She didn't have long to wonder; her tutor approached and, very formally, offered her his arm. She looked up at him. “Orders, sir?” Her voice squeaked.
"Do your best,” he replied, and smiled, and then led her to a table, a simple wooden rectangle with no grace at all, only strength. “Up,” said, and “stay,” and then he was gone. Leaving her to worry, and to blush as people wandered the lawn, looking at things. And then to marvel, as a few other students were brought in, and some of those strange objects were put into use.
There was one like a rocking-horse that made her squirm-she was so fascinated that Bertha had to raise her voice. A lapse for which she was sure she would have to pay.
In barely the blink of an eye, she was strapped into an Enforcer; this one, she was told, had a stronger bite. As intended, the thought sent a shiver of excitement through her-Bertha had vastly understated the case.
"And just to keep things interesting,” the old woman went on, and motioned for someone to come near, “we've decided to test you two at once."
Carolyn saw who was approaching and groaned.
As Tom came close, though, she saw the absence of his usual cruel grin, and the mincing way he walked, and felt the slightest bit sorry for him. And then Bertha made him kneel, and she absolutely grinned. She looked down, and for one moment saw, not Tom, but her ex. Wha-at? God, bad as Tom is, he's so much stronger than that. He, at least, had the courage to come here. She smiled almost fondly, and Tom faltered, stared at her.
He shook his head and bent over her breasts; she felt his breath on her, hot, then he opened his mouth wide and engulfed her-not her nipple, as she'd expected, but as much of her as he could. Her own mouth fell open in surprise; her eyes closed at the sensation.
The Enforcer sent its warning thrumming through her. Right. Can't let him win. She clenched every muscle tight, held her breath, tried not to feel her breast swelling to fill Tom's mouth, the strange new pressures of his cheeks, the edges of his teeth, the way his tongue probed and pushed, lifting her to the roof of his mouth, hard and comparatively cool.
"Time,” Bertha said, and Tom released her.
She wished she could sigh, didn't dare-she was far too close. And it would be no “transgression” this time, but failure.
"She has two, you know,” the old woman said, and Tom tried to smile. Caro felt sorry for him; his test, whatever it was, must have been bothering him, or he wouldn't have looked so hang-dog. But then he turned his gaze to her, and licked his lips, and the Enforcer scolded before she knew she'd felt anything at all, and she decided she'd better pay attention to her own testing.
This time he went after the nipple, biting down so hard it made her scream, even with his lips covering his teeth. He tugged and sucked like he was trying to tear it off, pulling her breast up and away from her chest, then turned his head to twist the tender nub of flesh, and then, without giving her any slack at all, started grinding his teeth, the bottom row going one way and that while the top remained in one place.
She dug her nails into the table, heard a moan escape, felt tears fall, but all that was distant, unimportant. All her attention was on not moving, not coming, not screaming, not … oh, God … the Enforcer's shocks grew closer, and she so desperately wanted to give in, but her tutor wanted her to do her best, and she could still resist, so she must, all she had to do was not breathe, not move, not feel…
"Time."
Wait. Wait.
"Tom!"
Wait…
He let go reluctantly, suckling until the last, and she shuddered and tried to stay still until he was gone. Hands unbuckled the Enforcer and pulled it away, and she finally, carefully, released her breath. Her crotch was sopping.
Bertha smiled. “You pass."
They gave her no time to rest, but ushered off to an area laid out like a children's playroom. The Law instructor asked her to demonstrate certain activities-the test was that he referred to them by the laws they broke. “Demonstrate, if you will, a violation of Texas Penal Code 21.06.” She thought she did fairly well.
And then she went to Grace, who laughed as she held out a pointer and motioned to Tom, now bound to a St. Christopher's cross. “Can you make him come in three minutes or less?"
Carolyn looked at the display, then the pointer, and back. He's not ticklish at all. Good control. They'd shared enough classes for her to know that. Likes French, but that's no help for me. She remembered a scene in the dining hall, the look on his face when he'd sucked Sherry dry. And the look in his eyes earlier, when he had helped test her.
"May I use another method?"
Grace made a lovely, graceful gesture-Carolyn tried to memorize it-inviting her to explain.
"I think Tom would come in seconds if I offered him my breasts.” She trailed a finger down between them, then used both hands to press the flesh together. “Wouldn't you, Tom?"
He didn't answer … in words.
Grace actually applauded, as did several others from various spots across the lawn.
She was sent to rest for a bit after that, kneeling in the first position she had learned, a hood over her head so she could neither see nor hear what went on around her. It always frightened her, the not knowing. She figured they knew that, that this might be yet another test, so did her best to remain still and calm.
It wasn't easy, with grass tickling her crotch, and myriad breezes whenever people walked by, and the occasional brush of a robe or darting hand. She tried, and told herself that was all she could do, and waited for someone to do something. Anything. Please, please, please, someone-let me come!
Please, sir.
There were different people near when the hood was removed, and she was led, blinking, to a stage: Sherry, on something like a gymnast's bars, her breasts offered to anyone who walked beneath. Rachel, a quiet girl whose bed was near Carolyn's, straddling a balance beam, with weights on her ankles to increase the pressure, and probably a vibrator within. Dave, another cut-up, though not as mean as Tom, crawling on the grass…
She wished she could stare, but knew better. Besides, the stage was fascinating, too. “Since you have proved so able a dramatist,” her instructor drawled, “you may enact a scene from history. Using,” a wave, “these props."
That seemed to be permission for her to look around, so she did. There wasn't much choice for setting: a block of stone, a narrow wood table, or a white cloth she could drape over either, or lay on the stage floor. And no other “actors,” so it would have to be a solo scene. Something out of History … Most of the stories she liked best had many more than a single person. Maybe the props would be more help. She found dildos of what looked like ivory and jade, obsidian and granite, rough wood and polished. Plugs, harnesses, clamps and clips, whips and scourges and things for which she had no names. And in a box beneath those, she found “costumes"-belts and hats and masks and shoes.
"Curtain in five,” the instructor said, and she made her choice: a gold mask, a headdress with black wig attached, a wide gold and cloisonne belt. Wriggling out of her school clothing took longer than she'd hoped, as did struggling into the new gear. And then there was a moment of panic as she realized she'd forgotten her only prop, and had to dig around for it, but when the instructor called “Curtain” she was ready.