The collage of agony and ecstasy part 11
, a dark exploration that left him lightheaded. When she broke away, her eyes held a promise of more.
Lilith came last. She didn’t grip his hair or buttocks. Instead, her palms framed his face, thumbs tracing the tear tracks his cheeks. Her kiss was softer, almost tender, yet devastating in its intimacy. Fifteen seconds of drowning sweetness.
Then, without a word, Sarai, Helmi, Lilith, and Madeline lowered Montagne gently onto the gravel rooftop. His back hit the coarse stones, the impact jarring his bruised body. He lay still, staring up at the cloudless sky, his lips tingling and his skin humming with phantom touches. The girls turned as one and walked back toward the rooftop access door, their footsteps crunching softly. Sarai paused first. Twisting at the waist, she blew Montagne a slow, deliberate kiss, her eyes gleaming with playful menace. Helmi followed, her kiss a sharp flick of fingers off her lips—a mocking salute. Lilith’s was a lingering, theatrical gesture, fingers fluttering near her mouth before floating toward him. Madeline’s came last—a smirk paired with a swift, dismissive puff of air aimed his way. Then the door clicked shut behind them.
For a full minute, Montagne remained sprawled on the gravel, breathing hard. The sun beat down, warming the stones beneath him, contrasting sharply with the lingering chill in his bruised flesh and the phantom pressure of Madeline’s weight on his back. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. He retrieved his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and made his way off the roof, descending the metal stairs with stiff, careful movements.
The nearest boys' bathroom was mercifully empty. Montagne finally drank his Aquafina water bottle. He then locked himself in a stall, sat on the toilet, and sighed with profound relief as his bladder emptied. This was why he'd waited—if he’d drank before or during eating, he likely wouldn’t be able to finish his meal and would have to rush to the bathroom. The sharp sting of his bruised backside against the cool plastic seat made him wince, but the physical release outweighed the discomfort.
At the sink, he scrubbed his hands thoroughly with the school-provided soap—a thick amber gel infused with echinacea and honey. Tiny coconut husk microbeads exfoliated his skin as he worked up a rich lather. The scent was cloyingly sweet, medicinal, and vaguely tropical. He rinsed until the water ran clear, the beads swirling down the drain.
Drying his hands on rough paper towels, Montagne took a steadying breath. The hallway outside the boys’ bathroom was usually deserted after lunch. But today, when he pushed the door open, he froze. Sarai, Helmi, Lilith, and Madeline leaned casually against the lockers directly opposite. They’d positioned themselves precisely between the boys’ room and the girls’ bathroom entrance, holding their now empty drink containers.
Lilith’s sharp green eyes locked onto him instantly. She pushed off the locker with a feline grace, her fiery hair catching the fluorescent light. "Well, well," she drawled, her voice echoing slightly in the empty corridor, "Looks like Montagne had the same idea." She gestured lazily toward the girls’ bathroom door with her empty *Simply Lime* bottle.
"Waiting until *after* lunch to finally drink?" Her smirk deepened.
"Smart boy. Though..." She tilted her head, her gaze dropping pointedly to his crotc, "...I wonder what else you were holding back."
Montagne froze, heat flooding his face. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. Sarai giggled, a soft, knowing sound. Helmi’s dark eyes glittered with amusement. Madeline simply arched a brow, waiting.
"Yes," Montagne whispered, the word barely audible. His gaze dropped to the scuffed linoleum floor. "I did get *aroused*…especially when Madeline was on my back."
The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. His cheeks burned crimson, but beneath the shame, a flicker of defiance – or perhaps acceptance – sparked.
Lilith’s smile widened into something predatory yet playful. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that still echoed sharply in the quiet hallway.
"Pleased to hear that, Montagne. Now tell me, would you like our Phone numbers? You can call us anytime you want to arrange a date or whatever you’d like to do to us or have us do to you. You can call us while we’re in school too.”
Montagne’s gaze snapped up to Lilith’s face, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The mere suggestion sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. Against his will, his erection surged back to life, tenting his trousers visibly beneath the fluorescent lights. Lilith’s eyes flicked downward, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her lips. Sarai muffled a delighted gasp behind her hand, while Helmi’s dark eyes gleamed with predatory satisfaction. Madeline simply arched an eyebrow, her expression unreadable but undeniably intrigued.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged—only a dry rasp. The shame, the arousal, the sheer impossibility of the moment choked him. Instead, Montagne gave a single, jerky nod, his cheeks burning crimson. Lilith’s smile widened.
“Good," she breathed, stepping so close her breath warmed his ear. Her voice was a velvet whisper as she recited ten digits—slowly, deliberately, ensuring he felt every syllable. Sarai was next, her lips brushing his earlobe as she murmured her number, her fingers trailing lightly down his shoulder. Helmi followed, her touch firmer, possessive, sliding from his collarbone to his bicep. Madeline came last, her whisper cool and precise, her hand lingering on his forearm, nails scraping lightly over his skin before she pulled away.
They turned as one, a silent procession moving down the hallway. Sarai glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes dancing.
"We’ll be leaving now," she called, her voice echoing brightly, "unless you’d like us to take care of *that*."
Her gaze flicked pointedly to the prominent bulge straining against his trousers.
Montagne’s face burned hotter than the fluorescent lights overhead. The shame was molten, but beneath it, that treacherous current of submission surged stronger, fed by Lilith’s predatory smile and Sarai’s knowing giggle. This time, after a few seconds, he did manage to speak, saying “I would like release, instead of just forgetting, and letting this deflate.” No sooner he said this, than Lilith’s predatory smile widened. She snapped her fingers—a sharp crack in the quiet hallway—and the girls moved.
Sarai seized his left arm, Helmi his right, their grips iron-tight. Madeline stepped behind him, shoving him forward with surprising force. Lilith darted ahead, flinging open the girls’ bathroom door. They propelled him inside, the stale scent of cheap soap and damp paper towels hitting his nostrils. Madeline slammed the door shut, then dragged a heavy black metal trashcan—overflowing with crumpled paper towels—across the tile floor, wedging it firmly beneath the handle. The metallic scrape echoed like a prison door sealing shut.
/
The memory hit Montagne like a physical blow as he shuffled toward Stella’s classroom—the sharp scent of industrial cleaner, Lilith’s fiery hair brushing his thighs, the impossible suction of her mouth as she took him deep. How Sarai and Madeline had pinned his legs against Helmi’s sturdy calves while Lilith worked him with ruthless precision. Forty-five seconds of exquisite torment: teeth grazing his shaft, tongue swirling the head, her cheeks hollowing as she pulled hard enough to make his vision blur. He’d tried to resist, biting his lip until it bled, but his body betrayed him—a shuddering climax that left him gasping.
But Lilith hadn’t stopped. She kept her lips sealed around his cock, sucking rhythmically even as his hips bucked weakly against her grip. Montagne whimpered, oversensitive and raw, feeling every nerve ending scream as she continued her ministrations. His semen ran dry after the 50 seconds, yet Lilith persisted—twenty agonizing seconds of relentless suction until his cock finally softened, limp and spent against her chin. Only then did she release him with a wet pop, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes gleaming with dark amusement.
Sarai giggled, releasing his arm.
"We'll each have ours later," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. Helmi shoved him off of her, while Madeline shoved the trashcan aside with a grating scrape. The four of them didn’t help him up this time, instead just walking to the door.
Sarai opened it and told Montagne, “You should leave, before someone comes.”
They all laughed again as they walked away, closing the door behind him. Montagne stumbled out, legs trembling, pain radiating through his loins from Lilith’s relentless suction. He leaned against the cool locker bank, breathing hard, before forcing himself down the hall, towards the direction of his next class out after lunch period was over. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, each step echoing his humiliation.
When the final bell rang, Montagne shuffled toward Stella’s classroom. His backpack felt heavier than usual, dragging at his shoulders. He pushed the door open to find Stella leaning against her desk, arms crossed beneath her breasts. A knowing smile played on her lips as she watched him enter.
"You took my advice and had fun with some girls, didn’t you?" she asked softly, her silver eyes gleaming. Montagne flushed, the memory of Lilith’s relentless suction still raw. "Yes," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. Stella chuckled low in her throat. "Good. But playtime’s over."
She gestured sharply. "Desk. Now. Pants down."
Relief washed over him—she hadn’t demanded specifics. Montagne obeyed, lowering his trousers and underwear just below the bruised crests of his buttocks before bending over the cold metal desk. Stella’s bare palm rested lightly on his welted skin, a silent promise.
"History first," she announced, her voice crisp. "Define 'mercantilism'." Montagne recited the textbook definition flawlessly. Stella’s hand remained still. "Good. Now..." Her tone shifted. "Geometry. State the Pythagorean Theorem." He answered correctly. Her fingers traced a welt. "Literature. Name the author of *Moby Dick*." "Herman Melville," he breathed. Her palm warmed his skin but didn’t strike.
Then she pivoted. "Biology," Stella purred, her thumb pressing into a tender stripe. "Explain the Krebs cycle." Montagne froze. He knew the basics—energy production in mitochondria—but the precise sequence of reactions? His mind blanked. "It... converts nutrients into ATP?" he stammered.
*SMACK!* A sharp vertical slap landed high on his left cheek, precisely over a bruise. Montagne gasped as fire bloomed.
"Wrong," Stella stated coldly. "It’s a series of chemical reactions catalyzed by enzymes within the mitochondrial matrix, producing ATP, NADH, and FADH2 from acetyl-CoA." She paused. "Since you failed Biology..." Her hand rose again. "Let’s try Chemistry. Balance this equation: Fe + O₂ → Fe₂O₃."
Panic surged. He visualized rust forming—iron and oxygen... but the subscripts? "Two Fe... and three O₂?" he guessed weakly.
*CRACK!* A sideways slap, knuckles-first this time, slammed across his right buttock. Tears stung his eyes.
"Incorrect," Stella snapped. "Four Fe + three O₂ yields two Fe₂O₃."
Her voice hardened. "One more failure, Montagne. Physics: Define Newton’s Third Law."
"For every action," he whispered desperately, "there’s an equal and opposite reaction."
Silence. Then her palm landed softly—a caress, not a strike.
"Correct."
Her fingers gently kneaded the fresh sting.
"Correct," Stella murmured, her voice softening slightly.
“Just like I promised you on Friday, and like you agreed to, i’m going to make sure you get straight A’s,” Stella’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous purr as her fingers traced the fresh sting on his right buttock.
“Not just progress reports or report cards. Every test. Every assignment. Every single question.”
Her thumb pressed hard into the welt left by her knuckles.
“Get one wrong? Like you did just now?” She leaned close, her breath hot against his ear.
“I’ll tenderize your ass until you can’t sit for a month.”
Montagne shuddered, the threat igniting a fresh wave of terror—and a traitorous pulse of arousal beneath the pain. Stella resumed her interrogation, her voice slicing through the quiet classroom. Geography: capitals of Southeast Asia. Math: quadratic formula applications. English: identifying Shakespearean iambic pentameter. Each correct answer earned only the faintest brush of her fingers against his throbbing skin. Each stumble—a misplaced capital, a miscalculation, a misidentified meter—was met with a sharp, targeted blow. Her palm cracked against bruises, her knuckles raked welts, her fingertips dug into tender spots with cruel precision. The desk vibrated under his clenched fists. Tears blurred his vision as the clock ticked relentlessly towards 2:30 PM, the hour-long session stretching into an eternity of alternating dread and fleeting relief. By the end, his buttocks felt like raw, pulsing meat, the intricate map of bruises deepened into angry crimson and purple blotches.
"Enough," Stella declared finally, her voice calm as the clock struck 2:30. She stepped back, surveying her handiwork with detached satisfaction.
"You can pull your pants up and head home, Montagne. Or…" Stella trailed off, her purple eyes gleaming with dark amusement, "you can let me rub something on that bum of yours."
He hesitated, the raw sting radiating through his buttocks warring with the lingering humiliation of Lilith’s rooftop kiss and the girls’ bathroom encounter. The thought of Stella’s touch, even soothing, felt like another layer of surrender. Yet, the promise of relief, of her focused attention, pulled stronger than the dread. He chose the latter.
"Good boy," Stella murmured, the praise warm and possessive. She walked to the corner where the AC unit hummed, its chilled air swirling. Beside it sat a simple plastic water bottle labeled only "Spring Water," its condensation-slick surface beading in the cool draft. She picked it up, the plastic cold against her fingers, and handed it to him. "Drink. Just a sip."
Montagne took the bottle. The icy chill seeped into his palms. He unscrewed the cap, the faint scent of minerals rising. He took one careful gulp—enough to soothe his dry throat, not enough to risk needing the bathroom again before he got home. The cold water traced a path down to his stomach, a stark contrast to the fiery ache below.
As he lowered the bottle, Stella retrieved her large leather pocketbook from her desk drawer. She unzipped it with a smooth rasp and pulled out a squat, wide-mouthed glass jar. Inside was a thick, translucent grease the color of pale amber honey, flecked with tiny specks of orange zest. She unscrewed the lid. Immediately, the sharp, tropical tang of ripe oranges bloomed in the air, quickly layered with the sweeter, heavier scent of sun-warmed mangoes—a fragrance so potent it momentarily overwhelmed the classroom’s usual smells of chalk dust and old paper.
"Orange and mango scented," Stella announced, dipping two fingers into the cool, viscous grease. It clung thickly to her skin. She gestured for him to bend back over the desk.
"This will help. Deeply."
Montagne obeyed, pushing his jeans and underwear back down past the swollen crests of his buttocks. The cool metal of the desk pressed against his bruised thighs. Stella’s greased fingers touched the highest, least damaged part of his left cheek first. The initial contact was startlingly cold, making him flinch. Then, slowly, firmly, she began to massage the grease into his ravaged skin.
The sensation was overwhelming. The thick grease provided an instant, oily barrier, dulling the raw, exposed feeling. But Stella didn’t dab gently. She worked the salve in with strong, circular motions, her thumbs digging deep into the knotted, inflamed muscle beneath the welts. Pain flared sharply wherever her pressure found a bruise or a raised ridge from the belt. He gasped, knuckles whitening on the desk edge. Yet, intertwined with the pain was a strange, deep relief as the grease began to warm, carrying the intense citrus-mango scent deeper into his pores. Her fingers moved lower, tracing the diagonal welt from her final belt strike, kneading the grease into the darkest purple blotch near his sit-spot. The sharp sting of orange oil mingled with the deep ache, while the mango scent wrapped around him, thick and cloying, a sensory anchor to her absolute control. She worked methodically, coating every inch of the punished territory, her touch both medicinal and a stark reminder of ownership.
Slowly, deliberately, Stella emptied the entire jar. The last dollop vanished into the swollen curve just above his thigh crease. "There we go," she murmured, patting his butt twice affectionately.
She didn't wait for him to move. Her hands slid beneath his waistband, fingers brushing his hips as she tugged his underwear and jeans firmly back into place.
“Stand up and turn around," Stella commanded softly. Montagne straightened, wincing as fabric scraped over the freshly greased bruises. Before he could react, Stella pulled him close, pressing his face firmly against her chest. The soft cotton of her blouse absorbed his shaky exhale. Her breasts cushioned his cheek, the faint scent of orange-mango salve mingling with her own clean, floral perfume. He instinctively wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her tightly, fingers digging into the small of her back. Her hand cradled the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, holding him there—a possessive anchor in the storm of pain and confusion. *I’m the queen of my own private kingdom, and he’s my personal servant* she thought to herself proudly.
After a long moment, she released him, stepping back just enough to meet his eyes. Her silver gaze was sharp, unwavering. “Same time tomorrow?” she asked, her voice low and resonant.
Montagne swallowed hard, the phantom sting flaring anew beneath the cooling grease. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, the words thick with submission.
He gathered his backpack, the straps digging into his shoulders as he walked stiffly toward the door. Each step sent a dull throb radiating from his buttocks. Outside, the late afternoon sun felt harsh, intrusive. He kept his head down, avoiding the curious glances of lingering students. The walk home blurred into a haze of discomfort and resolve. *She’s right. I need to pay attention and study.* The memory of her palm cracking against raw welts, the precise agony of each failed answer, burned brighter than the mango-scented grease. *If I keep failing, if she keeps striking the same bruised spots…* He pictured the swollen, purple flesh deepening day after day, never healing, always tender and exposed. *It’ll never recover.*
Lilith came last. She didn’t grip his hair or buttocks. Instead, her palms framed his face, thumbs tracing the tear tracks his cheeks. Her kiss was softer, almost tender, yet devastating in its intimacy. Fifteen seconds of drowning sweetness.
Then, without a word, Sarai, Helmi, Lilith, and Madeline lowered Montagne gently onto the gravel rooftop. His back hit the coarse stones, the impact jarring his bruised body. He lay still, staring up at the cloudless sky, his lips tingling and his skin humming with phantom touches. The girls turned as one and walked back toward the rooftop access door, their footsteps crunching softly. Sarai paused first. Twisting at the waist, she blew Montagne a slow, deliberate kiss, her eyes gleaming with playful menace. Helmi followed, her kiss a sharp flick of fingers off her lips—a mocking salute. Lilith’s was a lingering, theatrical gesture, fingers fluttering near her mouth before floating toward him. Madeline’s came last—a smirk paired with a swift, dismissive puff of air aimed his way. Then the door clicked shut behind them.
For a full minute, Montagne remained sprawled on the gravel, breathing hard. The sun beat down, warming the stones beneath him, contrasting sharply with the lingering chill in his bruised flesh and the phantom pressure of Madeline’s weight on his back. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. He retrieved his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and made his way off the roof, descending the metal stairs with stiff, careful movements.
The nearest boys' bathroom was mercifully empty. Montagne finally drank his Aquafina water bottle. He then locked himself in a stall, sat on the toilet, and sighed with profound relief as his bladder emptied. This was why he'd waited—if he’d drank before or during eating, he likely wouldn’t be able to finish his meal and would have to rush to the bathroom. The sharp sting of his bruised backside against the cool plastic seat made him wince, but the physical release outweighed the discomfort.
At the sink, he scrubbed his hands thoroughly with the school-provided soap—a thick amber gel infused with echinacea and honey. Tiny coconut husk microbeads exfoliated his skin as he worked up a rich lather. The scent was cloyingly sweet, medicinal, and vaguely tropical. He rinsed until the water ran clear, the beads swirling down the drain.
Drying his hands on rough paper towels, Montagne took a steadying breath. The hallway outside the boys’ bathroom was usually deserted after lunch. But today, when he pushed the door open, he froze. Sarai, Helmi, Lilith, and Madeline leaned casually against the lockers directly opposite. They’d positioned themselves precisely between the boys’ room and the girls’ bathroom entrance, holding their now empty drink containers.
Lilith’s sharp green eyes locked onto him instantly. She pushed off the locker with a feline grace, her fiery hair catching the fluorescent light. "Well, well," she drawled, her voice echoing slightly in the empty corridor, "Looks like Montagne had the same idea." She gestured lazily toward the girls’ bathroom door with her empty *Simply Lime* bottle.
"Waiting until *after* lunch to finally drink?" Her smirk deepened.
"Smart boy. Though..." She tilted her head, her gaze dropping pointedly to his crotc, "...I wonder what else you were holding back."
Montagne froze, heat flooding his face. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. Sarai giggled, a soft, knowing sound. Helmi’s dark eyes glittered with amusement. Madeline simply arched a brow, waiting.
"Yes," Montagne whispered, the word barely audible. His gaze dropped to the scuffed linoleum floor. "I did get *aroused*…especially when Madeline was on my back."
The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. His cheeks burned crimson, but beneath the shame, a flicker of defiance – or perhaps acceptance – sparked.
Lilith’s smile widened into something predatory yet playful. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that still echoed sharply in the quiet hallway.
"Pleased to hear that, Montagne. Now tell me, would you like our Phone numbers? You can call us anytime you want to arrange a date or whatever you’d like to do to us or have us do to you. You can call us while we’re in school too.”
Montagne’s gaze snapped up to Lilith’s face, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The mere suggestion sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. Against his will, his erection surged back to life, tenting his trousers visibly beneath the fluorescent lights. Lilith’s eyes flicked downward, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her lips. Sarai muffled a delighted gasp behind her hand, while Helmi’s dark eyes gleamed with predatory satisfaction. Madeline simply arched an eyebrow, her expression unreadable but undeniably intrigued.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged—only a dry rasp. The shame, the arousal, the sheer impossibility of the moment choked him. Instead, Montagne gave a single, jerky nod, his cheeks burning crimson. Lilith’s smile widened.
“Good," she breathed, stepping so close her breath warmed his ear. Her voice was a velvet whisper as she recited ten digits—slowly, deliberately, ensuring he felt every syllable. Sarai was next, her lips brushing his earlobe as she murmured her number, her fingers trailing lightly down his shoulder. Helmi followed, her touch firmer, possessive, sliding from his collarbone to his bicep. Madeline came last, her whisper cool and precise, her hand lingering on his forearm, nails scraping lightly over his skin before she pulled away.
They turned as one, a silent procession moving down the hallway. Sarai glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes dancing.
"We’ll be leaving now," she called, her voice echoing brightly, "unless you’d like us to take care of *that*."
Her gaze flicked pointedly to the prominent bulge straining against his trousers.
Montagne’s face burned hotter than the fluorescent lights overhead. The shame was molten, but beneath it, that treacherous current of submission surged stronger, fed by Lilith’s predatory smile and Sarai’s knowing giggle. This time, after a few seconds, he did manage to speak, saying “I would like release, instead of just forgetting, and letting this deflate.” No sooner he said this, than Lilith’s predatory smile widened. She snapped her fingers—a sharp crack in the quiet hallway—and the girls moved.
Sarai seized his left arm, Helmi his right, their grips iron-tight. Madeline stepped behind him, shoving him forward with surprising force. Lilith darted ahead, flinging open the girls’ bathroom door. They propelled him inside, the stale scent of cheap soap and damp paper towels hitting his nostrils. Madeline slammed the door shut, then dragged a heavy black metal trashcan—overflowing with crumpled paper towels—across the tile floor, wedging it firmly beneath the handle. The metallic scrape echoed like a prison door sealing shut.
/
The memory hit Montagne like a physical blow as he shuffled toward Stella’s classroom—the sharp scent of industrial cleaner, Lilith’s fiery hair brushing his thighs, the impossible suction of her mouth as she took him deep. How Sarai and Madeline had pinned his legs against Helmi’s sturdy calves while Lilith worked him with ruthless precision. Forty-five seconds of exquisite torment: teeth grazing his shaft, tongue swirling the head, her cheeks hollowing as she pulled hard enough to make his vision blur. He’d tried to resist, biting his lip until it bled, but his body betrayed him—a shuddering climax that left him gasping.
But Lilith hadn’t stopped. She kept her lips sealed around his cock, sucking rhythmically even as his hips bucked weakly against her grip. Montagne whimpered, oversensitive and raw, feeling every nerve ending scream as she continued her ministrations. His semen ran dry after the 50 seconds, yet Lilith persisted—twenty agonizing seconds of relentless suction until his cock finally softened, limp and spent against her chin. Only then did she release him with a wet pop, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes gleaming with dark amusement.
Sarai giggled, releasing his arm.
"We'll each have ours later," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. Helmi shoved him off of her, while Madeline shoved the trashcan aside with a grating scrape. The four of them didn’t help him up this time, instead just walking to the door.
Sarai opened it and told Montagne, “You should leave, before someone comes.”
They all laughed again as they walked away, closing the door behind him. Montagne stumbled out, legs trembling, pain radiating through his loins from Lilith’s relentless suction. He leaned against the cool locker bank, breathing hard, before forcing himself down the hall, towards the direction of his next class out after lunch period was over. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, each step echoing his humiliation.
When the final bell rang, Montagne shuffled toward Stella’s classroom. His backpack felt heavier than usual, dragging at his shoulders. He pushed the door open to find Stella leaning against her desk, arms crossed beneath her breasts. A knowing smile played on her lips as she watched him enter.
"You took my advice and had fun with some girls, didn’t you?" she asked softly, her silver eyes gleaming. Montagne flushed, the memory of Lilith’s relentless suction still raw. "Yes," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. Stella chuckled low in her throat. "Good. But playtime’s over."
She gestured sharply. "Desk. Now. Pants down."
Relief washed over him—she hadn’t demanded specifics. Montagne obeyed, lowering his trousers and underwear just below the bruised crests of his buttocks before bending over the cold metal desk. Stella’s bare palm rested lightly on his welted skin, a silent promise.
"History first," she announced, her voice crisp. "Define 'mercantilism'." Montagne recited the textbook definition flawlessly. Stella’s hand remained still. "Good. Now..." Her tone shifted. "Geometry. State the Pythagorean Theorem." He answered correctly. Her fingers traced a welt. "Literature. Name the author of *Moby Dick*." "Herman Melville," he breathed. Her palm warmed his skin but didn’t strike.
Then she pivoted. "Biology," Stella purred, her thumb pressing into a tender stripe. "Explain the Krebs cycle." Montagne froze. He knew the basics—energy production in mitochondria—but the precise sequence of reactions? His mind blanked. "It... converts nutrients into ATP?" he stammered.
*SMACK!* A sharp vertical slap landed high on his left cheek, precisely over a bruise. Montagne gasped as fire bloomed.
"Wrong," Stella stated coldly. "It’s a series of chemical reactions catalyzed by enzymes within the mitochondrial matrix, producing ATP, NADH, and FADH2 from acetyl-CoA." She paused. "Since you failed Biology..." Her hand rose again. "Let’s try Chemistry. Balance this equation: Fe + O₂ → Fe₂O₃."
Panic surged. He visualized rust forming—iron and oxygen... but the subscripts? "Two Fe... and three O₂?" he guessed weakly.
*CRACK!* A sideways slap, knuckles-first this time, slammed across his right buttock. Tears stung his eyes.
"Incorrect," Stella snapped. "Four Fe + three O₂ yields two Fe₂O₃."
Her voice hardened. "One more failure, Montagne. Physics: Define Newton’s Third Law."
"For every action," he whispered desperately, "there’s an equal and opposite reaction."
Silence. Then her palm landed softly—a caress, not a strike.
"Correct."
Her fingers gently kneaded the fresh sting.
"Correct," Stella murmured, her voice softening slightly.
“Just like I promised you on Friday, and like you agreed to, i’m going to make sure you get straight A’s,” Stella’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous purr as her fingers traced the fresh sting on his right buttock.
“Not just progress reports or report cards. Every test. Every assignment. Every single question.”
Her thumb pressed hard into the welt left by her knuckles.
“Get one wrong? Like you did just now?” She leaned close, her breath hot against his ear.
“I’ll tenderize your ass until you can’t sit for a month.”
Montagne shuddered, the threat igniting a fresh wave of terror—and a traitorous pulse of arousal beneath the pain. Stella resumed her interrogation, her voice slicing through the quiet classroom. Geography: capitals of Southeast Asia. Math: quadratic formula applications. English: identifying Shakespearean iambic pentameter. Each correct answer earned only the faintest brush of her fingers against his throbbing skin. Each stumble—a misplaced capital, a miscalculation, a misidentified meter—was met with a sharp, targeted blow. Her palm cracked against bruises, her knuckles raked welts, her fingertips dug into tender spots with cruel precision. The desk vibrated under his clenched fists. Tears blurred his vision as the clock ticked relentlessly towards 2:30 PM, the hour-long session stretching into an eternity of alternating dread and fleeting relief. By the end, his buttocks felt like raw, pulsing meat, the intricate map of bruises deepened into angry crimson and purple blotches.
"Enough," Stella declared finally, her voice calm as the clock struck 2:30. She stepped back, surveying her handiwork with detached satisfaction.
"You can pull your pants up and head home, Montagne. Or…" Stella trailed off, her purple eyes gleaming with dark amusement, "you can let me rub something on that bum of yours."
He hesitated, the raw sting radiating through his buttocks warring with the lingering humiliation of Lilith’s rooftop kiss and the girls’ bathroom encounter. The thought of Stella’s touch, even soothing, felt like another layer of surrender. Yet, the promise of relief, of her focused attention, pulled stronger than the dread. He chose the latter.
"Good boy," Stella murmured, the praise warm and possessive. She walked to the corner where the AC unit hummed, its chilled air swirling. Beside it sat a simple plastic water bottle labeled only "Spring Water," its condensation-slick surface beading in the cool draft. She picked it up, the plastic cold against her fingers, and handed it to him. "Drink. Just a sip."
Montagne took the bottle. The icy chill seeped into his palms. He unscrewed the cap, the faint scent of minerals rising. He took one careful gulp—enough to soothe his dry throat, not enough to risk needing the bathroom again before he got home. The cold water traced a path down to his stomach, a stark contrast to the fiery ache below.
As he lowered the bottle, Stella retrieved her large leather pocketbook from her desk drawer. She unzipped it with a smooth rasp and pulled out a squat, wide-mouthed glass jar. Inside was a thick, translucent grease the color of pale amber honey, flecked with tiny specks of orange zest. She unscrewed the lid. Immediately, the sharp, tropical tang of ripe oranges bloomed in the air, quickly layered with the sweeter, heavier scent of sun-warmed mangoes—a fragrance so potent it momentarily overwhelmed the classroom’s usual smells of chalk dust and old paper.
"Orange and mango scented," Stella announced, dipping two fingers into the cool, viscous grease. It clung thickly to her skin. She gestured for him to bend back over the desk.
"This will help. Deeply."
Montagne obeyed, pushing his jeans and underwear back down past the swollen crests of his buttocks. The cool metal of the desk pressed against his bruised thighs. Stella’s greased fingers touched the highest, least damaged part of his left cheek first. The initial contact was startlingly cold, making him flinch. Then, slowly, firmly, she began to massage the grease into his ravaged skin.
The sensation was overwhelming. The thick grease provided an instant, oily barrier, dulling the raw, exposed feeling. But Stella didn’t dab gently. She worked the salve in with strong, circular motions, her thumbs digging deep into the knotted, inflamed muscle beneath the welts. Pain flared sharply wherever her pressure found a bruise or a raised ridge from the belt. He gasped, knuckles whitening on the desk edge. Yet, intertwined with the pain was a strange, deep relief as the grease began to warm, carrying the intense citrus-mango scent deeper into his pores. Her fingers moved lower, tracing the diagonal welt from her final belt strike, kneading the grease into the darkest purple blotch near his sit-spot. The sharp sting of orange oil mingled with the deep ache, while the mango scent wrapped around him, thick and cloying, a sensory anchor to her absolute control. She worked methodically, coating every inch of the punished territory, her touch both medicinal and a stark reminder of ownership.
Slowly, deliberately, Stella emptied the entire jar. The last dollop vanished into the swollen curve just above his thigh crease. "There we go," she murmured, patting his butt twice affectionately.
She didn't wait for him to move. Her hands slid beneath his waistband, fingers brushing his hips as she tugged his underwear and jeans firmly back into place.
“Stand up and turn around," Stella commanded softly. Montagne straightened, wincing as fabric scraped over the freshly greased bruises. Before he could react, Stella pulled him close, pressing his face firmly against her chest. The soft cotton of her blouse absorbed his shaky exhale. Her breasts cushioned his cheek, the faint scent of orange-mango salve mingling with her own clean, floral perfume. He instinctively wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her tightly, fingers digging into the small of her back. Her hand cradled the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, holding him there—a possessive anchor in the storm of pain and confusion. *I’m the queen of my own private kingdom, and he’s my personal servant* she thought to herself proudly.
After a long moment, she released him, stepping back just enough to meet his eyes. Her silver gaze was sharp, unwavering. “Same time tomorrow?” she asked, her voice low and resonant.
Montagne swallowed hard, the phantom sting flaring anew beneath the cooling grease. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, the words thick with submission.
He gathered his backpack, the straps digging into his shoulders as he walked stiffly toward the door. Each step sent a dull throb radiating from his buttocks. Outside, the late afternoon sun felt harsh, intrusive. He kept his head down, avoiding the curious glances of lingering students. The walk home blurred into a haze of discomfort and resolve. *She’s right. I need to pay attention and study.* The memory of her palm cracking against raw welts, the precise agony of each failed answer, burned brighter than the mango-scented grease. *If I keep failing, if she keeps striking the same bruised spots…* He pictured the swollen, purple flesh deepening day after day, never healing, always tender and exposed. *It’ll never recover.*
31-35, M