s going to be a general presentation, continued her Master. We’re taking our submissives with us from all over France. You’ll see, for once, that you will not necessarily be the star. But I will be angry if your obedience is less than exemplary.

Submissives...The “Masters” and other “Dominators” gargled with this theatrical vocabulary—they said “Submissives like they might have said,

“Maids”—so as to reassure themselves at the same time. V*** was still feeling unsubmissive. She had not escaped from her father to “submit” to the first man who came along. She loved excess, in sex. There were masochists just like there were blondes or brunettes. But from that, to make it a religion, and to lose all sense of humor…the papal seriousness and the ceremonies for which J-L had trained her for two years made her snigger more and more. The masters! Those imbeciles were only too excited to get to abuse her…

—I really don’t want to, she objected. Next week I have a crazy work schedule.

—No fake tears, J-L interrupted. We’re at the end of October. You don’t have mid-terms until January.

—I’ve got a big translation assignment.

—You can work on it on the train, he said. On the way there. Because on the way back…

He had an evil smile.

—Get down on all fours, he ordered. No, better just squat. I am going to assfuck you dry. It will be an excellent gymnastic exercise.

She knew that the discussion would end this way so she had taken the precaution of coating her anus and the first centimeters of her rectum with a suitable lubricant. She took the requested position, her head in her arms, and whimpered while he forced himself inside her. She whimpered the whole time because he wanted to hear her whimper. For the first time she was not herself. She felt nothing. A dildo would have been more exciting.