Scandal For Sale

February 28 th-2

I thought the Judge would never stop. I know I pleaded with him and he showed no mercy. He had something to prove about my body and my will, which became vividly apparent, when he finally slipped his fingers back into the forward hole where he’d played before. Jerking my cunt harshly, as though he planned to extract a climax with his resolve alone, he gave me a second, more profound orgasm. The explosion reached the tips of my fingers, the top of my head, extended to my toes, and seemed to flow right out of me.

The next thing I remember, I was lying on my back against the Oriental carpet. Mrs. Perdue was sitting on the sofa where she’d been before, and Judge Perdue was in his chair as if he’d never left.

Awakening to consciousness, I stared at them both.

“Get up, Miss Lourdes,” the Judge ordered.

I could hardly move. My legs ached with fire; my skin stung with what felt like an enormous rug burn. I did follow the order as efficiently as I could, finding myself standing naked before the man who claimed to own me. I believe he did.

I wanted him to love and hold me, massage my skin, caress away my concern. I stared at him wantingly, and he gave back an expression of kindness and compassion. But if he were to demonstrate any affection for me, it would be another day.

“Do you want this to continue?” he asked solemnly.

“Yes, Sir,” I answered meekly, though my decision was unequivocal, and he knew that.

“Then you’ll be here to serve this house on the weekends, and whenever else I ask you here.” For a second his kind eyes turned severe, and his gaze narrowed on me in earnest. “And should you ever breathe a word about our agreement to another living soul, these acts will be denied, your accusations will be considered slander, and your association with the university will be terminated immediately. At every turn, you will be met with closed doors, failed opportunities and botched dreams. You have made your choice freely, and you’ll abide by its demands and keep silent.”

“I understand, Sir,” I dutifully replied, and his mood and face lightened one more time.

I find it difficult to believe how such gross humiliation and abuse could bring me such profound pleasure. But I will not deny it now, no matter how much my other, prissy mind screams against it.

In this short span of time, I’ve been seduced into depravity. I am at a loss to know how this could happen so swiftly. Perhaps because this feels like home, noting the great willingness of my body, sometimes I think the rest of me is just along for the ride. Judge Perdue reads me as he reads the evening paper, effortlessly. I am an enigma to myself, but no mystery in his eyes.

April 20 th

I have been with my owners for more than six weeks now. Time seems to fall together like raindrops disappearing one into another. I’m always a little lost, a little faint—lightheaded. I move from class to class, from paper to paper, from discussion group, to late night study session, to walks through campus as if I’m floating high above the concern of those around me. I write sporadically, now because there is a pleasant sameness that has taken over my days—and nights. Of course, my service to the Judge and Ma’am continues. I count my association with them as a steadying, nurturing force for my good. I’m relentless in my studies because I wish to please them both. If I’m ever unhappy with my progress, I tell them so, and Judge Perdue will shock my system back to life with a sound thrashing. Two days ago, he could see the concern written on my face, and asked me to stay after class for a conference. This was the first time he’s made reference to our relationship when we were at the university. His right to make the move shocked me at first, then settled nicely within a body hungering for inspiration.

His inspiration proved faultless. In his office, a floor above the classroom, he locked the door, ordered me to strip naked, and proceeded to paddle and cane my bottom until my ass hurt so much I was dancing a jig to get away from the awful pain. He paused several times in the administration of this discipline to let me catch my breath, then he started again. Of course, I was required to be quiet. Though the halls were empty at the lunch hour, the forced silence was imperative. When he was finished, I was out of breath, panting, crying softly, but feeling much better and, indeed, more inspired to continue with my Math class.

Before I left his office, he had his hand at my crotch, playfully massaging the wet interior, now hotly spasmodic. He brought me off, while I was silent still; then pushed me to my knees in front of him where I dutifully, lovingly sucked him off with lips and mouth. This was only the second time that he’s asked for any s****l favors—something I would grant him in a heartbeat.

My respect and regard for him increase every day. Administering the discipline right in the heart of my other world has bound the two worlds together so that I cannot separate them. I am vulnerable to Judge Perdue at every turn.

I suspect that he would enter my dorm room and have me there if it weren’t for my roommate.

May 3 rd

School is almost out for the semester, my freshman year almost over.

In the midst of many anxious thoughts about exams and next year’s plans, I was given a huge reprieve last night, from which I’m now recovering.

Judge Perdue informed me at the end of class on Thursday night that I would be serving he and Mrs. Perdue as usual for the weekend, but I was not to arrive until Saturday morning.

I showed up at six a.m. as ordered, and was immediately put to work in the kitchen, where a catering staff was making food for a party that evening. My job was to follow orders—something I did thoughtlessly throughout the day, until I was finally given an hour to rest and get ready for the guests arrival at seven.

The Judge had chosen a dress for me to wear, laying it out on the bed in the room I use when I am staying over.

The simple cocktail dress was made of black silk knit so thin it seemed to be almost, if not actually, transparent. It was difficult to tell until I put it on. Designed as a simple slip with spaghetti straps, it clung to my curves like skin and outlined my body so that I seemed to breath on top of it, not underneath. In the right light, it was possible to see the crack of my ass from behind; and from the front, the aureoles of my n*****s and the triangle pouch of my pubic mound. What I had assumed to be an innocent cocktail party in celebration of the Judge’s last days at the University held quite different—very s****l—possibilities now, ones I’d not counted on. I was nervously engaged again, wondering what my night would bring.

The stage was set for an evening of elegance and graciousness fit for any civil university gathering. But I guessed from the start, that the Judge’s guests were not associated with his work. Bawdy whispers and s****l innuendos seemed to fly all around me. Much went over my head, but it was clear that the conversation was not geared toward Judicial Ethics, law, politics, history or any other matter I would think appropriate entertainment for Judge Perdue’s party. The guests themselves were an interesting mix of types: those dressed as elegantly as the Judge and Mrs. Perdue, and others dressed more casually, others in various kinds of stylish leathers. I wouldn’t call their attire ‘fetish’, but there were leather pants and skirts, a few stiletto heels, interesting necklaces—collars perhaps—and an inclination toward sexy lace materials and the color black.

Once I entered the living room and sighted the growing congregation of visitors—while still trying to understand the general ambience—the Judge took me aside, into his private study and closed the door.

“You look lovely,” he said. I could see how much he meant the sentiment. His eyes focused on me thoughtfully, compassion pouring from his great bearing; at the same time, his air of authority seemed especially profound as I viewed him in his formal dinner jacket.

“Thank you, Sir,” I answered him.

His eyes were so completely focused on me that he seemed to momentarily forget what he planned to do. Awaking from the brief respite, he jerked around, plucked a box from his nearby desk and smiled as he opened it to reveal the contents.

“Your collar, Miss Lourdes. You’ll wear it proudly.”

He pulled the jewelry from a mound of crinkling tissue paper, and held it in his open palm. Hearing him say collar, I expected leather; but found beads instead—intricately woven, shiningly iridescent, black beads strung into a lacy design. I oozed with excitement, but didn’t say a word. On turning around so he could fasten it around my throat, a delicate shiver trickled like rainwater down my back.

“And these,” he said, before I’d even turned around to see the small wristbands. Staring at a pair of simple cuffs, leather-backed and studded with beads that matched the collar, my eyes grew wide in wonder. “These aren’t for heavy bondage, but for display purposes; they’ll serve their purpose tonight.” The fit was snug, at first seeming to cut off the circulation in my wrists; but I quickly realized that they were not too tight, just pleasant reminders of my chosen station.

As the guests conversed in the living room, I followed the Judge around as if I were on a leash, his obedient puppy. If I hadn’t been sure of the transparent character of my dress by then, I knew for certain its erotic qualities, seeing a number of men and women stare at me thoughtfully, their mouths breaking out into pleasant smiles as they realized what they saw.

Once the gathering settled down, I was told to sit on the floor at my owner’s feet.

From then on, the veiled s****l conversation became more overt in content. Words I’d only heard in private—slave protocol, piercing, whips, racks, punishment, etc.—were thrown about as if they were normal topics for discussion. I cringed each time the Judge spoke; and my body oozed with s****l juices when he made some reference to me. He thought of me as a novice, who he would train with ever increasing intensity. At one point, he wrapped his fingers through my hair and pulled it tightly. I almost emitted a flagrant, ‘ouch!’, but kept the expletive to myself and breathed more deeply into a submissive space, surrendering any suggestion of rebellion.

My cheeks burned hot as the Judge told the story of my crude commitment ceremony on the floor of the living room, not a foot from where I was sitting.

“I think it’s time for her unveiling,” a man on the opposite couch finally suggested to the gathering.

My owner’s grasp of my hair tightened. He grabbed a bigger fistful and jerked my head, pulling up. “On your feet,” he ordered.

I rose quickly as he released his hold.

“Drop your dress,” the commands came quick. “And turn around so everyone can see you.”

Tears blinded my eyes, my shame increasing rapidly as I stripped the only article of clothing that protected me from nudity. Ten pairs, perhaps twelve pairs of leering eyes lingered on the shapes and textures of my body as I followed my owner’s command and turned slowly around.

“Does her ass redden well?” a woman asked.

“See for yourself,” the Judge answered, at the same time holding out a spanking paddle that had been lying on the table beside him.

A woman dressed in a tight-fitting, purple dress appeared from the mass of vague faces and stood behind me with the two-foot long implement. The first smack practically knocked me off my feet.

“Better bend forward and hold on to your knees, darling, this isn’t going to get any better,” she warned.

I assumed that her suggestion was a command, so I leaned forward, offering my ass for more abuse. It came on briskly, in quick bursts. I jiggled and danced only to have several members of the gathering make fun of my demonstration.