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Graduation Day
* * * * *

After studying art for four long years, I was finally graduating. Fidgeting with my clothes, I stood on the stage with spotlights following me. My face wasn't red because of the speech I was about to give, though; public speaking does make me nervous. But I wore crimson cheeks because of the secret hidden beneath my graduation gown.

I stepped up to the microphone, hands shaking, facing the assembly of students as cords of jute rope enveloped my hips and thighs. Each caress of the rope accentuated my subtle curves within my mind, making me feel naked and exposed in front of the audience.

My pussy dripped against the crotch rope as a teasing knot rested against my swollen clit. As I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, the rope hugged my torso, cupping my petite breasts.

"Good evening," my voice echoed around the hall as I began my speech, struggling to lift my eyes from my notes.

"Whether you find yourself at the end of this wonderful journey or just beginning your own thrilling tale, I welcome you and congratulate you. Each of you has strived for personal growth and overcome countless trials in the pursuit of excellence. As you press forward—"

I trailed off with a soft whimper, gripping the speaker's stand tightly, and looked over my shoulder at her. She nonchalantly looked beyond me, casting her gaze into the crowd, but I could see her subtle smirk and the remote in her hand.

Really, while I'm giving my speech? I gulped as her finger rested on the remote's button.

Before her and everything that happened, I never had anyone to explore my secret desires with. I had all but given up hope of ever actually acting on them and consigned myself to be satisfied with fantasies and self-bondage.

If on my first day here you had told me I would be selected to give the opening speech at graduation, I would have called you insane. I certainly didn't expect to do it while she teased my desperate cunt with a vibro-egg. But that's the way life is.

Usually, you get what you expect: the mind-numbingly tedious monotony of everyday life. But on rare occasions, you get to secretly edge in front of a couple of thousand people.

So, how did a sweet and innocent nerd like me end up here? Well, let's find out, shall we?

Art In The Afternoon
* * * * *

A year had passed since I started my bachelor's in Art and English Literature, though I still got jitters every morning. Growing up, I was always a nerd, caught up in my own world with only a few friends. With us now living two towns apart, I even struggled to see Tilly, my college best friend, as often as I'd like. It seemed my only friends were those I had drawn with lead and charcoal.

At least here, I had left behind that stupid nickname, Freaky Faye the Geeky Gay; the kids at my college were such pricks. I earned that nickname after they stole my sketchbook. Back then, I still kept my more personal sketches inside my sketchbook. Afterwards, I learnt to keep those – let's just call them passions – private.

My mousy-blonde hair fluttered across my face as a gust of wind blew through the secluded university gardens. I quickly held down the loose papers I was sketching my latest book cover design on. In between classes, I often sat under the cherry blossom tree alone, quietly drawing. I've lost track of the times I've gone to my English class with charcoal stains across my freckled cheeks.

Mr Adams, my English teacher, had long given up on telling me to wash my face before class. After a few months, he simply accepted that it was just Faye lost in her drawings. He would likely be more concerned if my grades started to drop.

As my lunch break came to an end, I gathered my sketches with a sigh; time to go back to the real world. The daunting university walls stood waiting, as unforgiving as ever. Thankfully, there were some good things about attending this university; today, I had Art class and that meant—

I stood blushing, clutching the sketchpad to my petite chest. It was still a strange feeling to wear a padded bra, but maybe it would draw the attention of a certain someone.

What! Don't look at me like that; I've got a crush.

The wind whipped around my plain, boring clothes, the best my family could afford, as delicate pink cherry blossoms pirouetted around me. I took a deep breath and nervously made my way to the art gallery.

Charcoal Fantasy
* * * * *

The gallery, where we held our art class, was an old converted chapel. It still had its exposed rustic brick face walls and massive windows reaching up to its high, arched roof, providing the perfect amount of light for our work. I sat at the back of the class as usual, away from judgemental eyes.

That afternoon, the classroom was uncomfortably humid as a thunderstorm brewed outside. John, the volunteer posing for the class today, had a bead of sweat rolling down his brow. He was undoubtedly envious that everyone else had the opportunity to remove their jackets.

There's still not enough shading here, and that doesn't look right; it's a softer curve. I looked up from the sketches.

Glancing beyond John, I found my real model. I had already completed a few quick sketches of her. To begin with, it was just a sketch of how the light caressed her high cheekbones, adorned with her black-rimmed glasses, and framed with her soft brown hair. A sketch of her helping another student followed; her blouse was left slightly open to combat the room's humidity as, annoyingly, a sheer scarf protected her modesty.

Before long, my sketches of her became a bit less dignified. I captured with charcoal how her skirt caressed her hips and ass, perfectly highlighting the luscious curves. Another sketch, this time with a fine pencil, was of her breasts, including the beauty mark I found hiding just within her cleavage.

My current drawing lacked any semblance of innocence. Less of a sketch, it was more a fantasy of mine, the kind of drawing to keep private. In reality, my college nickname, Freaky Faye, had more truth to it than I wanted to admit.

Roses and chocolate were perfect gifts for normal girls. However, I wasn't a normal girl. While others dreamt of meeting their first partner, I was secretly dreaming about having my first BDSM session. I was a natural-born submissive, but one who never had anyone to explore my desires with.

While the other sketches could be argued to simply be a study of the human body or an idle doodle, the final sketch was clear in its intentions and motive. It was unbridled passion and lust given to life on paper. At a glance, it was clear that my lewd drawings were of myself and Miss Sullivan.

Heels clicked increasingly loudly across the aged mahogany chapel floor. With the grace developed from months of practice, I subtly pulled a different page over my clandestine artwork, concealing my crime. I smiled at Miss Sullivan, hoping my cheeks weren't as red as they felt.

"How are you getting along?" Miss Sullivan chewed the end of her glasses, looking intently over my shoulder.

I showed her the rushed sketch of John that I had done at the beginning of class. My work was far beneath my usual standard but decent enough to excuse suspicions of slacking off in class.

As she looked over my progress, her perfume, subtle and elegant, danced around me. The aroma led me, enticed by a leash, into another naughty daydream. A smile crept over me, and my heart forgot to beat.

It was difficult to keep my hands from shaking as I showed her my drawing, partly because of the crush I had on her, but mainly because of the guilty evidence I hid underneath the page. If I looked closely, I could almost see the outline of my sketch beneath, where, in her knee-high boots, she pressed me down naked and gagged against her desk.

"You've done a brilliant job capturing the picture." Miss Sullivan paused, considering her words with a soft hum.

"But it lacks feeling. Where's the tone and the mood? We're doing art, not scientific diagrams. Express yourself, Faye!" The passion was clear in her voice.

I nodded; she was right after all, but I wasn't sure if expressing my feelings meant the same to her as it did to me.

She continued to give pointers and advice while my eyes drifted, longingly, down her body to the sheer stockings hugging her long legs. My cheeks flared red as images of Miss Sullivan in nothing but garters and stockings filled my mind. She was younger than most of the other teachers at the university, mid-thirties perhaps, but she carried an air of confidence with her that belied her age.

I could feel the warmth growing between my legs at the thought. How many times had I fantasised about being underneath her desk, giving her pleasure as she graded the class's work?

She would bind me in a tight latex straitjacket, a bolero-styled one, with my arms pulled across my body just underneath my pert breasts. If I didn't satisfy her needs, she would grab my hair, yank it hard, and throw me over her desk; her eyes filled with equal parts lust and fury as her nails clawed my tits and she picked up her—

"Are you even listening?" Miss Sullivan asked with her hands on her hips. "Let me guess, up all night texting friends?"

No, definitely not texting. I nodded. It wasn't like I could admit to what had kept me up all night.

"Sorry, Miss."

"Well, you'll have time to text them once you've got your degree." She smiled before heading to the next student.

As she left, I stared, stupefied by youthful lust, at her plump butt. My eyes lingered almost too long as she turned briefly towards me. Quickly, I hid my face behind my hand and looked down, embarrassed, at the page.

Careful, that was too close. I sighed in relief as I overheard her assisting the other student.

Once I calmed the wildfire across my cheeks, I returned to my immodest sketch. I added a few extra details: a collar for me and a cane for her.

Sat alone at the back of the class, I quietly sketched my dirty fantasy out as my free hand drifted downward. Gently over the top of my skirt, I teased my inner thighs with my pinky finger, slowly drifting closer to my pussy. It wasn't the first time I'd done something like this in class; thankfully, no one ever bothered to look at the invisible girl. I idly caressed my clit, feeling myself getting more flustered by the second.

Eager for attention, my nipples pressed against my bra as I shaded the sketch of Miss Sullivan. As the sketch came to life, I felt dizzy with wanton desire and desperate for relief. Shuffling in my seat, I knew what I wanted to do, but it was impossible here. The clock ticked painfully slowly. I couldn't wait. I had to do it; I had to sneak off, and I knew the perfect place.

"Miss Sullivan?" I hated lying. "I meant to say earlier, but my mom asked me to pick up my niece from school; may I be excused, please?"

She glanced at the clock, "You better get going. Traffic will already be getting bad. Leave your drawings on my desk before you go."

I gathered my belongings, clutching my drawings to my chest, and walked over to the desk that I wished she would tie me to. Every step brought a deeper shade of red to my cheeks as my damp panties clung to my pussy.

Brushing past Miss Sullivan as she helped another student made my skin tingle. There was no way I could last the thirty-minute drive to my flat without going insane.

As I pulled out the sketch of John, my eyes wandered, by their own volition, once more to Miss Sullivan. Her brown hair flowed down over her shoulder, revealing her neck. Just behind her ear, I noticed a small tattoo of three circles interlinked within an elegant spiral. Soon, I would learn what that tattoo meant and, more importantly, what it meant to me.

I chewed my lips, staring at her as my fingers shook. Whispered giggles snapped me out of the trance, and I quickly left my sketch on the teacher's desk as I rushed out of the gallery, hiding my face in shame.

My Private Slice of Heaven
* * * * *

Great work, Faye! Let everyone see you staring at the teacher because that won't lead to gossip. Fuck!

Gripping my sketchbook tightly, I sulked down the hallway. Unlike the gallery, which still resembled the chapel it had once been, the rest of the art department was a modern extension built onto it.

I turned the corner and, frustratingly, saw two teachers idly chatting by a billboard opposite my secret rendezvous. I think they taught photography; I remember seeing them on this side of campus before.

My pussy anxiously tingled as I pretended to check my text messages. There were other places I could go, like the toilets or my car, but neither had the needed privacy. If I had a key, I could sneak onto the roof, but considering the dark clouds, that wouldn't be the best idea. I pressed my thighs together, quietly scowling at the teachers.

Come on, move already.

Finally, they had the grace to continue their pointless conversation around the corner. I looked over my shoulder, checking the corridor was clear, then pulled out the spare key I had swiped a few months ago. With the door shut behind me, I relocked it and flicked on the light switch.

I nibbled the knuckle of my thumb in anticipation.

The art cupboard was the same as always, with its rows of easels, expensive supplies, and the students' work orderly stored along the walls. The only time people needed to come in here was at the start of class. Beyond that, it remained locked and, more importantly, private.

Leaning back against the door, I closed my eyes, recalling some of the vivid thoughts of Miss Sullivan in her garter and stocking set-up. I fondled my breast and let my bag slip to the floor along with my prized sketchbook.

Reaching beneath my skirt, I cupped my warm pussy and shivered. I was already wet and eager from the teasing, but I intended to delve much deeper into the ocean of lust. I pushed the damp cotton to the side and caressed my velvety entrance.

I could almost feel Miss Sullivan pinning me against the door, her perfume embracing me. She would tease me, waiting to hear me beg as I straddled her thigh. Only when I had whimpered, moaned, and begged enough would she kiss me and give me what my body craved.

"Please, Miss. Please, I need you," I whispered into the empty cupboard and sunk my fingers into my hungry pussy.

My quivering thighs squeezed together, clamping around my hand. My hand caressed my neck, squeezing slightly as I panted. Warm juices trickled down my knuckles as I drifted through my fantasies, with Miss Sullivan playing the starring role.

In one fantasy, she bound me on top of her bed, thick coils of jute keeping my limbs pulled to the four corners. With a blindfold stealing my sight, she would run a crop along my trembling body. With every whimper, I would earn a spank, and as I begged to cum, she would crop my dripping cunt.

In my next lustful dream, we were bathing together as she nibbled my neck and teased me. Her soapy body pressed against my back. I would confess all my secrets to her while she edges me over and over. I danced between dreams, consumed with desire.

I brought my fingers, slick with shame, to my lips and licked them. My tongue rolled around each finger. The sweetness flooded my mouth and made me hungry for even more. The fingers found their place inside my pussy again. I greedily rolled my hips against my hand.

My top was in the way. I snatched it open and lifted my bra; my petite tits barely needed them anyway. Then charcoal-stained fingers pinched my dainty nipples, twisting lightly. I shuddered, overtaken with lust. Massaging them, I blushed, wishing I was feeling Miss Sullivan's strict hands on me.

Struggling to stand, I moaned softly on my knees, one hand on the floor, steadying myself as my fingers plunged me deeper into maddening lust. Even when the sound of people passing by crept beneath the door, I kept going. My cunt was ablaze with desperate passion. I needed relief, and no one was going to stop it.

My thumb pressed firmly against my glistening clit, harrying it as I chased my climax. The cold tiles against my knees stood in contrast to the inferno raging within me. Panting, my fingernails clawed across my ass, still tender from my self-administered morning spanks.

I imagined her gaze, watching me, grading my performance. I gasped. My hips danced with my fingers as I got closer to the edge.

Caught up in the passion, my moans were getting louder; too loud.

I clamped my hand over my mouth, charcoal staining my freckled cheeks. Gasping, my head rolled backwards. My body jolted once, then again. Mini orgasms danced in celebration across my skin.

A light mist of lust-infused sweat tickled my neck. Desire and depravity grasped my soul, their talons clawing my shaking thighs. I shook as I fought to keep my fingers on my G-spot.

My body froze; all except for my blessed fingers. Finally, the orgasm tore through me like a wave, engulfing me in its warmth. I swam in ecstasy and bliss as my fingers reluctantly squelched to a stop.

I smiled dumbly into the empty closet, catching my breath, and then had a devious thought, one I would eventually come to regret.

My eyes fell on the row of easels as my fingers slipped under my waistband. This is stupid, Faye; even for you, this is fucking stupid. I wriggled my little ass and slid the damp cotton down my thighs.

Seriously, you've already forgotten what happened; all of the bullying and tears you endured after they stole your sketchbook? I squeezed the panties past my shoes and then pressed them against my overly sensitive pussy. You're ignoring me, aren't you? I smiled with mischief as my thoughts went unheeded.

I hung my cotton panties, stained by hidden passion, over the first easel. Smiling to myself, a draught caressed my bare pussy. I straightened my clothes, gathered my belongings, and left the naughty present for the next visitor.

The Resident Bitch and Hope
* * * * *

"Watch out!" A girl, camera in hand, jumped aside as I stepped blindly out of the supply room, almost crashing into her walking past.

"Ah, crap. Sorry, I didn't see you." I quickly shut the door behind me before anyone could look inside.

The girl, Hope, shook her head, sweetly smiling, "No, honestly, it's fine. I was totally zoning out as well." She lifted her camera.

Hope's blue eyes highlighted her silken black hair as it cascaded down her athletic frame. She was one of the most popular girls at the university. From what I heard, she was doing a photography degree; apparently, she wanted to become a journalist in the fashion industry.

But she was most well-known for her swimming. More specifically, she was known for the way she looked in her swimming gear.

I would be lying if I said I hadn't thought about her that way too. We had one class together, though considering who her friends were, we didn't speak much.

"Oh, wait, I know you. Here for art, right?" Hope said.

Her gaze drifted curiously past me toward the door. "Aren't classes still—"

I stumbled over my words as I tried not to look at the faint outline of her nipple piercings showing through her thin top. She had enough confidence for both of us. Years of success and praise usually do that for a person.

Her eyes were still suspiciously on the door behind me. I needed to distract her before she started asking questions. I stepped across in front of her gaze.

"How 'bout you try looking where you're going in future!" Cassy, or as I know her, the resident bitch, snapped at me as her usual sycophants stood behind her.

"Bet I know what the lez was hoping for," one of the faceless sycophants sneered.

Hope scowled at the comment as I looked down at the floor and bit my lips. After turning down several advancements from guys, people had begun whispering that Hope was actually a lesbian.

"Well? Aren't you going to apologise?" Cassy said, looking down her nose at me.

I already did! My cheeks flared red.

I hated that fucking bitch Cassie and wanted to punch her every time I saw her. But I know what happens when you stand up to people like that. In college, I had tried after they stole my sketchbook, but that only emboldened and invigorated them for a fresh onslaught. Ignoring them doesn't help either, but at least it doesn't make it any worse.

"Seriously, it's really not a big deal," Hope said. "Not like I broke my camera or anything."

"Trust me, babe; it is." Cassy scowled at me as she linked arms with Hope and pulled her away. "You know Mel's boyfriend, right?"

Leaning against the door, I watched them walk away. Hope had glanced over her shoulder almost apologetically at me. Though that was probably wishful thinking, she was more likely busy gossiping about me with her friends. After all, why risk her popularity to take pity on me?

"No, not him. Her real boyfriend." The resident bitch continued down the corridor. "Yeah, him. So, get this right; he actually knows Faye from college. Want to know what her nickname was?"

Cassy and her sycophants laughed as they disappeared around the corner. I quietly locked the supply cupboard, along with the long-lost bliss I had felt moments earlier. That's the one thing you learn more than anything if you grow up being a nerd:

The tears that never touch your cheeks always hurt the most.

With slumped shoulders, I began to make my way out of the art department. The sky felt the same as I did with a thunderstorm rolling overhead. An oppressive heat, vexatious and foreboding, waited for the clouds to unleash their torrent.

Sitting in my car, numb and unfeeling, I watched people walk past, huddled under umbrellas and smiling with their friends. I brushed my fingers through my already straight hair.

She's just a bitch whose sole worth hinges on her popularity, which she's bound to lose after uni; get over it. I wish I believed what I told myself.

With the rain lashing against my windscreen, I took out my phone and found the contact I was looking for.

"Hey Tilly, it's Faye. Erm... you free?" I said.

"Yeah, I'm good. No, honestly, I am. Just. You know... shitty day, I guess. Could we hang out for a bit?" I rested my head against the car door window.

"The mall? Sure. Want me to pick you up?"

I took a deep breath and left the university car park to pick up Tilly, one of the few friends I had from college. She had always been my lifeline; without her, I don't know how I would cope.

Where Is It?
* * * * *

After a long chat with Tilly in the food courts, I began to calm down. She always had that effect on me. No matter what had happened, I could always rely on her to comfort me.

After she assured me several times that Cassy was a spiteful bitch, she asked me about my crush and if I had finally asked her out yet. I simply shook my head and gave the usual lame excuses. I hadn't found the right way to tell her that my secret crush was also my art teacher.

Later, back at my flat, warm water cascaded over me in the shower as steam filled the bathroom. With a relaxed sigh, I washed the coconut-scented shampoo out of my hair, the suds licking my gentle curves.

My fingers rolled gently through my wet bush and caressed my pussy. A mischievous smile came over me as I thought about where I left my panties. Going commando in the mall had given me a rush I hadn't expected. For some reason, I was convinced that Tilly knew. It felt wrong, naughty, and dirty; yet, somehow, the rush of it was liberating.

Even if Miss Sullivan didn't find the pair I discarded in the supply room herself, she would undoubtedly hear about it. Would she sit in class wondering if any of her students had done it? Would she try to look up my skirt?

A new kinky fantasy of Miss Sullivan began to form in my mind. I smirked at the thought of our eyes locking across the classroom as I slowly opened my legs for her to see up my skirt. In my daydream, she walked up to me, heels resounding throughout the chapel. When she arrived at my desk, she yanked my hair back and demanded that I wait for her in her office in a whisper.

Despite the warmth of the shower, a shiver ran through me.

I sighed as I brought the showerhead down to my clit, revelling in the hundreds of tiny kisses it gave. There was no need to hold back my moans this time. I didn't live in student accommodation. Thanks to my part-time job, I had managed to scrape together enough money to rent a small flat by myself. And so I cried out loudly.

Usually, one orgasm was enough each shower, but today I came three times before my lust was finally satisfied.

Droplets of water rolled down my soft skin when I stepped out of the shower, smiling. I wiped the mist off the mirror and giggled as I saw the reflection of my breasts. Apparently, my nails were sharper than I thought; four red lines faintly trailed across my left breast.

Wrapping a warm towel around my body, I entered my bedroom to dry my hair. Stepping past my bed covered with pillows and plushies, I knocked my sketchpad onto the floor, spilling all my sketches out. Some of my drawings were incredible; I loved the still-life art I had done a month ago. Of course, my early studies of the human form were there as well. Once they had grown too risqué, I started to pull them out at the end of each day and kept them in a folder under my bed.

I still had personal uses for those sketches after all.

As water dripped onto the carpet from my wet hair, I smiled, thinking about the drawings I had done earlier. Pulling my hair back, I slowly gathered my drawings, each holding a different memory and story.

Then a deathly frost seized my hand. Why the hell is that here?

Astonished, I stared in horror at my rough sketch of John from earlier. If that was here, then what did I leave? The towel fell to the floor as I dropped to my knees, desperately searching through my sketches.

No, this can't be happening. Where is it? Where the fuck is it?

I grabbed my bag and tipped out its contents, throwing the box of artistry pencils and overpriced university books out of the way. Frantically, I searched for the missing drawing as I felt my pulse racing in my shaking fingers.

Horrified, the reality dawned on me. I no longer had my naughty sketches of Miss Sullivan, but I knew exactly where they were.

"Leave your drawings on my desk before you go," Miss Sullivan's voice whispered in my head.

Grading in the Evening
* * * * *

As moonlight danced against the curtains, Laura Sullivan leaned back in her chair. A half-drunk glass of 2020 Antinori red wine sat forgotten beside her; the final beads of condensation dripped down the crystal glass. She had started to review the class's progress over an hour ago.

Usually by now, she would have finished grading. However, one especially unique and detailed drawing captivated her. It became clear who had left the panties she had found in the storage room.

Bathed in light from the crackling fireplace, Laura moaned as she pressed the button of her clit-sucker. She had always known Faye was talented. What she hadn't known was that her seemingly innocent student was secretly a kinky kindred spirit.

Of course, she had noticed the glances. She assumed it had just been typical youthful lust: hormones wreaking havoc. But perhaps there was more to it than that. Laura shivered as her robe opened up, revealing her plump satin bra.

After Amy, her long-term partner, broke up with Laura, she struggled to satisfy that insatiable desire to dominate. Amy had been the one to introduce Laura to the world of kink and was her first submissive. In doing so, she had awoken the sleeping Domme inside Laura, one that was now searching for her next prey.

BDSM. It's the world's most addictive drug. It satisfies the kinky mind and caresses the lustful heart before consuming you.

Laura's mind flooded with possibilities; kinky fantasies of what she could do to Faye, her sweet, innocent, and naïve student. She bit her lips at the thought, fingers digging into her thighs. She toyed with the notion of acting on her growing desire. Clearly, Faye was interested and truthful; so was Laura.

She imagined her student suspended over her bed, blindfolded and gagged as she lay underneath, teasing her with her feet. Faye would plead to have her desires fulfilled while helplessly moaning, the desperation on her freckled face clear.

Thoughts of having her between her legs as she graded art invaded her mind. She could show her so much? Teach her what true pleasure is and explore all of her fantasies. The greatest pleasure, for a Domme like Laura, was to grant the very thing the submissive wanted most: to tease out their deepest fantasies and bring them to life.

She looked back at the drawing, with Faye pinned under her foot against a desk while her teacher wielded a cane. Faye had drawn intricate rope interlaced across her youthful body. Laura had desperately wanted to try Shibari when she looked it up years ago, but never had the chance to do so with Amy. An unfortunate accident during her early experimentation with self-bondage had put Amy off Shibari.

As Laura's moans flooded the room, she turned up the toy, chasing the high she sought. Air escaped her breath as her toes curled. Could she get away with it? Could she really risk it? She chewed her lips with her devious eyes fixed on the drawing. It was the freckles that did it; they reminded her of a younger Amy. Desire flooded Laura's body.

Her hand grasped the chair arm as she squirmed and moaned. Anticipation and desire collided in orgasmic delight.

With quivering legs, Laura turned off the toy. She sat up, still red in the face and panting, bathing in her afterglow, and smiled at the sketch Faye had drawn.

It was clear what any responsible teacher would do. Laura needed to give her naughty student detention. She smiled, eyeing the neglected cane leaning against the cabinet.

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To be continued.
* * * * *

Thank you for reading the first part of my series.
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