Finishing School Ch. 03

I stopped them as they started down the hall.

"I have to do administrative shit," I said.

"Just remember, you lost the bet," she said.

I just grinned and then said to Tiffany, "you be a good girl now, y'hear."

When she didn't answer I saw Mrs. O'Neil's hand twitch and Tiffany screamed.

She was bent almost double, her scream reduced to an almost soundless whistle.

When Mrs. O'Neil moved her finger again, well, her thumb actually, the screaming stopped and Tiffany was gasping for air when Mrs. O'Neil grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head up so their eyes met.

"You respond when a man addresses you," she said and slapped her hard across the face.

"The proper response is, 'yes sir,'" she went on, "Do you understand?"

"Yes," Tiffany managed and Mrs. O'Neil slapped her again, this time a backhand on the other cheek.

"No, you ignorant cunt," she snapped, "the proper response to ME is 'yes, ma'am.'"

"Yes, ma'am," Tiffany said, trying to cringe away but held by the fingers twisted in her hair.

"Good girl," Mrs. O'Neil said and pushed the button that had Tiffany crying out again, but this time gasping her pleasure.

I just chuckled and headed for the office.

I was doing the administrative shit that I absolutely hate when Mrs. Ferguson, my secretary/assistant/office manager/Queen of All She Surveys walked in and said, "don't forget, you have a mid-term exam scheduled for noon.

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, finishing the report I was working on, yes, I have a Board of Directors I answer to, and headed down to the Examination House.

Well, first I checked the file. With 36 in residence, I have some trouble with names.

Our campus is pretty big. Greg and I had financed the failed dude ranch through a prospectus that was accurate except for, well, our unique methods. But we had letters of commitment from potential clients that would keep the place full for the first year and that made our investors happy.

The place had been pretty run down and we had invested six months and one hell of a lot of that sweat equity you read about getting it ready. But now it included eight buildings, all fully functional. The place I was headed to now was, to anyone seeing a picture of it, a simple tract house straight out of any Realtor's multi-list system.

As my foot hit the step onto the tiny front porch the door opened.

The girl with the delightfully biblical name Ruth stood in the door, fresh from the set of the Donna Reed Show. Her hair, red although I was sure it was at least assisted by chemicals, was a perfect halo, framing her face. Her face, in turn, was perfectly made up. She wasn't a particularly pretty woman, but she was damn sure making the most of what she had. From her perfectly arched eyebrows to her tasteful diamond stud earrings to her scarlet lipsticked cupid-bow mouth, she looked like a perfect, well-trained wife.

Her smile was perfect, full of love and desire, and her voice was properly modulated as she handed me the drink in her hand, a screwdriver if you care.

"You look so tired," she said, both hands lightly on my free arm, "come, sit, let me massage your shoulders."

"That would be nice, dear," I said, using one of the trigger phrases we planted in each of our girls.

"I know what would help you relax," she said, the smile on her face genuine and full of love and desire, "come along, dear."

She took my hand and led me into the living room.

"Sit," she said, and her eyes got big, realizing her mistake.

I pushed the button and she doubled over, gasping in the agony I was giving her.

She had said "sit," without including a proper qualifier such as, "my love," or, "darling," or something along those lines.

I released her from the pain and she took a deep breath.

Her smile was back, and genuine even with the mascara streaks down her cheeks.

"Sit, my love," she said, "and let me entertain you."

I sat, smiled at her, and liked how she beamed at my unspoken compliment.

She bent and kissed me then, and I liked the kiss. It was snotty and slick from her crying, but full of love and desire too. A VERY good kiss and I gave the green button a little click, giving her a second of that perfect pleasure to show what a good girl she was.

We had a very high-end stereo system installed in the test house. She went to it, using that almost dancing step she had been taught. Even the way she bent to pick out a CD selection from the rack exuded her sexuality, her desire to please her man, her back was slightly arched, her ass pushed out slightly, and her feet carefully placed just slightly more than shoulder width.

The music started with Billie Holliday's version of Stormy Weather, that slow beat almost hypnotic and certainly compulsive. Her hips started twitching, almost snapping, with each of the sharp beats of the drum in the background.

She slowly straightened, her hips never losing their rhythm, and turned to face me.

She did that thing only a woman can ever truly pull off, her right hand brushing through her hair on the left side of her head and then her left hand to the right side, her lips parted slightly showing her teeth, a thin, silvery thread of saliva connecting her upper and lower lip.

I gave her another second of ecstasy to show my approval.

The strip tease was done beautifully. She made each button a separate event, first touching, almost caressing it with fingertips before slowly working it through the buttonhole and opening the top of the dress, revealing another inch or so of skin. The way she was working her hips, the calf-length A-line skirt of her dress was swaying in time with the music.

When she had the last button undone, and she had not lost the beat once so I hadn't given her any pain, she dropped the dress, allowing it to pool at her feet.

And there it was, Donna Reed or maybe June Cleaver gone naughty.

Her longline torpedo bra was tight enough that soft, pale skin squeezed out above, making a good contrast with the soft pads of fat at the backs of her arms. This was not an obese woman, but at 52 she had a distinct mombod. Her file said she had three kids, and it showed in the stretchmarks that peeked out between the bottom of the bra and the top of her petticoat. She had no waist, but she looked damn good as she bent to push the petticoat past her hips and the saddlebags at the tops of her thighs to let it pool at her feet with the dress.

Like all of our girls, she wore a girdle. In her case, it was a pantygirdle, the tight elastic making the saddlebags at the tops of her thighs even more prominent. The tight wide dark band at the tops of her nylons squeezed enough to make it even more obvious.

She was one of those women with thighs that tapered to her knees and then calves that were big, narrowing to almost delicate ankles. Her legs were enhanced by the stiletto heels she wore.

Still keeping the beat, she came to me then, and in that graceful, almost boneless way our girls are taught, eased to her knees before me.

"Please, my love," she said, and I believed she meant it, our training is THAT good, "may I have your beautiful gift."

"You know how to ask," I said, using another of those trigger phrases.

She smiled up at me, the smile of a religious woman who has had a truth revealed to her, and bent, literally prostrating herself before me, She kissed my shoes, and I watched to make sure they were real kisses. They were.

From her position there, on the floor, she looked up at me and said, "please."

I smiled and said, "you may."

There was that smile again, the bliss of a nun who has seen Paradise.

She kissed her way up my pants and then her fingers found my belt and my zipper.

I didn't help her, it was up to her now.

She worked my erection out of my boxers and took it in her hand.

"God," she breathed, "so beautiful," and she looked up at me. The need, the raw desire in her eyes was what every man dreams of and what we charged handsomely to ensure that at least a few get to see.

"May I?" she asked, her voice soft, perfectly modulated. I made a note to myself to tell Mrs. O'Neil that she had done a particularly good job on this one.

"Of course," I said.

She started making love to my cock. She would kiss it, lick the shaft, kiss my balls, and say, softly, "I love you," to both it and me.

She used her fingertips to gently pull the residual foreskin left from my circumcision down and kissed my glans, the knobby head, very gently.

Her nose was running now with her excitement, adding to my own arousal. It was always good to see how well our training took hold. Her lips were slick with mucus and saliva as she took me into her mouth.

As blowjobs go, this was very good. All of our girls have the skills, of course, but for some, there's a true talent and Ruth was one of those.

Her mouth was open wide as she accepted me and with no hesitation at all I passed into her throat where she started swallowing hard, almost masturbating me.

She held me like that, her eyes on mine, swallowing hard, looking absolutely wanton with her smeared mascara and her nose running.

When I stroked her hair I felt the sudden tension in her body as she achieved her orgasm without my pushing the magic button.

Our training is like that.

When she felt me getting close, the buildup of the pressure deep in my belly taking away my own control, she responded to the trigger phrase. As my ejaculation started she pulled off quickly, holding me, accepting my "gift" as hair conditioner and a facial. She held me in her hand as my body pumped three times. She caught the last couple of drops on an outstretched tongue and then, as she had been taught, breathed a deeply felt "thank you."

I gave her the green button, sending her to the Elysium fields for a full minute.

She earned one more touch of the discipline button during her mid-term. When she put lunch on the table before me the mashed potatoes beside the meatloaf were lumpy. Our girls are supposed to be world-class cooks.

As she held herself, her mouth open in a silent scream, our girls are also taught to not be loud, we wouldn't want neighbors complaining now, would we, I explained to her that lumpy mashed potatoes were unacceptable.

I hung around and watched as she did the dishes, ran the vacuum, and then got on all fours with her sponge and bucket to do the baseboards.

"You pass, Ruth," I said and I liked her grateful look as I left.