Plugged
Standing behind her desk, Miranda wondered if students noticed that her gait had changed, even her tone of voice. Earlier she had locked herself in the washroom cubicle, took the package and lubricant out of her briefcase, followed the instructions, inserted the well-greased plug into her ass, wincing when it pushed through the sphincter, pulled up her panties, waited as she adjusted to the sensations, flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and then walking slowly, entered the classroom down the hall, three minutes late. Clenching her buttocks, she didn’t want it dislodged at inopportune moments.
A student sat in the front row, legs spread wide apart to give prominence to his crotch, the white statement in English on his black T-shirt loud and clear: MANWHORE. While Frida at the back of the class read out a passage in her halting English from the assigned story, Miranda wondered what the term meant and how it applied to Reinhardt. Did the youth sell his body? With his Germanic good looks and muscularity, he’d probably have customers lined up. His huge muscles were the most noticeable feature about him, and he wore clothes like the skin-tight T-shirt to draw attention to them. Reinhardt also drove a black muscle car to school, all noise and power; a fuck machine, really. The boys and girls couldn’t resist and Reinhardt knew it. Miranda privately admitted that she wasn’t immune to the student’s charisma. She fantasized about the student fucking her on the desk, her cunt thrumming and clenching around his cock.
But the T-shirt seemed blatant and rude, even in this age of sartorial provocations. Really, discretion and appropriateness were obsolete notions for these students. Not that she should talk about appropriate behaviour, given the butt plug slipping in her anal canal every time she took a step. Miranda couldn’t quite describe the feeling aside from the fact that she liked the pressure, the up-and-down movement, and images of being tied down, maybe, or panting on her hands and knees and getting fucked by a student. Oh, it would hurt…at first…she had to prepare for the inevitable. Then she brought herself back from fantasyland to the blackboard and fluorescent lighting of a classroom smelling of student sweat and indifference.
With difficulty, Frida finished the passage. Miranda knew that Reinhardt had slept with Frida who wanted to be his regular girlfriend, but Reinhardt regarded love and romance as traps. She certainly knew the lad’s opinions. Fucking was great; guys needed to play, didn’t matter who their partner was; everything was permissible; it was all cool. Sex was nothing more than fun and games unless you wanted kids. Everyone should have fun; blowjobs were necessary, Reinhardt had written in his student journal, or words to that effect. Rough play, also great. The assigned topic was “Love and Sex” in a story of their choice, total freedom of expression allowed. Horny Reinhardt’s entry had startled Miranda awake from the semi-narcoleptic state she fell into when reading student papers. Reinhardt had simply used the story as a jumping-off point to write about his own sex life: about how much he loved shooting his load every day anywhere with anyone; a blowjob a day, at least one, even in the college library; fucking older teachers even, confessions which Miranda suspected the boy had pumped up like his arm muscles. Why? To impress her? To slip his cock into her cunt?
According to his journal, Reinhardt the MANWHORE (was that not also an insulting term?) had already fucked three or four girls and a couple of boys in the class. Everyone knew some professors slept with their students, but unless the students complained, no one else did, aside from the standard clucking of tongues and envious whispers behind their backs. Did Reinhardt ever use butt plugs? Could she safely ask that question?
Her students skittering with hormonal energy, immersed in the entertainment and advertising world of sex, Miranda wondered how they concentrated on physics labs and English essays when cocks crowed and cunts glistened. She struggled to attach herself to the moment, to keep from drifting away in reverie like a canoe broken loose from its mooring, to cut the ties here, to sever herself him from her inauthentic life. She sat down, if only to keep the plug in. Her master Kurt had bought it and commanded Miranda to conduct her last class with the device plugging her ass. Why should she plug herself? Miranda had protested, answered by Kurt’s slap across her face and mocking: like you don’t know, bitch. Just do it. Yes, she had obeyed, for obedience and submission thrilled her, and it seemed natural to follow master Kurt’s orders. And now, the plug secured all the way up, her buttocks clenched and unclenched and clenched again. Kurt had borrowed her car for the day after dropping her off at school in the morning, and Miranda would meet him in the parking lot after class.
Time dragged. Some days she didn’t think she could go through the routine anymore. Before meeting Kurt, her sense of dying by increments had been tangible, and she would have died having lived an ordinary, unmemorable life. Liberation offered by Kurt and his electric allure beckoned and led her into a new, transcendent life. She shifted on the seat, feeling the plug like a cock in her ass. Kurt had promised it would happen. Patience.
Kurt broke into and took over her tedious life. Electrons sizzled in the atmosphere. The leaden sky cracked and sunlight roared through. Wear the plug; it’s a start, bitch. Your ass needs training and a good fuck like any cunt. And so now she was practicing, getting ready. Yes, after showering this morning, directing the full force of the spray up her anal canal, although she didn’t think it could be as effective in cleaning it as an enema, she had inserted the butt plug, involuntarily gasping as the bulbous part squeezed past the sphincter, and pushed gently until all five flexible inches snuggled in her rectum. The flange at the end prevented it from going up any farther. Before dressing for school and driving to Kurt’s place she removed it, washed it, and promised Kurt that she would insert the plug again before class. He seemed annoyed and threatened punishment, which made her cunt wet, but he said this time it was okay. As long as it was in her ass when he picked her up later.
Miranda knew there would be a larger plug after this one had served its purpose for a week or more, and after that conditioning, something larger still, and ultimately the real thing. A heavily-veined, bulbous headed throbbing cock. Like a soldier, Kurt had said, preparation and readiness were everything. Miranda imagined the size of Reinhardt’s cock; it grew impossibly large, like a horse cock, and her heart beat faster over the thought of it breaking into her like a stallion mounting a mare in heat. Not ideas she should be thinking about during class, she admonished herself. Of course, Kurt’s dick was equally admirable and she loved the feel of it in her cunt and mouth.
Miranda spoke faster, wanted time to speed up, so she could exit the classroom and meet Kurt in the teacher’s parking lot. They would drive back to the apartment and pass an hour or so together before Kurt left for the armory. Perhaps she would have to remove the plug and hoped the tip wouldn’t be covered in shit, knowing she’d be embarrassed in front of the soldier. She would stay at the apartment and prepare for tomorrow’s classes, watch videos, clean the tiny kitchen, and be awake when the soldier returned before midnight, and fucked and spanked her. Miranda’s mouth went dry, and she had difficulty concentrating on marking papers.
She lifted her ass off the seat imperceptibly and pushed down, as if she were fucking herself in front of the dazed students. The discomfort became mildly pleasurable. Some of the students, including Reinhardt, must have a secret life as well, special interests and games, besides ordinary fucking. Well, Reinhardt was not so secretive in his journal, but Miranda suspected more bravado there than truth. He did have muscles, though, and a bulging crotch which she couldn’t help noticing. He wrote that he wanted to star in porn films. Perhaps most of them were still too young, not yet sucked down into the bog of jobs, convenience, compromises, and pensions.
They had not experienced the randomness of death and violence like blood oozing out of smashed heads, bones splintered and crushed, or children’s limbs ripped out of their sockets, as Kurt had witnessed after the Taliban bombed a girl’s school outside Kandahar. The students’ digital gadgets connected them to nothing except mirror images of themselves. Hey, you brain-addled fuckers, Miranda could almost hear herself speaking in Kurt’s voice, connect with this: and she’d bend over, pull down her panties, and moon them with the butt plug plopping out of her ass.
“That’s it for today,” she announced, “have your journal entry written for next class. Be honest. Write whatever you think would interest me, but be true.”
Slamming books and scraping chair legs, their voices released like chattering birds, they filed out of the room, and she noticed how a group of admirers gathered around Reinhardt, the manwhore. Miranda was startled by the wink Reinhardt gave her, as if teacher and student shared intimate knowledge. In a sense, they had: allowed to write freely in their journals without fear of a teacher’s censorship and disgust, Reinhardt had been very free in his sexual confessions. Miranda had commented favourably and encouraged him to write more along the same lines. She fingered herself as she read his journal.
They had even enjoyed provocative conversations in Miranda’s office where Reinhardt, responding to her probing and questions about the entries, relaxed and spoke his mind and spread his legs wide to allow his teacher to admire his crotch, which he sometimes touched, although Miranda tried not to direct her eyes there. Reinhardt seemed willing to cross boundaries, to demolish the limits, if granted permission. Intimations slipped out with his words and flickered in his eyes. You should write more about this in your journals; Miranda had praised his frankness. Improve your English. What would Reinhardt think if he knew that his teacher, with her ass plugged, was on her way to a soldier’s apartment, a soldier who was her master? Would Reinhardt like to play with them? Would he bring Frida and would want Kurt to fuck her? Did she shave her pussy? Would Reinhardt wear leather boots? Deep-throat his professor, if Kurt gave his permission? Piss on her face and tits? The questions remained unasked, but Miranda still hoped for answers. All boundaries splintered and shattered ever since she met and submitted to Kurt. The word enslavement seemed to be more and more accurate, and Miranda whispered it like a confession of love.
She fancied taking risks with Reinhardt the manwhore. Ask the youth openly: have you ever thought about fucking me? Rumours abounded. She had heard about one or two colleagues sexually involved with Reinhardt. That Reinhardt was into anything. Did he dominate them? Did they submit willingly and joyously? Do you get boners in class? Is your cum heavy and luscious like Kurt’s? Maybe she should introduce the two. After collecting her things from his office and stuffing her brief case with student papers, Miranda stepped out and the butt plug slipped; she could feel it pop out of the sphincter. She reached behind and touched the flange of the plug inside her panties: yes, it was slipping out. She pushed it back in.
Two hours max, the instructions said, at the beginning. It was a flesh-toned acrylic plug, shaped like an arrowhead, smooth and round, but tapered so the narrow part slipped past the sphincter with least resistance, discomfort beginning as the thicker part squeezed in.
In the parking lot, Kurt had his arm outside the driver’s window, flicking a cigarette. Once she sat in the car and buckled, the butt plug secured against slippage, Kurt took another drag before starting the engine. He wore an army-issue T-shirt and Miranda admired her master’s biceps.
The soldier switched the gears and the car moved into the road. Miranda stared at the boot pressing the accelerator. It needed to be polished. With her tongue, if master desired. Go with the fucking flow so I flow with fucking, Miranda recalled words from Reinhardt’s journal. Kurt squeezed her knee, and looked directly at him.
“You wearing it like I told you?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Good. You can play with it in your ass while I’m driving. You have my permission, bitch.”
Miranda clasped her hands, the butt sliding up as she pushed down on the seat, and nodded yes; she was doing what the soldier allowed her to do. She worked her buttocks, slowly fucking herself. An image of Reinhardt’s heavily-muscled arms holding the wheel of his car, the famous fuck machine, blocked out any compunctions. Lifting and lowering her ass, up and down as if she was actually fucking herself on Reinhardt’s relentless horse cock, feeling it, feeling it, getting used to it, and then Kurt replaced him and trained her like a recruit. As Kurt drove to his apartment, she imagined Reinhardt unbuckling his belt, pulling down his jeans, bending his professor over the hood of his muscle car and plugging her ass with his horse cock, plugging it with her master Kurt’s permission. Kurt gripped Miranda’s thigh and squeezed. She began breathing heavily and moaning. He blew smoke out with the words:
“You’ll always belong to me, bitch. Keep fucking yourself.”
Horror Sleaze Trash 