Beautiful outfit for a lovely f***toy.
Chapter One: High School Confidential
Imagine a girl who is the wet dream of every high school boy in America: she wears her sweaters tight, her skirts short, and her hair long. She laughs like what she just heard could never be repeated, and escapes from all her escapades glowing and unscathed. That was Pam Crier, and in our junior year, in fourth period English she sat at the desk right in front of mine. One day, after months of staring hopelessly at that luscious little ponytail, here’s what happened.
Squirming uncomfortably at my desk, trying to remember whether a quote on some test should be attributed to Dickens or Dumas, I discovered that Pam’s perfect little ass was pressed through the cutout in the back of her Samsonite chair as my knee accidently brushed against it. I froze, titillated and embarrassed, momentarily horrified by what I imagined would happen next. But what happened next was the last thing I expected. She ran her hands through her hair, and pushed her body a little more firmly against the back of that chair. At least that’s what I imagined. I had to find out.
So I rubbed my knee against her a second time, but this time more slowly, with a little more pressure. Sure enough, she bent over her desk, as if working ever more diligently, and slid a little further back in that chair. So it began.
I rarely saw her at other times during the school day, and when I did, we remained casual acquaintances. But each day in English she sat well back in her chair, and I sat well forward in mine, rubbing her ass with my knees. For the first time in my life, taking liberties with this gorgeous girl’s body, I realized that the excitement I felt was as much in her act of surrender as it was in the physical touch. I was now touching her when and how I pleased, and she had submitted. How far could that go?
I began having her do little things for me: loan me a pen, bring me a book, or throw something away in the trash. She started finishing her assignments with a bow or a curtsy. One day I knocked my pen off my desk onto the floor beside her.
“Could you pick that up?”
She turned around and looked at me.
“What am I, your slave?” she asked, with playful sarcasm.
“Yes,” I answered, matching her tone.
In response, she placed her palms together and bowed.
“Yes, Master,” she said, and got down on her knees, and picked up the pen.
“Will there be anything else?” she asked, as she kneeled at my feet and handed me the pen.
“No, that’s all for now.”
She returned to her seat, leaned forward, assuming the position through which she begged to be touched.