Portrait of a Thought

                      - the rat meets the brat -

	                   By Tom D. Lux

                	 dedicated to Arnora
                      with thanks for her stories

When he realised he had left his binder behind in the Math building
lounge, he hurried back and bounded up the stairs. Turning the corner,
he came to a halt at the door to the lounge and looked across the
room.  There was the spot where he had sat, occupied now by a young
student,  studying by the looks of it. As he walked cross the room
toward her, she swept a lock of brown hair from her face and tucked it
behind her ear. And yes, there was his binder on the table beside her,
open.

"Nice girls don't read other people's binders," he said, coming to a
stop beside her. "But then, nice girls would probably not be reading
stories like that one with quite so eager and rapt attention."

Something indefinable, interest, perhaps, though possibly irritation,
replaced the initial look of startled discovery  on her face.

"I see you've read quite a bit of number two. Have you read all the
first  one as well?"

She nodded as he slipped into the seat opposite her.

"Perhaps I got back a little too soon. Another page and you would have
gone on to number three, and found it takes place in this room."

"Here at ...?", she began to ask.

He flipped the page and pointed to the middle of the first paragraph.

   "He had left without saying good-bye, even though she
    had spent day after day passing through the C&D lounge,
    hoping to see him again," he quoted, reading upside down.

"Nice girls don't read other people's binders," he repeated, "and the
ones who do should be punished for their deeds."

Slowly, she nodded.

"Gather your things together and follow me."

He led her through a number of corridors, over the elevated passage to
the next building, finally arriving to a modern maze of colours. They
walked past blue floors and walls, yellow handrails, green and blue
overhead ductwork and large rose coloured pipes. After a few moments he
stopped in front of a door, opening the bronze snap of a keyring from
his belt, and unlocking the door, led her in. The first room was a
bleak lounge with a sofa, a kettle and an overhead projector. He
pointed to a door off the lounge, leading to an equally bleak, long,
narrow office.

"In there," he said, "take your clothes off."

Raising her head from the bowed position she had maintained throughout
their march, she glanced up at him for a moment. She placed her pack on
one of the desks, following it with the coat she carried in her hands.
Slowly raising her hands to the buttons of her shirt, she realised he
had walked past her and sat at his desk. She turned to face his
attentive eyes as she began unbuttoning the blouse, pulling the tail
from the waist of her jeans. Finally removing the blouse and folding
it, she placed the tidy bundle on the table beside the pack. The shoes
and jeans followed in the same orderly fashion.

She stood before him, her wrists crossed across her belly like a figure
of Jesus before Pilate, wondering if she was really expected to
continue.

"Did I tell you to stop?"

She shook her head, and reaching behind her, unsnapped the bra, adding
it to the tidy pile on the table before slipping out of her panties.
Remembering the stories, she dropped to her knees, parting her legs a
little, merging her fingers behind her head.

"Is this right?"

"You're a quick study, it seems."

He reached forward, his hand came into her line of vision. His fingers
stroked down her chest, down her breast, to grasp her nipple. The
pressure of his fingers grew, squeezing hard, as her nipple stiffened
under his touch.

He opened a drawer and removed a collar. Bending down slightly, he fit
the soft leather around her neck, carefully brushing aside her hair to
avoid trapping any strands against her neck.

"Bondage is pleasant," he told her. "But what I want today is your
obedience. Your submission."


As he took her hands and encouraged her to stand, to bend over the
desk, to take hold of the far end of the desk with her hands, he
continued.

"You will remain in this position until I give you permission to move.
If you move before I instruct you, I will begin again. If you move
again, I will bind you down and double your punishment. Do you
understand?"

A slight tremor betrayed her as she whispered, "Yes, Sir."

The first blow caught her across the top of her thighs. The pain was
not so intense, she thought, though the sudden shock did cause her to
push her hips against the desk, to drive the breath from her body for
an instant. She lay grasping the end of the desk tighter with her
hands, pressing her face against a couple of papers that littered the
desk. A second blow in the same spot caused her to re-evaluate her
estimation of the blow.

As the sting and pain faded gradually after each blow, it seemed to
spread across the region. As the target of his belt moved higher, from
her thighs up across her buttocks, the sensation seemed to become
worse, more intense, rather than  easier to bear. Now she tilted her
head back against her shoulders to give her the strength to continue.
One moment she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, an instant  later they
would snap open as her breath left her with a gasp.

At some point she became aware of his hand stroking her back, exploring
her gently  even as the other hand rained down the pain reflected in
the tears flowing from her eyes. The soft touch of his fingertips
flowed across her shoulders, up her taut neck, wiping the tears from
her cheek. Even as he demonstrated his gentleness, the blow of the belt
changed from landing across her body to striking from above. The end of
the belt slide between the thighs that have parted on their own, to
snap against the insides of her legs. Hardly  knowing why, she opened
her legs wider even as she tried to calm her shaking chest.

She had no idea how many blows had landed, whether a dozen or fifty or
more, when she  heard the noise of the belt falling to the floor, the
metal buckle hitting the concrete. The realization that her punishment
was over, at least a phase of it, was accompanied by the touch of a
hand under her chest stroking her breasts and teasing her hard nipples.
The other hand now explored the region it had recently punished.

His hand gently slid over the sore and aching flesh of her ass, thighs,
finally approaching the sex that eagerly pressed back against his
touch.

A stinging slap of his palm points out her error. "I haven't told you
to move."

This was perhaps harder than the suffering of her punishment, to hold
back her need and remain still as his fingers rubbed her, slide into her,
tormented her desire. Finally her  body shivered as her sex squeezed his
encrouching fingers.

When she regained her control, she realised he was sitting again.

"Put your clothes on."

After a moment's indecision, she removed the collar and handed it to him.
Maintaining her silence, she dressed under his watchful eye.

As she buttoned her blouse, preparing to leave, he held out his
hand offering the leather rose from his desk.

"Be in the same place tomorrow afternoon."

17 February, 1997
Tom D. Lux