On-the-job Training

“Any questions about the internship?”

“Um, what exactly would I be doing every day?”

“Like most jobs, it varies — whatever I need you to do, really. But for basics, I’ll have you at the front desk, greeting clients, handling the phone, and so on. People wait more patiently when there’s a pretty girl out front — that reminds me, I’ll spot you a clothing allowance to start off — figure most young ladies don’t have much of a professional wardrobe.”

“I’d be wearing —”

“Skirt and blouse or a dress, heels, something classy.”

“Oh. And —”

“So, some office stuff, copying and filing and that — it’s boring, but it’s gotta be done. A couple of downtown deliveries now and then, get you out of the place for a bit. I need a blow job every day after lunch. When clients —"”

“A… blow job?”

“Yeah, to relax, otherwise I get too hyper by the end of the day. Some people do yoga — never got into it. Shouldn’t be a problem, you’re, let’s see… gonna be a Senior next year, right?”

“Well, yes, but what do you mean by —”

“So that should be no problem. Yeah, so, I’ll have you sit in on client meetings, just to get a feel for what we do; you can ask questions after but just sit tight and listen while they’re here. After a few weeks, if you’re catching on, I’ll give you a couple of softball cases to work on your own. So it’s not just clerk stuff, you’ll be learning the business, too.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“So… you made a good impression here, I think you’ll work out. Interested in the job?”

“Yes! Yes, I am!”

“Good, good. That’s great, I look forward to having you. Well, there’s some paperwork, just get that taken care of out front. Then you can start the week after school?”

“Yes, that’s right. Oh, thank you!”

---

“C’mon, answer… c’mon!… Angie, it’s me… Hey, I need to ask… Yeah, it went great, they offered me the job!… Twelve an hour to start, and… Yeah, no kidding… And I could get a raise in July… Sure, but… Ange, listen a minute… Angie… No, just one intern, as far as I know… I can’t ask now, I’m in the parking lot… Ok, I will, but listen, Ange, I have to… Angela, would you let me… Thank you. I have to ask you a question. I figured you would know. Listen, um, Ange…

“What’s a blow job?”

— Frenulum

Field Hockey and Other Diversions

“Have you ever thought about the person who designed the sports skirt? Somebody sat down and drew a fantasy and made it compulsory uniform. I can never watch Wimbledon without thanking that man.”

— Colin Dexter, Last Seen Wearing

Ground rules

When the last bell rang, Kristi made her way to the Headmaster’s office, worked her way through two layers of guardians, and found herself in the office of the man himself. He looked up as she walked toward his desk with her pink slip offered.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the Headmaster said, rising to his feet. He towered over the petite schoolgirl.

“No, Sir. I’m new this year. I was at St. Odile before.” Kristi handed her pink slip carelessly to the Headmaster. Punishment was just part of school life, as far as Kristi was concerned: it had never really bothered her when the nuns had taken care of it, and it wasn’t going to start bothering her now, just because some man was in charge. Misbehavior was rewarding enough that the occasional sting on the bottom didn’t really matter.

As the Headmaster scanned the punishment order, Kristi slipped off her uniform blouse and her bra. She unbuttoned her kilt and pulled it off, and was bending over to step out of her panties when he looked up and spoke to her.

“It’s not necessary to disrobe completely, Miss,” he said gently.

“Oh!” Kristi straightened up quickly, her breasts bouncing invitingly. “At St. Odile, they made us —”

“All you need to do here is lift up your kilt and bend all the way over my desk. Then I will take your panties down. But for today, this will do.”

Kristi shrugged. She wasn’t self-conscious in the least; fully aware both that she was pretty and that her body had a valuable effect on others, she anticipated leniency from an entranced and distracted Headmaster. “Well, next time, then,” she said saucily, as if deterrence were not part of the aim of discipline. She bent, bare, exposed, and alluring, over the Headmaster’s desk.

“You use a strap?” she asked, seeing one lying on the blotter. “Mother Frances used a cane.” Her voice was almost scornful — a girl who could take the cane without a wince would certainly have no trouble in this soft-handed school.

The Headmaster pictured the Mother Superior, elderly and barely able to grip her rosary, tapping gently away at bare bottoms with a slender cane. He raised an eyebrow as he contemplated the nude schoolgirl stretched out before him. “A strap, yes,” he replied.

He went to the cupboard and selected a twin-tail double tawse, eighteen inches of heavy leather suppled by frequent use. He stood behind Kristi, eyes on her upturned buns and the tender pussy peeking out below them. His arm drew back.

Three strokes later, Kristi had lost her sassy impertenence, her insouciance, her composure, and her confidence. Six strokes later she had lost any semblence of self control. Her tearful cries sounded in the outer offices, where the staff gave each other satisfied nods.

“Welcome to my school,” the Headmaster said, and brought the strap down again.

— Frenulum

Tie-Mates

It wasn’t a policy. It grew naturally.

We discourage cliques and in-groups at the school, but a certain social hierarchy remains. I doubt such things can ever be eliminated. And one year, just by happenstance, four of the most popular girls — the queens of the realm, so to speak — wore their long hair in elaborate, careful braids.

It didn’t take long for others in their circle to emulate the practice, nor all that much longer for aspiring Juniors and Sophomores to notice that “all the cool girls” wore plaits and weaves and other detailed, painstaking styles, and to follow along.

They even formed pairs, each to do up the other’s hair in ever more elaborate ways. Tartlet couples primped each other before school every day, like 18th-century men-o’-war’s-men before the watch. Bobby pins became almost a form of currency.

Now, perhaps nine or ten years after this organic growth began, there’s not a lass in the student body who doesn’t sport a French braid, or Dutch, or an inverted one, or a chain or feather or fishtail or waterfall, or one of those elaborate styles where fine braids circle around the head and bind up other hair along the way. There’s nothing in the dress code about it. It’s just how to look here, to fit in. And fitting in is so vital to girls this age.

I had nothing to do with it — none of the faculty did — but I do highly approve.

During training, it makes a girl’s pretty little head so much easier to grip.

— Frenulum

Thanks to my girls’ high school insider TL, who introduced me to the notion of primping pairs of tartlets. That bit is not fictional.

Condensed

She took the golden box in her hands and knelt. There was no reason to kneel except that she was thinking of him, which was enough. Sometimes, when she saw him in public, her knees just started to bend, and she had to catch herself.

She opened the lid. She drew breath, concentrated, meditated, centered her thoughts.

“My lover,” she said, breathing into the box, starting with the simpler words. “My mate. My partner.” Each word drifted into the box; of course, it was not the breath, or the articulation, but the idea that settled down. The concepts began to blend as she added them.

“My best friend,” she added with heartfelt simplicity. “My sex.” Moisture grew in her pussy, and her nipples began to stiffen. “My belovèd. My soulmate. My equal. My perfect match. My mirror. My one.” Her words fell into the swirling mix of thoughts in the golden box, causing the blended ideas to spin and intertwine, each one coloring the others.

Her thighs glistened, and her voice, though soft, was deliberate and emphatic. “My lord,” she spoke. “Law. King. Liege. Center. Rule.” The turbulence of mingled ideas in the box was beautiful and entrancing. “Universe. Purpose. Reason. Everything.” Her quim flooded, nipples strained, body trembled. The pace of her words grew slower. “Teacher. Daddy. Authority. Guide. Fixer. Mentor. Trainer. Commander. My path. My life.“

The box was full to the edge, wisps of ideas starting to curl over the edges; she gently herded them back inside. She leaned closer, her lips almost touching the glowing storm of thoughts.

“Master,” she whispered. As the word flew into the box the mixture roiled and it was all she could do to keep it confined. “Owner,” she added, and quickly, with all her might, closed the lid on the burgeoning brilliance inside.

The pressure of meaning strove to burst the confines of the box. She held it closed with her hands and then, fearing her strength was not enough, sat on the box. Against her bare bottom it was fiercely hot, welcome, remindful.

After a time, the box cooled and the pressure against the lid faded. She rose, knelt again, and took up the box in her hands. Carefully, she opened it. She bent her head to the box, and inhaled the single thing it now contained.

She stood, and went to find him, so that she might speak his name.

“Sir.”

— Frenulum

From and for my belovèd.

Prevalence

Suppose we could somehow filter out most explicit images on the net (and boy-oh-boy there are sure some people who want to).

Eliminate all professional photography. Yikes! All hard-core. All couples.

Banish any photo in lingerie or costumes or swimsuits.

Rule out bedroom and kitchen and living-room scenes; forbid outdoor photography.

Suppose there were no postings left except: naked teens-and-twenties girls alone in cluttered, messy bathrooms, snapping their own mirror reflections with digital cameras and cell phones.

I believe there would still be more images posted every day than any one person could ever get through.

— Frenulum

Magic

The student wizard surveyed with great satisfaction the three naked girls kneeling before him. Their sexual hunger was evident in their faces, eyes following his every move. Any fourth-year could make a powerful love potion; he had trebled the lust-producing ingredients, and the effect on the girls was clear in their quivering bodies and honey-wet thighs.

The girl to his left was his daily companion, almost annoyingly self-confident, saved by her true genius. In the middle, a slim Chinese import with an incongruous but fetching north-country accent. To his right, his best mate’s sister, naïve but excited. Two of them were virgins, and seemed the most eager of the three.

He had used the Alopeciatus spell to remove the pussy hair from two of the girls, and their bare lips pouted and glistened. He had left a ginger exclamation mark on the third girl’s mons as a pretty, distinctive ornament.

One last spell. It was forbidden to practice self-altering magic, because of the inherent risk, but rules had never stopped him. He pointed the wand down at his own body. Erecto equinus! he cried. The girls’ widening eyes reflected the impressive result.

Power corrupts. Time to feed the witches.

— Frenulum

Note: I’ve never been interested in fanfic. I respect other authors’ ideas, and have enough voices in my own head not to care about borrowing someone else’s. However, this scene popped whole into my head last Saturday, and I thought I might as well write it down. My apologies to the creator.

Quite a bargain

She went shopping with a friend on her lunch hour. She found the skirt on clearance, a pleated plaid mini unlike anything in her wardrobe. She held it up for appraisal.

“Where would you wear that?” the friend asked, instead of coming right out and saying it was far too short.

“I don’t know. Nowhere, really. I just think it’s cute.” And it was $9.96, practically free. She bought it.

At home that night, she slipped out of her suit coat, skirt, and heels. It was a stay-home night: jeans and a tee would be about right. She dug out denims and tossed them on the bed, then sat there and pulled on some plain white ankle socks.

She was starting to unbutton her white dress blouse when she heard the front door. “Oh, I’ll show him my new skirt,” she thought, and reached for the bag.

---

His first glimpse of her was in the bedroom, where in a white blouse, a kilt of barely more than bun length, and anklets, she was bent over a dresser drawer.

Twenty years fell away in a heartbeat. Junior year of high school, first day. The new transfer student. Her uniform kilt far too short for the rules (the staff would promptly see to that).

Bending at the waist to put something on the floor of her locker.

White panties taut across what had theretofore been only a rumor of a dream of a mystery.

The image branded on his mind, fuel for every session alone in the bathroom all that year.

Senior year. Spring. Asking her to the Prom while his three closest friends peeked around the corner at them, making side bets on whether or not he could speak to her at all.

---

She lay on her back, sweat-soaked, breathing hard. Hair was stuck to her face and neck and shoulders. The bed was a soggy wreck.

She was dazed, and in-a-good-way sore in certain places, and happy.

“What got into you?” she asked.

“I know what got into you,” he replied with an exagerated wiggle of the eyebrows.

“No, really.”

“Oh…” he said. “I was just thinking about… love at first sight.”

— Frenulum

A curse

To the parent pushing the double-wide two-passenger six-cup-holder WiFi-hot-spot-enabled off-road-capable armor-plated eight-wheel stroller through the narrow aisles of a museum exhibit:

May your children be disappointments, move back into the basement of your cookie-cutter suburban big-box, eat all your Cheetos, and completely neglect you when the premature dementia that clearly already infects your meager excuse for brains finally takes hold and leaves you drooling and uncomprehending. And may you dimly remember running into me with your me-first behemoth and wonder if it all started going downhill then.

— Frenulum

Y’all

A follow-up to my comment on “you guys” and “y’all” in A concentration of linguistic peeves.

I was in the Southern U.S. a few days ago, and heard a variant on “y’all” that was new to me — it quite made sense, given the structure of the language, but I just hadn’t heard it before.

A police officer said: “Y’all enjoy y’all-selves today!”

<grin>

I love language.

— Frenulum

Urban rose

Without warning, he held out his hand. “Give me your panties.”

Shocked, she hesitated. “What, here? Right now? But I —” She glanced at the rear-view mirror, and caught the cabbie watching her.

His hand never wavered, but he said nothing more.

Blushing, cautious of exposure, she reached under her skirt and slowly worked her panties down her legs. When they came into view, she checked the mirror again and blushed harder. Finally, she slipped her panties past her heels and, after a second’s pause, placed them in his open hand.

He regarded the morsel of pink cotton and white lace for a moment; he opened the side window and tossed her panties out of the cab.

Before she could react with surprise, he spoke. “Orders are to be obeyed. Don’t hesitate, don’t evaluate, don’t wonder. Just act, instantly.”

Meekly: “Yes, Sir.”

“You’ll have to handle the Directors’ presentation today without your panties. I hope the lesson was worth the price.”

The cab sped on, the driver watching the back seat from time to time.

An hour later, a grey-haired gentleman on his morning walk spied the pretty pink panties lying on the curb. “Ah, those were the days,” he thought, and smiled.

— Frenulum

(Inspired by an actual such observation, as interpreted by my belovèd.)

Independence Day

On their tenth or perhaps eleventh date, he took her to the Capitol lawn to watch the fireworks.

They spread out a blanket among thousands of others; enjoyed their picnic and their wine, and waited for the sky to darken. As it got cooler, they sat close together, enjoying the warmth and touch.

When the first rocket exploded, they clapped along with everyone, and then joined in chorus after chorus of appreciative “Oooh” and “Aaah.” The Capitol made a beautiful foreground for the display, and one could almost forget the steady assault on liberty, rights, and dignity perpetrated beneath its golden dome on every day but this one.

As they walked slowly through dense crowds back to his car, she found a bolder, more explicit voice than she had hitherto.

“People liken orgasms to fireworks,” she said, blushing unseen in the darkness. “For me it’s more like being near a cozy fire — warm and comfortable, not so dramatic or explosive.”

He was silent for a few steps. She had grown used to his quiet thoughtfulness, and no longer thought him distant for it.

“Perhaps,” he said, “You should come home with me tonight.” He squeezed her hand a little harder. It was a decision, not a question, and she felt her panties grow instantly damp.

Later, it was clear to her. It had been like a blue chrysanthemum burst — Oooooh! — turning suddenly into a gold one bursting so hard that it filled the sky from edge to edge — Aaaaaah! — and then at the end, each of a hundred long golden streamers had flared into an explosion — Ohhhhh! Ohhhhh! Ohhhhh! — so bright it almost hurt to look at, the sky a halo of brilliance and noise, overwhelming and awesome.

When her breathing was normal and her body stopped shaking, she said, “I want to do something for you I’ve never done.”

Later, she thought it was like the smell of gunpowder that hung over the Capitol lawn: spicy and bitter, lingering, adult, not-quite-pleasant but oh, so desirable.

With shining strands stretching between her lips, she said, “Your cum tastes like fireworks.”

— Frenulum

Generations

The young man sat on the edge of his grandfather’s bed, listening with the respect owed to age and rank.

“…but my grandfather,” the old man was saying, “Had more than one hundred wives. A hundred! Can you believe it?”

“Truly, that is an astonishing number,” said his grandson, his tone giving nothing of belief or disbelief away. His deference to his grandfather was at the very least courteous, and perhaps more than that.

“He had two wives with long fingernails,” the elder recalled, “So that when he wanted his back scratched, he could have it done by twenty fingers.”

“Indeed?”

“And four wives whose fingers were pampered and softened every day, so that such a pleasure could be followed by the soothing caress of eight delicate hands.”

“I see.”

The old man’s eyes sparkled with a memory of youth. “And he had three beautiful wives whose mouths were like — like oiled silk, he used to say, who together would cause the most astonishing…” His voice trailed to quietness as his eyes closed.

His grandson watched with affection for a while, and then stole away. His thoughts were on a girl named Fatima, whose lively, challenging eyes, sweet face, and modest bearing had captivated him. When his time came to rule, he would have her brought to dance the hrahm-zheht for him, and if her body were as pleasing as her face, he would take her to wife. His only wife, for he felt that one was all a man might need.

Lying against his pillows, the sovereign called for his twenty-third and latest bride. A certain thing she did with her little sharp teeth could make a man… He dozed, waiting for her to come to him.

— Frenulum

Trademark

She always wears a bow in her hair. A big one, high against her crown — not absurdly so, not little-girlish or floppy, but visible from the front, adorning neatly drawn-back locks.

In her office or the courtroom, subdued and professional, coordinated with her suit much as her colleagues might choose a necktie.

On the weekends, more playful: a rainbow or a spray of polka-dots or simply a bright, happy pink.

Always a proud declaration of her femininity, no matter the circumstances, no matter how serious her mien.

A collection of such quirks is eccentricity. A single one, such as hers, is a trademark.

I allow her to keep her trademark bow whenever I take from her what I demand. With a nice pair of heels it makes a lovely outfit.

— Frenulum

Thought

Each test well-ordered.
Invading scanners aimed
With with careful skill:
Blood and dye; flesh turned beacon
Narrowcasting to the expert eye.

Each word well-reasoned,
With kindness seasoned or not,
As is the giver’s wont. Spoken
Quietly in the dark, or with ringing
Magnet, hammer, tremor, spark.

A draught, a bolus, another prick
Adding or drawing. A cocktail
Of a nature unsought. Panel,
Figure, score; abnormal: out of range.
White council, gathered as for war.

Each diagnosis,
Each trial,
Each guess,
Each given drop
Another thread high-arcing,
Settling. Tightening.
Singly, soft and light:
Bearable. But:

Together, as I am aground,
Leaving me
Gulliver, helpless bound.

— Frenulum

Well, that’s what he said

As she walked through the hallways, a murmur followed her, growing stronger with each passing second. It was composed of gasps, cries of astonishment, and whispered speculation.

She blushed a little bit, but she had made her mind up before leaving for school.

As she gathered her books at her locker, she could hear the background noise. She could sense other girls gathering at the intersections to peek down her hallway, to see if the rumors were true.

When a friend dared to approach, a question clear on her face, she dismissed her with a look.

By the time all the students were settled into their seats in Calc II, everyone had heard. Even the teachers.

Mr. Daniels faced the class. “Miss Anderson?” he began.

She rose and stood beside her desk; she met his questioning, accusing gaze.

“Would you tell me, please, why you have chosen to disrupt the school today by parading about in your panties?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “My father saw me headed out the door this morning. And he said ‘Angela! You are not going to school in that skirt!’” There were some muffled giggles from the class. “And I was carefully raised, sir, to be a perfectly dutiful daughter.”

— Frenulum