Category: Erotica

Content description: (Skip this if you don’t want any spoilers)
*This story continues the story of a male university student who submits to his dominant middle-aged lecturer. If you haven’t read it already, it is recommended that you begin with the first* [‘A Lesson in Humility’](https://www.reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/x3v36o/a_lesson_in_humility_fetish_femdom_humiliation/) *story.*
*It is a femdom msub story.*
Featured fetishes include: boots, cfnm, cum eating, femdom (gentle / soft), humiliation, masturbation, older woman / younger man, shaving, tease and denial, aftercare.  
**Prologue:**
The last week had been a blur. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. In seminars he could barely follow the conversation. In lectures he didn’t take in a word. His mind kept drifting back to that Friday afternoon. In one lecture he was so distracted wondering if this same room, filled with students – some furiously taking notes, others simply trying to stay awake after another late night writing essays due for the next morning – could really be the same one where she had brought him to orgasm, the most mind-blowing of his life, and then ordered him to swallow every bitter white drop of it. The one in which he had lapped the last drops of his cum from her palm like a dog from a bowl. It had almost seemed too bizarre to have been real until the email arrived, late on Wednesday evening.
*Hello James,*
*I believe it would be a good idea for us to meet privately to discuss your progress. Unfortunately, my office is currently unavailable. Therefore, if it is not inconvenient for you, please visit me at my home at 6pm on Friday evening. The address is below.*
*Best,*
*Miriam*
It was professionally written. Perhaps under other circumstances it would have seemed completely normal, despite the rarity of students visiting lecturer’s homes, but the moment James read it his heart started racing. From that moment onwards all he could do was count down the hours until six o’clock on Friday evening.
**Part 1: The clock struck six**
The light was already fading. The Tudor-style house in front of him, so typical of these historical English towns, had its curtains drawn. It seemed innocuous enough with its white walls and black crossbeams. It was small but definitely a more upmarket kind of place, perhaps the kind of place that you would expect a kindly old retiree in a knitted cardigan to own. But to James it seemed equally exciting and daunting. He noticed that his palms were sweaty despite the late-October chill. His throat was dry. And why? Because she was in there. Desperate to see her again though he was, he gulped nervously as he raised his finger to that ornate doorbell, push it inwards, and heard the deep ding-dong emanate from inside the house.
After what seemed like an eternity the door creaked open and there she stood, dressed simply in a long-sleeved black shirt that hugged her slender figure and tight blue jeans. On her feet were black knee-length boots with a gold-coloured buckle and a thick one-inch heel. As usual she wore her gold-rimmed glasses, framing her green eyes. Her lips curled into a smile. “James, it is so wonderful to see you again. Stop standing there gawking and come in. Quickly now.” Her tone brooked no argument. She spoke as though there were no reason anyone in the world would refuse to do as she said. James certainly wouldn’t, and he trotted quickly up the couple of stairs that led into the warmth of her house. It was decorated simply inside, a very traditional style with lots of brown hardwood and a few small pictures to add splashes of colour. Even the floors were wooden, unusually. Almost everyone James knew had carpets.
“Follow me” she said, leading him into the living room. It too was old-fashioned, dominated by a blazing log fire that wouldn’t have seemed out of place in a Medieval tavern. Unsurprisingly, it also held several bookshelves stuffed with books that ranged from faded leather-backed ones that looked to be over a hundred years old and sported names like Baudelaire and Balzac to modern hardbacks in pristine condition. He even spotted the Harry Potter series, sitting tucked away on one of the lower shelves. One book, beautiful with its ornate gold lettering on a red spine dulled by age, caught his eye. It was by someone called Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, a name that rang a bell but he couldn’t remember from where.
She led him to the middle of the room, then instructed “stand still, eyes forwards.” He did his best to obey, fixing his eyes on the fireplace as she walked around him in a circle, her boot heels echoing on the floor. After completing her 360-degree reconnaissance of him, she stopped directly in front of him. Suddenly, her hand was on his chest, clasping the zip of his hoodie, pulling it down then removing it from his torso. He tried not to move but kept his arms loose and pliable so that she could pull the garment off him. Folding it quickly she then placed it on a nearby table. Next she knelt down at his feet, carefully unlacing his trainers. “Left foot up” she instructed, and when he obeyed she slipped his trainer off, followed by his sock. “Right foot up” she instructed as the process was repeated with the other foot. “Arms up,” and then his shirt was off and he was stripped to the waist. He could almost feel his nipples harden even though the room was hardly cold, and then he felt a sudden jolt of excitement in his stomach. Her hand was on his belt buckle, undoing it deliberately slowly. She seemed to be relishing in the moment. She slid it off him and then her hands were on the fly of his jeans, her fingers inside his waistband, so close, so frustratingly, tantalisingly close, to his cock. “Keep still James” she said, as if reading his mind. His fists were balled, his legs tensed as he willed every muscle in his body not to move. As she slowly lowered his jeans his prick became obvious, defiantly standing to attention.  She knelt and he could almost feel his libido take control at the thought of her mouth so agonisingly close to his erection, but she simply said “you’re doing very well. Right foot up, very good, and now the left” as she removed his jeans. Finally, it was time, her fingers were against his skin, inside his boxer shorts, pulling them down. She had no need to instruct him as he automatically lifted up his feet for her to pull the boxer shorts off, one leg at a time.
And there he was, standing naked in this woman’s home, and her still fully-clad in her tight black shirt, her jeans, and her black boots with the one-inch heel. She even still had the gold wire-framed glasses on. There was no denying his excitement at being in such an intimate situation, but the way she was looking at him… Well, the phrase “like a piece of meat,” the one she had used in their first encounter, came immediately to his mind and he felt the sudden urge to cover up. He resisted it. Cover up with what? She had taken his clothes from him.
“James, are you going to be a good boy for me?” Her BBC accent could sound like honey when she wasn’t barking orders.
“Yes, yes I am.”
“Hmm, I don’t like that. From now on, you shall call me ‘Madam’ or ‘Ma’am’ if you prefer, as a sign of respect.”
“Yes M-Madam.” The word felt alien in his mouth. He had never referred to a woman as ‘Madam’ in his life.
“In return I shall call you ‘boy’ because you’re not a man, are you? Not really.”
“N-no…” he said, a bit unsure of whether or not that was the correct answer. She stepped close to him, close enough to whisper in his ear as she placed a single finger on his nipple, circled it around, then traced it silkily down his torso, across his pelvis, and to the base of his cock.
“You’re mine, boy, to do whatever I want with.” Her breath was hot in his ear. Suddenly, she ran her hot, wet tongue up his neck, finishing by licking his ear. His spine felt electrified with shivers of pleasure. “And what I want” she said, her fingers running ever so gently along the length of his shaft “is to start by teaching you some manners!” Her hand was on his balls and suddenly squeezing tight.
“So try again: ’No I am not a man,’ what?”
“I’m not a man Madam!” he grunted.
“Good boy” she said, releasing his balls. She began to caress them slowly. “Do you remember what happened after you stripped last time?” How could he forget?
“I got on my knees…” he said, and as he felt her grasp tighten around his sack he quickly added “Madam!”
“Very good. From now on every time you are here you will remove your clothes and get on your knees. You may not walk or wear clothes without my explicit permission. Understood, boy?”
“Yes Madam” he said, dropping to his knees.
“Wonderful, now follow me.”  Read more »