No one else at St. Nicholas was adventurous enough to discover the abandoned bus station near campus. That suited Lola just fine. She took a detour there as often as she could on the long walk home from the cafeteria to her dorm. It was her ticket out of purgatory.
“Anybody home?” called Lola. Hearing nothing but echoes, she ventured into the open-air building until she found some privacy behind large chunks of ripped up concrete.
Lola had been thinking of spanking herself all day, and today she was getting some extra help. From the back of her skirt, she pulled out a long black riding crop that she had snuck from Sister Gertrude’s class. She pulled her skirt up over her butt.
Tap, tap, tap.
The crop sent gentle stings of pleasure up and down her body. She put her books on the ground and placed her foot up on a flat slab of concrete, which was a little smaller than a twin bed. She lifted her skirt again and wedged her cotton panties back to expose more of her flesh.
Lola spanked that badass with increasing authority.
Her cotton panties—white with powdery blue dots—were the only thing she wore that weren’t regulation uniform. The underwear didn’t go unnoticed by her classmates, who whispered behind their hands about her. She liked being viewed as a campus oddity.
Lola hadn’t even known there were colleges with uniforms, and she found wearing it suffocating. But St. Nicholas was the only place Daddy would pay the tuition, for the time being. “I know you’re stuck with those tattoos, but if you come home without that ungodly metal in your nose, we’ll talk,” he told her.
The first thing Lola did at St. Nicholas was get a piercing under her bottom lip. Then she researched every last sub-clause of the school’s dress code to see what she could get away with. She stretched her white socks up to her knees and rolled her black skirt high up on her waist. Her exposed thighs were powerful and glowed golden from all the time she spent studying in the hayfields. She wore big nerdy glasses and was particularly fond of the bright red laces she switched on to her white tennis shoes.
The red laces matched the color of her fingernails, which were sharp and now sticking into her skin as she squeezed her ass cheek tight in her hand. Her underwear clung to her wet cunt and she could no longer resist it. The cotton rubdown felt so good that she had to take a seat.
Lola took the handle of the crop and ran it back and forth along the damp groove visible through her underwear. When she was ready to let her pussy breathe she found her lips fat and happy. She pressed and massaged her clit deep into her folds.
It felt good, but she knew she needed more to cum. She swung the crop against her inner thighs.
She winced with pain.
Having a fucked-up past was a boring explanation for sexual deviancy. Lola’s past was normal enough. But she did feel the threat of punishment any time she was enjoying herself, through all stages of her life: sneaking a treat before dinner, stealing a few swigs of bourbon, or being caught on the couch with another girl without two feet on the floor. She was grounded so often that she began to like the solitude—crave it, even—which made her feel guilty. She began to dabble in her own forms of self-punishment. It started out somewhat harmless, making indented shapes in her skin with her nails—hearts and crosses—but inevitably became sexual. Lola was introduced to pleasure through pain. The first time she had an orgasm started with her pinching her nipples until they turned purple.
Welts were beginning to form on Lola’s thighs as she started to breathe heavily. Her body was becoming increasingly sensitive to the touch, and even the slightest tap of the crop overwhelmed her senses.
The welts looked like strings on an instrument, and Lola transformed the crop into a bow, which she slid through her lips until it disappeared. She hit all the right notes as she approached her crescendo.
Lola needed something inside her. She bent over on her knees, grinding them into the rough concrete, and put the handle of the crop in her mouth to get it wet. She didn’t really need any help as the handle slipped into her soaked pussy with ease. She took the thin end of the crop and jerked the handle inside her.
She turned onto her back again so she could spread out and plunge the crop handle as deep as it would go. As her orgasm began its inevitable slide, she found an internal solace that she wished would last longer. Her guilt would not stay away too long, and even as her body came to its earthly senses she felt the need to give herself a few last slaps with the crop.
With her body resting and her eyes closed, Lola suddenly thought of a quote from Sister Gertrude. “The fire of purgatory feels the same as the fires of Hell. The difference is the fire of purgatory is purifying.”
She chuckled, thinking that her little getaways were probably not what the Sister had in mind.
About the author: The Junkman is a contributing writer for the MetArt Network, blending his twin passions for erotic storytelling and high-class porn. He shares a range of musings at JunkPixels.com
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