All sexual activity described in these stories happens between adults over the age of eighteen. These characters exist in a world without risk of disease or unwanted pregnancy. I don’t discover condoms and discussions of birth control sexy so I don’t include them. If they are a turn on for you, please feel free to imagine their inclusion wherever appropriate.

Finally, these stories are the exclusive work of the author and all rights are reserved.

This story involves some public heterosexual sex, and some light bdsm between women. I’ve stuck it in BDSM as it seems to fit there best.

…….

Chapter Six

In which school junior Amy discovers she likes sex. Monica exerts control.

Lesbian sex, erotic couplings, public sex, light bdsm.

Harry and I began to see each other regularly. Our tentative approach to sex abandoned in the distance as we explored each other’s bodies. Afternoons after class, Friday and Saturday nights, we tested, learned, refined and enjoyed the wonderful discovery of sex. Finally, it was my noise through the thin walls that kept Monica awake with the sounds of my pleasure. Then it came to an end with a resounding crash.

Harry and I had ventured to a party together. It was a ordinary school mixer: red Solo cups and a keg of beer. Loud, immature boys, pretending to be men, playing noisy beer pong while the music thumped. It was crowded and hot. I might have been a bit drunk, so I stepped outside to get some air. There was Harry in a lip lock with some redhead. I couldn’t see her face from behind, but I could see that Harry was halfway to swallowing it.

Harry had been shy, inexperienced and tentative when we started dating. I’d taken his virginity and he mine. He’d gained confidence with regular sex and the proof of his ability to attract a woman to his arm. I liked him. He made me feel good. Maybe he was drunk, maybe he was actually a dog. I took one more look and stalked home in tears. I don’t want to talk about it.

As usual Monica was there to pick up the pieces and reassemble my fractured ego.

“Cheating bastard. Asshole motherfuckering shithead.” I wore out my vocabulary. I am the youngest of 6. My parents, particularly my Mom, abhorred profanity, but my siblings provided a thorough grounding in the earthier terms available to English speakers. I used that education with angry, tearful enthusiasm. I stayed home for a week, attending classes and lab and little else. Harry’s calls and apologies went to voicemail. Monica finally answered my phone for me and told him to stop calling. She said some other things too, and I actually laughed at her fervent, profane attack. But I missed him. I missed his smell. I missed the feel of his hardness thrusting inside me.

As per usual, Monica had the solutions.

“You need to get laid. You need to go out there and discover other fish in the sea,” she told me after a week or two of maudlin isolation.

“I’m not a slut,” I said, suddenly aware of the implied insult I’d thrown in her sexually active path.

“But you could be. You like sex, you definitely enjoy it, judging by some the wailing I hear. Nothing will get you away from looking back so much as moving forward. Let’s go out to Duffy’s and see what floats by in the current.”

Duffy’s is the local student hangout bar. They’re pretty lax about IDs and it gets crowded and chaotic in there. Monica dressed me in jeans and a tight fitting top. We slid between the noisy bodies and approached the bar. I found myself looking over the shoulder of a student ordering a pitcher. Turning, he almost bowled me over.

“Sorry!” he yelled over the noise. He smiled a killer smile. “Want a beer?” I followed him back to a group in the back crowded around a table. “I’m Matt.”

Monica came over. We introduced ourselves and sat. Matt and I chatted, insofar as a chat is efficient in that noise. He was funny, sharp. He kept his eyes mostly on mine. The occasional glance to the sculpted outline of my chest seemed exciting, not creepy. Eventually, he rested a hand on my thigh and I left it there. Jeans are lousy clothes for sensation, but the contact of his hand was a nagging, constant pressure. The warmth there spreading upwards to my sex. I wasn’t drunk, but I’d certainly had a few and my inhibitions were lowered. My imagination was taking my thoughts to dirty places. I wished his hand would slide upward.

“Want to go somewhere quieter?” he asked.

I caught Monica’s eye and stood. Leaving with Matt, we started the walk to campus. We were both silent, holding hands, wondering where this would go. At least I was wondering. Maybe he wondered I was a sure thing. I swung between anticipation and self-recrimination.

Under the trees of the Quad, he turned and leaned in to kiss me. Quickly, our tongues met and battled between our lips. A wave of arousal suffused my body. I curled one long leg around his hips, opening my legs to mold my crotch to his. He was hard. We kissed and he held me close to his chest, each of us feeling the contact between our bellies. I wondered of the picture Monica had sent me, an outdoor assignation with a boy I’d named Billyclub. She’d given Billyclub an outdoor BJ.

I slid down Matt’s body and grasped his belt buckle. He leaned back against a convenient tree trunk and looked down at me, then rapidly around us. We were alone, horny and a bit drunk. It was dark.

I fumbled open his pants and reached within for my prize. His penis was stiff, hot and hard in my hand. I knelt and studied it from an inch away. The darkness couldn’t hide the thin long shaft, and the small drop of liquid oozing from the opening atop his crown. I touched my tongue to the moisture and slid his head into my mouth. I descended, taking him deeper and wetting him with my saliva. I tasted more of his salty tang as he leaked more onto my tongue. I grasped and pumped him with my hand, jerking him into my wet mouth. With increasing urgency, his hips angled towards me and I heard his breathing accelerate. Finally, grasping my hair, he forced himself into my face, only my grip at the base stopping him from penetrating too deeply into my throat. He pulsed and moaned. Ejaculating spurts of cum filled my mouth. I swallowed, making room for the next pulse. I could feel the excitement in my core heating my sex. Enervated, he slumped against the tree as I gathered the vestiges of his pleasure with my sucking lips.

This was the Great Outdoors! It was incredible to think I’d gone down on someone, someone I barely knew, outside. I was super-excited and I rose to my feet. Then something approaching shame crossed his face. He looked around for any unwelcome witnesses and hurriedly fastened his pants and belt.

“I think I should go.” “I” should go, not “we” should go. I felt his distance. He walked me to my dorm and gave me a distracted peck avoiding my mouth. He wondered I was a slut. Shame filled me and I went to bed unhappy, self-conscious and unsatisfied.

Monica returned the next morning looking chipper. “How did it go?”

I related my escapade on the Quad.

“It sounds hot! Outdoor BJ! What did you do next?” She asked.

“Well, it was great, and then suddenly it wasn’t. He came and then he went.”

“What do you mean?”

“It got weird after he finished and it felt like he wanted to get away from me,” I said. “He walked me home and left. I feel like a slut.”

Monica comforted me. She said that men lose interest after orgasm and sometimes they’re embarrassed at their behavior. “Maybe he has a girlfriend and it was guilt.”

That week Matt called and asked me if he could see me again. I demurred. I too was embarrassed. I barely knew him. He’d made me ashamed. He was not the Harry-cleansing experience I needed.

Monica, as usual, counseled a return to the saddle. “Ames, sex is great. You’ve got a taste for it, and you need to break through to some experience and new sensations.”

“Like what?”

“Like with a guy who likes you and wants to please you. One who’ll rock you.”

“Who is he?”

“Maybe he’s the next one you meet.”

I met James.

He was in my Developmental Biology class. I’d seen his eyes following me for a while. A little patience and he’d approach me once his courage overcame his nerves. After class one day, he stopped by the exit and seemed to hesitate as the other students filed past him. “Amy?” I stopped. “Can you do me a favor and read through my paper? I’m struggling with it a bit. You’re good at this and I could use a hand.”

“Of course, James. I’m free after class at 2:30. Want to meet at the library?”

“See you.”

I walked to the library with a bit of a skip in my step. James was good looking. He had a swimmer’s body: long and lean. Great shoulders. He was taking a bunch of the same courses as me. They were advanced courses so he couldn’t be a troglodyte. He smelled good.

We met in front of the building and went upstairs to the stacks, where there were work tables and low talk was tolerated. He really did want to go through his paper and we worked together on it. His conclusions surprised me and I realized his understanding of the subject was better than mine. It was surprisingly productive and comfortable.

“Amy, I didn’t only want to work on my paper with you. Would you go out with me next weekend?”

“Why would I do that?” Teasing isn’t nice, but I couldn’t withstand his earnest expression.

“Because I’m an old soul and I know the ways of the world.” He’d smiled as soon as I’d tried my small torture. He knew from my expression I’d say yes and was merely playing with him.

“An “old soul?” I asked. “I was hoping for someone with a youthful spirit and a curious nature.”

“I can have those too.”

We flirted a bit and agreed on a day next weekend.

Monica was pleased. “James? He’s got a great body. Swimmer right?. I think he’s clever too. He might be the best in my Abnormal psych precept.” Monica was studying psychology with an eye towards becoming a therapist. She hadn’t decided whether she’d pursue a masters/PhD or get an MD and become a psychiatrist. She’d taken all the Med School prerequisites and the overlap with my science classes were what had brought us together. Monica is a tight package of sex and curves, but no dummy. She could hide behind her subtle Georgian accent and her distracting assets only to flash a sarcastic tongue and show the keen mind behind them.

“Next Saturday.”

“Excellent! Let’s find out something to wear.”

We spent a fun hour going through my wardrobe and giggling at the contrast between her daring choices and my more conservative ones. By the late afternoon we were about done.

“That thing’s a damn burka, Amy. We need to go shopping.” Monica is wealthy. She’s an only child and both her parents are professionals. I, on the other hand, am the last of 6 kids and even with low in-state tuitions and a scholarship or two, my parents struggled to get us all through college. I had a job in a lab and it both improved my resume and added a modest flexibility to my finances.

“Monica…”

“Ames. You cannot wear my stuff, so we need new stuff, and definitely some new underwear. You can pay me back.”

Thursday afternoon we went to the mall. I can’t afford the fancy stories, but there were some less expensive boutiques there. We browsed and modeled and laughed at some of the ugly things on display.

Selecting three outfits, Monica led me back to the dressing rooms. “Try these.”

I entered the changing room and nearly closed the door on Monica behind me. “What?”

“I want to see.” I’m a bit body shy. I think I’m too tall and skinny. I hate my hips. Monica has seen me in all stages of dress, and undress, so this wasn’t too awkward. We entered the small cubicle and I started to take off my clothes. Bending to remove my shoes and jeans, my ass bumped her. “Watch it. Your ass is in my face.”

‘”You wanted to be here. Take up less space and give me room, Bitch.”

I tried the first outfit and immediately we rejected it. The slacks were cut all wrong for me and the top was too flowery. Number two was better, a light yellow sundress, and went back on the hanger as a possible. The last was looking more likely. It had a white cotton peasant blouse. It hung low on my shoulders in a shallow curve across my clavicles. The waist gathered under my breasts to a pleated elasticized bodice. The elastic threading was red. The pants were tight, stretchy hip-huggers made of a cotton/poly-something blend. They left a gap at my midriff below the short hem of the blouse exposing a strip of skin at my navel.

“Too much?”

“Not enough, Ames, but it’ll do.”

We paid and left. I headed toward the exit.

“Hold on girl. Underwear time.”

We went to a boutique. Suffice it to say that Monica chose two sets of revealing, teasing lingerie. I observed that the price seemed to go up the less material there was. I owed Monica about $250. Oof. I started to leave. Monica stayed behind. “I have one more thing I want to get for you. It’s a surprise.”

“Monica, this is already too much. I don’t need or want anything more. I cannot afford it,” I said.

“Trust me.”

I have four brothers, all older than me. As the youngest, I was the easiest target. The words “trust me” had been used often, always with the meaning “I cannot be trusted and I’m gonna get you to do something, something naughty.” Never trust someone who says “Trust me.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

“Run along and I’ll catch up.”

I waited by the food court until Monica returned. “Got it.” She held a bag from the boutique.

I asked “What is it?”

“It’s a surprise,” she smirked. We went back to the dorm.

“I’ll find out a way to pay the money, Mons. Thanks for the loan.”

“Actually, Ames, you’ll have to earn it back.”

“How does that work?” I asked. Shit.

“I feel another game on the horizon.” Shit.

“How is that gonna be equal, if I am trying to earn money and you’re not?”

“Well, I think I have that covered,” she said. Shit.

Monica smiled her evil smile. “I am gonna hire you for a job.”

“Is this a sex job? I will not do anything like that.” I was getting a bit angry.

“Well, it’s a sex game, but not a sex job,” Monica replied. Shit.

It’s always a sex game with Monica. I’m not sure she knows any other kind.

“Tell me.”

Monica handed me her surprise bag. “Put this on.”

I grabbed the bag and started towards my little bedroom. I opened it and removed the tissue paper wrapping the mystery. The garment, (I assumed it was a garment), was black. Holding it up to the light, it revealed itself: a stiff black corset. The bottom had four straps extending from the hem: garters! Wow. The back had a line of buttons: more buttons than any respectable garment should have. The whole thing was like a lycra clam shell with ribs. I stripped and put it on. I rotated the contraption to bring the buttons into the front. As I fastened each button, the stretchy bodice drew more tightly around my body, squeezing it. It was tight around my midriff, and the stiff vertical ribs cinched my waist. The back, now rotated to my front, squished my breasts and when I tried to rotate it back around, I found it was a struggle. I got there with some effort and arranged my breasts beneath the tight confines of the bust. “No need for a bra. No room for a bra,” I thought. My nipples were clearly visible, pootching out the fabric with their stiff nubs. The lycra surrounding my breasts outlined and emphasized my curves. Their molded shape flattered my figure

I pulled on the black panties I saw at the bottom of the bag. The garment cupped my sex, pressing insistently against my mons, and the corset squeezed me all around. My breathing was a bit constricted and the upward pressure of the bodice forced my breasts higher.

I looked in the bag and removed a last package: black stockings. I unrolled them up my skinny legs and clipped them on. All done.

“Check you out!”

I went to the mirror and looked. The corset cinched in my waste and emphasized my breasts. I was closer to having curves than I ever have been. I looked great, but slutty.

“Monica, this is awesome. Was it expensive?”

She waved my question away. It’s more than worth it just to see this,” she laughed. “How does it feel?”

“It’s tight. I feel like I’m being squeezed by a snake. It looks good though.”

“Good? You’re a wet dream, Ames.” I blushed.

“What do I do in this?”

“I pay minimum wage. You’re are my slave. By my reckoning, you owe me thirty hours of service. You’ll wear this when you serve me.”

“I’ll be in this all week? “

“For 30 hours at my discretion,” she said.

“I can’t go out like this, Monica. No way.”

Monica’s eyebrows arched and she leaned back. Busted. I had not objected to the role. I had objected to a relatively minor implication of the proposal, trying to set a limit. Monica makes that movement when she knows she’s won.

“Wait here, slave.”

“Wait! We’ve started? No way. I haven’t agreed to this, Monica!”

“Trust me.” I was fucked.

She rose and went to her bedroom. I heard her open and close the wardrobe. She returned with another bag. “These are for you. They will be worn with the corset at all times.”

Shoes! I unboxed a pair of black high heels. Beautiful.

“There’s more in there.”

Reaching in again I withdrew two smaller, wrapped packages. “Mons, when did you buy this stuff?”

‘Last week,” she smirked.

“You had this planned?”

“Most definitely. Now be silent and open your presents.”

I gasped. The first package held an inch wide, black leather collar. The leather was soft and fastened with a crossed tie string in back. A single silver ring was attached to the front. The other package held a slim linked chain.

“Put them on. You’re out of uniform and you will be punished if you don’t comply.”

This was scary, but also thrilling. I felt a pulse in my core as I encircled my neck with the symbol of my servitude.

“How long have you been planning this?”

“Ames, I have been planning this for weeks. Remember when we were stoned a while back, and you told me you liked it when Harry pulled your ponytail while doing you from behind? I just took that and extended the concept a little. I’ve been looking for a way to get you in my debt. Now I own you and until you pay me off, you are mine.”

Monica and I have never been intimate. We’d seen each other naked. We’d shared extremely compromising photos of ourselves as part of a game that summer. But that game had been mostly about pushing each other into sexual situations for fun. Mostly. I had gotten a thrill thinking about her, particularly when I’d heard a recording of her moaning orgasm.

“How do I know you’ll not push things too far?”

“You’ll have a safe word. Use it and we’ll stop, but I’ll add 10 hours to your service time to keep you from backing out too easily.”

“What’s a safe word?” I asked.

She cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at me. “You are so sheltered. A safe word is a code you use to stop things immediately, without question. If you say “No,” or “Stop,” those might be a part of the game, so we make the safe word an unusual one. One you’d never use in this context.”

“So you’ll stop if I use it?”

“Immediately. It’s a cool dynamic, actually. I have power over you inside the game. But you have the power to stop the game completely at any time. I have control within. You control the “master switch.” Monica is a psych major. She thinks about interpersonal power dynamics.

“Tangerine.”

“What? Oh your word. That’s a good one.” She sat back and smiled. She’d achieved her victory. Frankly, this was exciting for me too. I did have dreams of submission. I had gotten a thrill from the control Harry exerted over me. A thrill beyond the usual pleasure I got when he did me from behind: an extra frisson. I had shared those feelings with Monica and my chickens were headed home to roost.