Girl by Eden Bradley

me—wants to know.
    “Stay still,” the slave boy warns me before he snaps the handle end of my leash to a metal loop on one side of the desk and walks from the room.
    I do look around then. It’s a classic schoolroom, with the desks perfectly lined up. There are others in the seats in front of me: a girl with long blonde hair woven into a single braid, a delicately built boy with fair skin and dark hair, another girl who’s chin-length hair is bright pink—she has a pair of red roses tattooed on the back of each shoulder. And in the front of the room is a boy—no, clearly a man, despite his predicament—who is so spectacularly beautiful he takes my breath away. He has smooth, golden skin, a hard-packed muscular body with strong thighs and shoulders and a broad chest.
    But it’s his face that makes me feel as if I might melt into a pool of pure liquid fire. A finely sculpted jaw and chin, high, high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes that look even more golden than his skin, from where I sit. His mouth is strong and incredibly lush at the same time, a hard pout on it, and I can hardly blame him. He is mounted on a cross beside the teacher’s desk, arms spread, wrists cuffed by heavy metal shackles. His knees are drawn up and bent so that his feet are flat against the crossbar of the big wooden cross, ankles heavily shackled. And despite the tall, pointed dunce cap on his head, he is glaring angrily at the room, which may be the most enticing thing about him.
    I have never seen a slave with such fire in his eyes. With such tension in every beautiful muscle while he is made to hang there as if crucified, and I suddenly understand that he is as impaled as I am, hanging from the cross. He is like some kind of caged beast up there, a primal rage just barely contained, and I’m fascinated.
    Oh, to touch him… My fingers itch with the need to feel that fine, golden skin. My mouth burns with the yearning to press kisses on his dusky nipples, one of which is pierced. To wrap my lips around his thick, golden-headed cock, which is every bit as beautiful as the rest of him, and just as hard, the head so swollen, his lust barely contained. I wonder what a terror he would be if he weren’t chastised, bound, his ass skewered. A shiver runs through my entire body.
    To have that beautiful beast on me. In me.
    Suddenly the door slams open and I jump, my pussy jarring against the hard wooden shaft inside me. It hurts, but I welcome it. Want it. Want the Master, who has just entered the room, to see what a good Girl I am, impaled and still in my seat. But I have not been a good Girl, lusting after this new slave at the front of the room. The bad slave.
    Oh yes. Even better.
    I bite my lip and try to calm down.
    The Master walks in and sits down at the desk, paging through a notebook, ignoring us so completely he might have been alone in the room. He is stunning, as always, with his slightly mussed hair, his fine bone structure, his large hands. Even the crispness of his shirt seems erotic to me, revealing his tattoos almost carelessly—although I am sure this man does nothing carelessly.
    I want to fidget, for reasons I can’t explain. Why do I feel a need for him to notice me, when I am no one in this House? I glance over at the bad slave and see his expression hasn’t changed. But no, I’m wrong about that. He is silently fuming more than ever, his nostrils flaring. I squirm the tiniest bit simply to feel the dildo inside my squeezing, wet cunt. To imagine it is this slave’s rigid cock.
    The slave, and not the Master?
    What is wrong with me? I am half in love with my lovely new Master already—more than half—and yet this slave boy has so easily distracted me. My gaze flicks back to the Master, who, as if he senses my disobedience, looks back at me, then rises to his feet. Keeping his gaze on mine, he moves toward the bad slave, one of those long, wooden pointer sticks in his hand.
    He asks me, “Does this slave’s