Juliette van der Molen

Read Part I here.

She saw him, but he didn’t know that. And that was fine with her. Annie wondered if he would ask her but he didn’t, and she knew he wouldn’t the minute his mouth closed over her. It’s not that he was predictable, but let’s be honest. At the most elemental level, he was male. And that made some things dependable.

Truth of it is, she was glad he didn’t ask. Because if he had, she would have had to give him the predictable good girl answer she always did. Annie hadn’t misbehaved…yet. And she wasn’t about to take up smoking, or doing anything she shouldn’t be, but damn it was tiresome to always be so good.

“Okay if I hang with my friends to have lunch again after class, or did you want to meet up?”

She hung onto the pole above in the subway, tiles whizzing by, chewing her gum-hoping like hell he wouldn’t say he wanted to meet. Honestly, she didn’t know if he’d take the bait at all, but either way, there was a back up plan that would likely end up pleasing them both. It was risky, no matter what she did, it could just piss him off–but she was hoping she knew him well enough at this point to take the chance.

He didn’t even look up from his phone. “No, I’ve got some things to take care of after I drop you off. Let’s just meet back home.”

Had to give him credit. He certainly was playing it cool. He glanced sideways more than once at the bag, right where they were, in the front pocket. But, something in his voice told her he was watching closer than she thought. It rattled her.

She was replaying this conversation when Jay and Amy climbed out on the fire escape with her after the morning session. Annie couldn’t slam my gear into the locker fast enough and get out into the air. Students weren’t supposed to be out here and they knew it. Lambach had waved her finger at them plenty through the window telling them to get off and move on. Teachers were supposed to do that.

“Jesus, what the hell with that model!?”

It was Amy, leaning against the railing shaking her head and laughing.

“It’s not like formal you know, they let them bring in props. It’s…I don’t know…creative maybe?” Jay shrugged.

“But, really? A baguette? On the end of a sword? And isn’t that like a weapon anyway? How safe is that?” Amy countered.

Annie rolled her eyes and just let them go at it. Already Jay was losing interest as he fished a smashed granola bar out of his pocket. She plunked my bag down on the stair and sat down. The packet felt cool against her fingers.

Glancing up and down the street there were cabs, tourists with cameras, delivery people on bikes, weaving in and out of pedestrians. If he was coming to meet her he always came around the corner by Cafe Europa. Nothing.

When the lighter clicked they both stopped talking. She took a deep drag and concentrated on steadying her hand. God, it had been years. The smoke pulling in deep, the smell, that smell…bringing her back to a time when she actually was misbehaved. And it made her smile.

“Are you serious with that, Annie?” Amy whined.

She pulled her knees up and pressed one heavy booted foot up against the escape. Annie shrugged.

“What do you care?” She glanced down the street again, looking for him. Maybe he wasn’t going to show after all.

Jay snapped his fingers close to my face and she jumped.

“Jerkface.”

He laughed. “Least you could do is share.”

She pointed to the bag. Well, now at least she was in it with someone.

“That’s illegal you know.” Amy continued.

Now it was Jay’s turn to glare at her while he lit up.

“So go back inside, where it’s safe. You know, with the baguettes and the swords.” She didn’t need to hear it from Amy today.

_________________________
He actually thought he would surprise her and take her to lunch. But, running late seemed to have its advantages. And there she was, now gesturing as the other girl left and her and some guy hung out on the fire escape, both of them lit up and laughing.

What the fuck she was doing? She never seemed like she cared so much about fitting in or doing anything special to make friends. But she sure seemed to be laughing it up with this guy. It was tempting, to think of calling her cell, seeing her face when he asked what she was up to.
He wanted to walk up there and grab her by her long ponytail and yank her right back in that window. She looked like she usually did after a painting session, exhilarated, up for it. Her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes were bright. She stood now and the breeze caught the black edge of her short skirt, flipping it against her fishnets. He knew that smooth skin under there, every curve and fold. And right now he’d like to lay his hands on the back of her thighs and ass until it was screaming red. She might think she’d like it, but he didn’t know how long that would last. Outside of the play they’d done together he’d never had to punish her. And he knew enough to know that he could give her a paddling that was not a good time.

He saw the cop coming before they did. Sipped his coffee as he heard the shout up to the fire escape, and saw the cop disappear into the school. Scott shook his head. Well it wasn’t going to cost him, it was going to cost her, now and later. He drained the last of his coffee and tossed it in the bin. He watched the exchange through the window, the two disappear, and then Annie climbed back out on her own. She had the ticket in her hand, folding it up and unfolding it over and over again, as if it might change the message on it. She turned her head and looked at the building across the street, so he saw her profile. He saw her jaw working and worrying and knew she was chewing her lip.

She looked like she might cry. He wasn’t sorry about that. In fact, she’d better get used to it. They’d never had a ‘no smoking’ rule, but she was a smart girl and she damn well knew that she was supposed to be looking after her health. He didn’t have to micromanage her, but he would manage her.

___________________
The phone buzzed in her pocket and pulled her from her thoughts. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Now a ticket was a real consequence, that was money. That was something she would have to ask for, and explain. Really she’d just wanted…..well, she couldn’t even figure out what it was she wanted. Why did she want to provoke him? They were in this together and she was a willing participant, so what possessed her to think this was a good idea. She could have just asked him. But asked him for what?

It buzzed again and she yanked the zipper down on her hoodie pocket and pulled it out. Daddy. Of course. How did he know when to text her. She slid her finger across the screen and the black text stamped against the white light…just one word….all caps….

BUSTED.

Annie lifted her eyes in the direction of the cafe, but only caught his back as he turned the corner toward the subway entrance. All of it, the look she might give him, the body language they might be able to exchange, completely gone. Suddenly she felt cold inside. Gone was the illicit thrill and the excitement of playing her little game. Now she really did feel bad. And though they’d talked about the possibility of consequences for behavior, she hadn’t had to face any…until now. She knew enough to know that him not waiting for her or telling her to come to him was not a good sign.
And now she had the trip home to think about what was waiting for her.

By: Juliette van der Molen

Writer of completely unladylike erotica and other sundry things. After discovering that people actually do these crazy, kinky things, she began exploring the lifestyle in 1993 and never looked back. She writes about her experience in authority based relationships, BDSM fiction and even the occasional hot sonnet. She is currently the assistant direction for MAsT Central New Jersey and the co-host of a submissive support group (SSASE) in the same area. Her work has appeared in Lit Up, P.S. I Love You, My Erotica.com, and The Junction. You can find her in these publications at: https://medium.com/@juliette.vandermolen and connect with her on Twitter @j_vandermolen and fetlife at: juliette_ .

Good girls will fool you every time, if you let them. Annie was good and no matter how much I looked for cracks in her porcelain I couldn’t find any. Never had to tell her something twice, never saw her lift her chin and look down her nose because she wasn’t happy with some declaration I’d made. I knew she was for me the moment I slipped my hand into hers. We were synergy electrified. 

More often than not she stayed with me weekends and I sent her off to school on Saturday mornings. We had a routine, I dropped her off at the train and met her in the early evening. She’d show up exhausted, tell-tale signs of paint still on her finger tips, maybe the inside of her forearm. But she always greeted me with a smile on her face, stood up on tiptoe and whispered “Daddy” in my ear. The word tumbled off her tongue and slipped in to grab me.  I could hardly wait to get her home, looking down into those dark green eyes and feeling her soft baby breath against my thumb as I pressed the pad deep into the center of her pink lip. When she was charged it was all I could do not to press her up against the car and slide my hand up her skirt and take her right there.

She knew it. Good girl she might be, but that never stopped her from teasing me. I didn’t mind it, because I always got what I wanted in the end.

Lately, though, she was restless. It wasn’t anything she said. No acting out. No misbehaving. But something was different. We were about six months into this dance and I expected there would be adjustments. I was suspicious Friday night when I nearly tripped over her messenger bag. Cursing her carelessness I shoved it to the side with my foot. It wasn’t like her; she usually put things exactly where they belonged. I teased her about her OCD that was extraordinarily selective. It didn’t extend to her cosmetics scattered over the bathroom counter, or the hair ties she was constantly putting in and out of her hair and leaving like bread crumbs all over my house. Well. I never said Annie was perfect, did I? The thought made me smile. I’d take her over my knee before bed and make her repeat the rules while I warmed her. Not for punishment, but for reinforcement. That was always good for both of us.

As I reached out to flip the bag closed I caught the flash of a blue carton and the whiff of something pungent. My fingers slipped in fishing out the tiny box. I didn’t really understand why they were here. I wanted to believe that they belonged to a friend. Isn’t that what kids tried to pass off when they thought they were in trouble? Funny thing was, Annie didn’t smoke and I knew it. I would have smelled it on her, on her clothes, tasted it on her tongue and she never tasted or smelled like any of that. I ran my thumb across the smooth cellophane still intact over the box. Gauloises. Blonde. Well, if she was going to do it, this seemed like something she would choose. French cigarettes.

I didn’t want her smoking, but I admit the thought of catching her mid-drag, the look on her face when her auburn eyebrows would shoot up to crinkle that smooth forehead, was appealing. 

Illicit. 

That’s what she was for me in our fantasies. And I liked her that way. Still, that fantasy was a far cry from her actually damaging her health. I needed to bring it up with her, but it was late, and she had an early train ride in the morning. I dropped the box back in the bag and buckled the soft leather over the top.

“Daddy?”

I looked up from my crouch and there she was, standing in the doorway, the light from the hallway filtering through her sheer baby doll nightie. I could see the curves of her figure a dark silhouette, one hip jutted out to tempt me. She pressed the tips of her painted toes against the dark wood floorboards and arched her foot absently. Her long hair parted on either side of her head tucked behind her ears in two low ponytails, the edges curling just above the swell of her breasts.

“Ready for bed?”

She nodded slowly as I stood and walked toward her. Her gaze traveled past me and down to the bag neatly pushed against the baseboard. Her eyes narrowed for a second. She blinked and looked at me and I had to hand it to her. She played the innocent card well. I’d never caught her in anything remotely like a lie and I wondered now if she might not have me wrapped around her finger, after all. I bristled inside at that thought.

But right now, she was looking at me and pressing those perfect white teeth into the center of her lower lip. I couldn’t hold myself in anymore. I reached out and placed my palm flat against her breastbone and pressed her until she backed up against the wall, my mouth coming down over her hard. I would devour her. She tasted minty from her night time routine. Her hair smelled like lavender, but it mingled with something musky and I knew this was her desire. My knee pressed roughly between her legs and she slid onto it, grinding softly. Her lips parted under me, over me and locked us tight together.

Breaking the kiss I looked down into her eyes, lids already at half mast, eyelashes sweeping soft against her freckles. Her breathing came quick and needy. I pressed into her cleft harder and she responded, her hips rocking, her shoulders still pressed to the wall. She was hypnotic. And she was mine. All woman. All girl. When my hand closed around the soft flesh of her throat she lolled her head to the side, groaning softly. 

Whatever she was or wasn’t up to, I would figure it out later. But tonight, Daddy had needs and they were going to be satisfied.

Ten girls line up precisely with the tips of their ballet flats just brushing against a thick wool rug. The slight flare of their simple black dresses bumped against each other connecting them like paper dolls I once folded and cut as a child. I’m smiling because I’m pleased that they appear so poised and deferential. They stare ahead and I gift them with a little nod they’ll only catch as I walk the line. I should have brought a notebook to write my observations. But, it always seems so much more effective to let them think that you remember absolutely everything. Mostly, I do. Age hasn’t caught me completely yet.

I can see the girl midway, Camille, if I remember right and she’s struggling to hold herself together. The curve of her full lower lip is trembling with a threat to break into sob. I’m hoping she will stop and I focus on each girl around her, I don’t want this to be harder on them than it needs to be, not today. It’s been a difficult trial for them all, as a first whipping generally tends to be. The room is quiet, not just silent. It is hushed like a breath cut short. It’s as if all the sound has been siphoned out and replaced with reverence. As I round the corner of the last girl, I feel a silent sigh of relief wash through them. It ripples soft like a breeze through connected aspens. They are undoubtedly connected to one another today.

Behind them, each skirt is tucked up neatly under the belt at their waists. The whipping warden has done her duty seriously, I can see that right away. Afternoon sun shines through the floor to ceiling windows and presses hard against these virgin backsides. They are dotted with welts from ass to mid thigh. As I reach Camille, I can see the reasons for her trembling and it’s a wonder that she hasn’t broken down completely, but perhaps that happened earlier. I motion to the warden and she is next to me as I gesture to this display of angry handiwork.

“Explain.”

“She was resistant.”

The clipped reply is not apologetic and I nod. She knows damn well that this is a benchmark whipping. Something is not right here and I’m not sure if it’s to do with Camille or my devoted acolyte, Greta. I take a deep breath and try to tamp down my anger. The most difficult part about what I do is maintaining appearances. I’d like to slap the warden across her face, but we’ll have to have that discussion privately. When I leave the room I hear Greta bark at the girls and command them to cover themselves before shuffling them into the dining hall.

They aren’t really girls, they’re women. Somehow when they consent to be called ‘girl’ upon entry, it shucks a kind of hardness from them. As I sit in my study now to make notes on each girl, I press their names into my mind, even though they are numbered for now. Some will leave here with new names, if they choose. It’s funny how a change in name can redirect the whole carriage of a person. I should know, I was once named Flora Potter, a ridiculous sounding name to me now.

Even so, I’ll never forget the first time Michel called me ‘girl’.

He took me by surprise, but he’d done that the minute he walked into the room.  It was a shabby room with painted second hand furniture and sagging mattress on the bed. I had a small sink in the corner and shared the bathroom down the hall with a dozen other women. We got along well enough and it wasn’t as if I lived there full time like some of them. I was going to university then, paying my way through college with what my mother would have called dirty money. But, to me it felt empowering. I was a sex worker because I chose it and I chose it for a lot of reasons. I could make a lot of money quickly. My money went to education and then to savings.

When Michel followed me up to the room I could feel the jealous stares heating up my back. No one had ever seen him there before. It was his first and last time in the whorehouse, he told me later. He never would tell me why he ended up there in the first place. Most of the men that came up to my room were not men I would have wanted to see outside of work. There was usually a reason that they chose to pay for sex. Some of them were awkward. Some of them were ugly. Some of them were impatient.

Michel was none of these.

He stood so tidy in my room.  I almost didn’t want my surroundings to touch him, as if they might tarnish him in some way. His navy blue pants were pressed with a knife crease, his wool vest buttoned up neatly with a flash of purple silk in the pocket. He looked at me seriously behind his wire rimmed glasses.

“So, what would you like?” I began in the typical way.

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small leather book not much bigger than the palm of his hand. He fished in again and placed a fat roll of cash on the bedside table. I remember trying not to open my mouth like an idiot. He could have almost whatever he wanted for that, I thought. I stared at the cash and he flipped open his book.

“Stand there.” He said.

He was writing and I thought, ok, this must be some arty thing.

“Would you like me to pose?”

“No, girl.” He snapped.

I was quiet then and more than a little bit confused. He wrote a few more sentences and snapped the book shut, tossing it onto the table.

“I’d like to spank you.”

“I’m not one of those women. There are others to choose from.”

“But, I think you are.”

I shook my head as he drew closer to me. His fingertips found my chin and as I lifted my eyes to his I knew I would not say no again. His mouth quirked up in a smile beneath his short, dark mustache.

“Let’s have a try, shall we? If you don’t like it then I’ll leave you with the money and you’ll never see me again.”

He brushed his lips onto mine and an electric wave of static shot into my mouth. I opened beneath him without a thought. He drew my lower lip into his mouth and suckled it between his teeth.

“Good girl.” He whispered.

I trembled into him. I’d always steered clear of SM clients. I heard through the thin walls sometimes, the things the other women went through. It definitely wasn’t for me. But this, this was a spanking. He didn’t even have any tools, no toy bag—which usually gave those clients away immediately. I hadn’t been spanked since I was a child.

“Yes.”

Before the word was out of my mouth he had settled himself onto the groaning mattress and pulled me down over his knee. He shoved up my short skirt and opened my legs slightly. I wasn’t wearing any panties, as was often the case, it always felt impractical at work.

“Your skirt is too short.” He murmured.

This didn’t require an answer and I wasn’t entirely sure he was even talking to me. Then the spanking began. His hand smacked down on my flesh with a crack loud enough to make me yelp. It hadn’t hurt so much as shocked me. He found a rhythm that lulled me, that felt good. Sting mingled with gentle touch and just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, he would stop. My body began to move, like a puppet on a string. His hand left, and I magnetized, pushed my ass in the air toward him. He was less gentle as we went along and I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. I could have stopped him at any time but the pain was traveling through every extremity and lighting me on fire. I was a pulsing and throbbing nerve compelled to beat against him.

When his fingers parted my lips and drifted up and down my wet slit I pressed my face to his leg in utter embarrassment. Women I knew tolerated this from clients. They did it for the extra money it paid.  But this was pure pleasure. I could feel the glow of my skin and imagined it flashing neon where he had rained his hard blows, beating me like a tribal drum. His breath came harder but he did not speak.  I felt his cock swell against me and he shifted. He slid a finger deep inside me easily, I was not up to the task of pretending I didn’t want this. The pad of his thumb found my clit. He barely touched me, and I pushed back against him.

“Good girl.” He whispered again.

Lust. This was lust.

For a moment, I forgot myself completely and the self control I prided myself on slipped away like water over stones. I squeezed on his finger with my cunt and I rode the soft meaty muscle of his thumb until I gushed and flooded. I didn’t understand the sounds, and that they were coming from me until they stopped.  I slid from his knee when he released me and pulled my knees up to my chest.  I watched as he stood calmly and put the book back in his pocket.  I didn’t understand. I hadn’t done anything for him. Didn’t he want to fuck me? Didn’t he want to at least cum? The questions stuck in my throat and I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.

Michel smiled. He smiled so gentle and kind, like he had all the patience in the world. I could see the bulge still rock hard against his zipper.  I expected for him to demand satisfaction at any moment. Instead, he bent down and kissed my forehead.  His lips lingered there, leaving an impression I would feel for days. Before he left, he placed a thick white business card with raised lettering next to the cash. It had a phone number on it and one word: Michel. No last name. No other particulars.

I thumbed that card inside my pockets for weeks. I ran my fingers across the raised lettering and replayed that day in one long unending loop. I knew I needed to call him.

And I did.

Which is how I left Flora Potter behind, and how I embarked upon my journey to become….

The Governess.

By: Juliette van der Molen

Writer of completely unladylike erotica and other sundry things. After discovering that
people actually do these crazy, kinky things, she began exploring the lifestyle in 1993 and
never looked back. She writes about her experience in authority based relationships,
BDSM fiction and even the occasional hot sonnet. She is currently the assistant direction
for MAsT Central New Jersey and the co-host of a submissive support group (SSASE) in
the same area. Her work has appeared in Lit Up, P.S. I Love You, My Erotica.com, and
The Junction. You can find her in these publications at:
https://medium.com/@juliette.vandermolen and connect with her on Twitter
@j_vandermolen and fetlife at: juliette_ .