Even before I attended my Catholic vocational school in the late-1960s, I was always scolded for being too curious too soon. I wanted to know about sex before any self-respecting girl at the time should have.
And the church, of course, would have none of it. So after a time—when the nuns had shamed me for too many years—I suppressed my instincts. I kept my sexuality under wraps, determined to be a better Catholic than they said I was. I was dedicated to staying a virgin—as God wanted—until I married.
When I was an 18-year-old freshman, aspiring to be a secretary, the nuns asked the girls to kneel to see if the hems of our plaid skirts touched the ground. Well, even though I had kept my smutty ideas to myself, I still knew I had beautiful legs. So I had taken to rolling up the waistband of my plaid skirt to show a little more skin.
So when I kneeled down on the floor, they saw with a ruler that the skirt hit a full two inches above my knee.
“This deserves an even firmer hand than my own,” said Sr. Mary O’Hara. “I am disgusted by you, you indolent girl.”
She sent me to see our racquetball coach, Mr. Collins.
Mr. Collins took me into his office, a room adjacent to the recreational area. He told me that I had been wrong to disregard the rules—especially in order to look more attractive in my skirt. He was very angry. Very disappointed. Worse, he was disgusted.
“Didn’t you know rules were made for a reason?” said Mr. Collins. He was shouting now.
“Yes?” I said, trembling.
“They were made for sluts like you to break them.”
He took my blond ponytail tight in his hands and bent me over his knees. He wore white pants through which I could see his throbbing member. Now, I could feel it against my hip.
“They were made for sluts like you, in order that I can give you the appropriate punishment!” he said.
I was, of course, still a virgin, and my pussy was as tight as the pursed lips of my nuns.
He lifted my plaid skirt and began to slide off my undies. They were silk items I secretly bought with money from my father, behind my mother’s back. Mr. Collins paused then, before the panties hit my ankles.
I didn’t know what he planned to do. “And now,” he said. “Prepare yourself, Ella.”
He slipped his finger in my asshole.
“Ohhhhh,” I said, moaning, and afraid. It was so terrifying. So wrong. And then, there was this pulsing, hot, thick rod against my hip. It was … wonderful. And yet, how afraid I was!
“You like that, do you?”
“No, Mr. Collins! I’m afraid!”
“You should be, you tramp!” he roared.
With that, he grabbed me again by the back of the hair and began to paddle my white, bare bottom with a ping pong paddle. It hurt me so! “I will punish you, again and again, until you learn.”
“Ohhhh,” I said. “Ohhhh. Help!”
“There’s no help for you now, Ella. You’re in my hands.”
“Mr. Collins, please stop,” I begged, as my clit throbbed. “Please, let me have a moment.”
And he did. He paused. He stood back to look at me. And he softened. “Oh, Ella,” he said. “Your bottom is so round. So creamy.”
He cupped my pussy in his hands and rubbed. And I heard myself—begging him to continue.
To the side of his desk, a basket of ping pong balls lay beside more paddles.
“You see how white this ping pong ball is?” he said. “It’s as white and round as your breasts. And I’m going to put this white, round ping pong ball where you could never expect it to go, you little virgin.”
“No!” I said. “No!” Although I didn’t know what he would do.
With my bottom in the air, he picked me up and straddled me over a table, wetting the ball in his mouth before inserting it in my vagina. “So tight,” he said, pushing it in. As I cried, and prayed to God, he inserted his penis in my ass.
I screamed. I screamed in pain and delight. And Mr. Collins? He put his hand over my mouth, shuddering and moaning.
He lost control, shuddering like an animal within me. And I trembled and cried as the first waves of my first orgasm spread across my body, a warmth and release from the top of my head to my toes.
He collapsed on top of me. He was so heavy. I could hardly breathe. But I needed him there. I needed all that weight, to keep me from floating up into space.
“Mr. Collins,” I cried when he lifted himself up, pulling the ball out of me and putting it in his pocket. “Don’t leave! I need you.”
But he did. He left me. He left me at the foot of his desk. I cradled my aching pussy, weeping.
And as I gathered myself together, I wondered when Mr. Collins would hold my twat again.
As it happens, this was just the beginning. Mr. Collins spent many more years punishing me. And in order to prove myself worthy of his punishments, I spent many more years behaving badly, over and over again.
Addendum: Ella was always kinkier than the adults around her appreciated. She’s since found a way to express her slutty ways in the job of her dreams. She’s a phone sex operator. Call her at 1800-TALKTOME, ext. 226911, and she’ll tell you more stories about Mr. Collins’ punishments, the ones she could hardly wait for.