Scintillectually Yours

Once again our dear Ang, the Sweltering Celt, has charged us with a challenging theme. I was lying in bed with a much different scenario playing out in my head but the minute I got out of bed to write it down, lest I forget, I was struck with a very different piece. I hope you enjoy this little lesson in etiquette.

She stood perfectly still. Weeks of training had taught her perfect posture. Head held high, shoulders back. Not a hair out of place; her pearl necklace (a gift from her father upon graduation) graced her creamy white neck; her white blouse starched, one delicate button left undone, her bountiful cleavage chastely covered.

Her teacher, regal in a Chanel suit, knelt at her feet. This was the final test although she had passed her course with high honors. Honors that were rewarded for all of her hard work. Soon she would be feted at Atlanta’s largest Cotillion—her coming out party. But now, she acquiesced to the ministrations of her mentor.

She dared not look down as her slim pencil skirt was pushed up to her waist, her garters securing silk stockings with seams running a straight line down the slender curve of the back of her leg and calf, disappearing into proper little closed-toe pumps. As ordered by the Head Mistress, the girls were never to wear panties. It was the one secret that they and they alone knew. They must be ready for her touch at all times. Her beckon call. And now she felt the white-gloved hands part her lips, already glistening with the illicit intentions bestowed upon her.

Her thighs quivered slightly and her Mistress’ hand slapped her lightly to quiet the small shiver and tiny moan. Her legs were urged apart—she never lost her balance. She remained poised, but her tongue darted out and lightly touched the perfect bow of red lipstick. Her eyelashes fluttered as she felt the woman’s mouth on her most private part. Her clitoris jumped at first touch. She faltered and this time the slap was sharper causing an almost inaudible gasp. The Mistress’ tongue worked fervently and even as she tried to focus her concentration on standing ever so still…she became lost in sensation. Her legs turned to jelly, her wetness poured forth, her muscles contracted and she came with a moan while she bent over, grabbed her teacher’s hair and shoved her face deeper into her raging vagina.

A pure white, monogrammed handkerchief gently caressed her slick thighs. Her skirt pulled carefully down. Her blouse adjusted. She returned to her seat and primly crossed her legs at the ankles, folding her hands in her lap. The Head Mistress dabbed gently at her mouth, smoothed her hair, and turned to the class. “My dears,” she addressed the three rows of young ladies, “who would like to be next?”