Jess Samuelson ought never have transferred to St. Agnes University.  Even an ordinary all-girls school would have taxed Jess's (admittedly weak) self-control: she was twenty-two, she was unapologetically gay, and she was wildly libidinous.  But St. Agnes was even more impossible: all of its girls considered themselves flowers of God, and all were especially proud of being immune to Jess's attentions.

To say that Jess stood out would be a wild understatement: in a sea of cardigans and plaid skirts, Jess wore the khakis, white shirt, and navy blazer reserved for the male faculty.  Rather than keeping her hair in the ubiquitous braid or tasteful chignon, she had hers clipped military-short, in a black crewcut that would have made her devilishly attractive in a different setting.

Though St. Agnes's headmistress, Margaret Lakey, was an infamously exacting disciplinarian, she was startlingly permissive with Jess, finding the young woman's iconoclasm rather bracing.  And Coach Epstein was grateful to have her on the school's formerly lackluster rugby team -- she was leading them to an almost certain championship.

But over the course of her first year at St. Agnes, Jess's exclusion from both the friendship and the bedrooms of the other students made her increasingly bitter, and increasingly reckless.  She found herself taking bizarre risks -- perching on stone ledges outside the girls' windows, for example, in order to see them at their evening ablutions.  In the absence of sex, she became a committed voyeur, risking life and limb to watch a classmate read Aquinas wearing only her white cotton knickers.

Until Coach Epstein caught her at her spying, and referred her to the Headmistress for punishment.

When Jess arrived at Headmistress Lakey's office, it was in a posture of defiance.  The Headmistress was leaning against the edge of her massive mahogany desk, wearing her rimless spectacles and one of her lovely tasteful pantsuits--this one was gray, with a subtle chalk stripe.  Her ankles were crossed, and a single pearl glinted in each earlobe.  Her blond hair, which was in the process of silvering becomingly, was in a pageboy that made her look slightly younger than she was.

Jess was mildly surprised to see that Coach Epstein was standing beside her, arms folded, wearing her usual uniform of faded bluejeans and a black track jacket with the St. Agnes' crest on the back.  The coach's dark curly hair was tousled, as usual, and her large strong nose and full lips always made her look sort of warlike to Jess.

"Hello," Jess said uncertainly.

"Miss Samuelson.  You stand accused of betraying the trust of myself, of Coach Samuelson, and of your fellow students."  The Headmistress shook her head slightly, her mouth a grim line.  "Quite a feat for a girl who's been with us less than a year."

Jess bristled slightly at the word "girl"; she didn't think of herself as one.  She hoped her anger would help her overcome her feeling of remorse.  "I apologize, Headmistress.  I sort of lost my senses, I think.  It won't happen again."

"We appreciate your assurances, Samuelson.  Forgive us if we elect not to rest on them."  The coach uncrossed her arms and steppe forward.  "Do you understand the trust you've violated?"

"I..."

"Trust, Miss Samuelson."  The Headmistress's blue eyes were steely.  "The implicit trust that exists among women.  The trust that here they will not be subject to certain... trespasses that they might risk elsewhere."

"Or don't you think that applies to you?"  The coach gestured to Jess's blazer, her trousers and lace-up oxfords.  "Are you not a woman among women here?"

Jess couldn't help it; she grinned  broadly.  "Well... not exactly."

"Really?"  The Headmistress lifted an inquiring eyebrow.  "Are you better, perhaps?  Somehow *more* than a woman?"

Jess recognized her mistake--too late.  "Not more, exactly..."

"But separate."  The Coach spoke.

"I just..."

"I have permitted you certain freedoms, Miss Samuelson.  I would like to continue to do so, because I think they are admirable in themselves."  The Headmistress made an almost imperceptible gesture, and Coach Epstein slipped suddenly behind Jess and drew her jacket off her shoulders before Jess even realized the Coach had moved.

"What are you--" Jess stuttered.

"But," the Headmistress continued, "I think certain things need to be made clear." 

The Headmistress made another gesture, and Coach Epstein grabbed hold of Jess's wrists and held them tightly together at the small of her back.  Jess tried to twist free, but Coach Epstein was easily the stronger of the two; her grip was a vise.  She walked Jess over to stand before the Headmistress.

"You will need to be punished, Jess dear," the Headmistress said quietly, running a fingernail over the row of buttons on Jess's white shirt.  The steady series of clicks cast Jess into a panic--as did the pressure of Coach Epstein's knee between her legs.

"Look," Jess stammered, "please don't do whatever it is you're doing.  I'm pleading with you."  Her voice trembled.  "This isn't necessary, really."  She twisted her wrists, almost imperceptibly, in Coach Epstein's hands.  "I've learned my lesson."

The headmistress's eyes were amused behind her rimless glasses.  "I'm so glad to hear it."  She unbuttoned Jess's collar, stroked her neck, ran a playful hand over the top of her dark crewcut.  "We did so want you to learn a lesson."  She undid two more buttons.  The girl's bra--a sportsbra, white, one size too tight to minimize her breasts-- was now visible.

"Oh Jesus, don't."  Jess was crying now.  Coach Epstein held her wrists more firmly while the Headmistress slowly pulled her shirttails out of her pants and undid the remaining buttons.  She slowly parted the two halves of the shirt and ran the back of her hand over Jess's flat abdomen, which was shuddering with her sobs.

"Don't what?" The headmistress traced Jess's navel, almost carelessly, then made a gesture to the coach.  Epstein suddenly grabbed the bra's elastic band and yanked it over the girl's head, pulling it down over her arms.  It neatly served to bind her elbows together and forced her breasts out, toward the headmistress. 

Jess convulsed as if struck.  No one -- not even she herself -- had ever examined her breasts, of which she was profoundly ashamed.  Despite all the teams she'd ever been on (and been the star of), she'd assiduously managed to avoid the locker room.  She showered alone, in the dark.  Now both the headmistress and the coach were examining her breasts with gynecological intensity.  She wanted to die.

"Not large," the coach commented.

"But exquisitely shaped."  The headmistress ran her hands along the undersides of the orbs in question.  "Lovely brown nipples."  She pinched them, making them even more erect than the cool air already had. Jess shivered, horrified at the sensation; her nipples, long-neglected, were electric beneath the headmistress's touch.

Coach Epstein suddenly reached around and seized Jess's breasts, one in each hand.  Jess yelped, tried to twist away.  The headmistress hooked a hand into the waistband of Jess's trousers to hold her steady. She began undoing Jess's belt, which was precisely at her eye level.  Jess tossed her hips this way and that in a futile attempt at escape.

"You've enjoyed looking at the other girls."  The headmistress pulled the belt out of Jess's trouser loops in a single neat motion. "So now we're having a look at you."  She unbuttoned Jess's trousers and slowly unzipped the fly.  "It only seems fair, no?"  She smiled encouragingly into Jess's tear-streaked face.

Coach Epstein was massaging Jess's breasts in earnest now, her palms mercilessly working the girl's nipples.  The more Jess struggled against the coach's touch, the further her newly loosened trousers traveled down her hips.  Realizing her mistake, Jess suddenly stiffened, stood still -- but it was too late.  Her trousers were around her knees and the headmistress was contemplating her white jockey shorts with amusement.

"Boy's underdrawers, no less?"  The coach peered over Jess's shoulder to have a look, still rolling her hard nipples between her thumbs and forefingers.  "Jockey shorts, Jess?"  The coach said, laughing.  "On you, honey -- they're just a different kind of panties."  She grabbed the back of Jess's waistband and pulled the shorts high, forcing the material into the crack of Jess's ass and exposing her cheeks to the air.  Jess cried out, half in shame and half in pain.

The coach laughed and took hold of Jess's asscheeks, one in each hand, forcing them first together, then apart.  She released them, a bit regretfully, in order to regain a firm grip on Jess's wrists with one hand; with the other, she wrapped her forearm around her neck.  The girl was going to be struggling a whole lot more any minute, and the coach wanted to be prepared.

The pressure of Coach Epstein's forearm on her throat forced Jess up on her tiptoes, and she tottered, already off balance because her pants were around her ankles.

"Tell me," the headmistress said, eyeing the girl's bare breasts and exposed underwear. "What do you need jockey shorts for, dear?"  She hooked two fingers into the Y-front opening in Jess's underpants.  "Easier access?"  Jess struggled mightily, her hips thrashing, but the coach held her without any seeming effort.  She couldn't bear this indignity--she was quite certain it would kill her.

The headmistress brushed her fingertips against Jess's downy pubic hair, making the girl gasp with shame and horror.  "Well!  It would seem there's nothing in here but pussy, Coach Epstein."

"Surprise, surprise," the coach laughed, her breath hot on Jess's exposed neck.  Jess's nipples got harder despite herself.

The headmistress withdrew her fingers from Jess's underpants.  Jess relaxed slightly, not knowing how much worse things would soon get.

"Jess, dear," the headmistress said, examining her manicure.  (It was flawless.)  She stood and walked around to the other side of the massive desk and sat in her high-backed black leather chair.  "I want you to put your hands on the desktop.  Palms flat, please."

Coach Epstein released Jess's hands, and before Jess could react to her sudden freedom, the Coach had torn both her open shirt and her bra down and off.  Jess immediately crossed her arms in front of her bare breasts, her trousers still in a puddle at her feet.

"Sweetheart, you look more like a girl than ever when you do that,"  Coach Epstein said.  "I just love feminine modesty, don't you, Headmistress?"

"In its place."  The headmistress tapped the desktop with a fingernail.  "Palms on the desk now, please.  I do so hate to repeat myself."

Jess stepped slowly forward, leaving her trousers behind.  Now she was wearing only the white jockey shorts, which her tormentors had found so amusing.  She stood, frozen, her hips flush with the edge of the desk.

"Please, headmistress --" she tried.

"Now."  The headmistress's eyes were dark with anger.  "You will take your punishment.  All of it.  The other girls will thank me for giving it to you, I assure you."

Jess cried silently, her tears spattering the polished mahogany.  She uncrossed her arms and put her palms flat on the desk, exposing her lovely girlish breasts to the headmistress.  They shook slightly as she wept.

"Now walk your hands forward until your torso is perpendicular with the desktop."  The headmistress was implacable.  "Keep your arms straight, your elbows locked."

Jess obeyed.  Her breasts hung from her torso like fine ornaments, her ass pointed at Coach Epstein like an offering.  She closed her eyes in humiliation, but the Headmistress seized her chin firmly and commanded her to open them.

"I want your eyes to remain on mine.  I want to watch your face while Coach Epstein does to you what she will.  I want to see how it makes you feel --to be powerless.  To be done to."  The headmistress reached out two long fingernails and dragged them across Jess's erect nipples; her breasts swayed helplessly in response.

Jess could not see what was happening behind her.  The stress in her triceps and thighs was already painful, and she knew the Headmistress could see that pain in her eyes.  She felt her jockey shorts being drawn slowly down in back, exposing the two white cheeks of her ass to Coach Epstein's delighted eyes.  The Coach ran ten blunt fingernails all over the tender skin, making Jess jump.

The headmistress seized Jess's breasts and began to gently massage them while Coach Epstein drew a leather glove--a batter's glove--over her left hand.

"Spread your legs," the coach commanded, but didn't bother waiting for Jess to obey.  She just kicked the girl's feet apart and ran the fingertip of the leather glove up and down the crack of Jess's ass, stopping occasionally to tap her fingertip against her anus, a sensation that made Jess's whole body nearly buckle.  There were no words for  the violation Jess felt -- a violation made worse by the Headmistress's steady cobalt stare, by the feeling of her merciless hands playing with her breasts. 

The coach momentarily withdrew her hand, and Jess heard an unmistakable sound: the coach spat into the glove.

"No," Jess whispered.  "Please don't put anything inside me.  Please, don't. I can't."  The headmistress traced Jess's lips with her forefinger.

"Don't worry, dear.  This is hardly the worst of it."

"True," the Coach commented, and forced just the very tip of her finger into Jess's ass.  Jess uttered a strangled cry, and the coach plunged all the way in.  "This isn't the part that makes you a girl, you know."  The finger entered and withdrew, entered and withdrew, and each time Jess was less able to resist its intrusion.  Her ass felt horribly, unnaturally full.  "The nice thing about assholes," the coach said conversationally, softly slapping each of Jess's ass cheeks in turn with her free hand, "is that everybody has them."

"Indeed," the headmistress said, staring into Jess's terrified eyes.  The headmistress flicked Jess's breasts to make them sway.  "But these--these--are for girls alone."

The coach withdrew her finger and pulled off the glove.

"Pull up your panties," she gruffly commanded.

Jess stood and shakily pulled up her underpants.  As upset as she was, some small part of her was thankful that her ordeal was over.

"Now," the Headmistress said.  "We can begin.  Hands behind your head, dear."

Jess gaped at her.

The Headmistress sighed.  "I thought we were through with pointless resistance.  Coach Epstein?"

The coach grabbed Jess's wrists and locked them behind her head.  She frog-marched her over to the door of the headmistress's office and threw the door open.  Jess tried to scream but was unable to utter a sound.

Before her, dozens of St. Agnes girls were hurrying to class; the halls were packed in the five-minute break between periods.  Jess watched, immobilized, her hands locked behind her head, as each girl noticed her and turned to stare--her bare breasts and spread legs, her jockey shorts which, hastily pulled up, only barely covered her pubic mound.  Many pointed, or laughed behind their hands;  a few of the bolder ones walked up to get a closer look.  Mary-Ann Sweeney--a red-haired beauty whom Jess personally found irresistible, and had often spied on--actually walked over and pulled the band of Jess's underpants as far away from her body as the elastic would permit.  Her eyes flicked briefly down to peer inside; then she released the band (which snapped painfully against Jess's bare stomach) and stalked off to class.  Only when the halls were empty again did Coach Epstein close the door.

"Now then," the Headmistress said brightly.  "Come over to my desk, dear."

Jess, utterly humiliated, began to walk toward the Headmistress, her hands still on her head.

"No, no."  The Headmistress' eyes glinted.  "On your hands and knees."

Jess dropped slowly to her knees then placed her hands on the floor.  She began to crawl; every so often, she felt her nipples brush against the hardwood floor.  The Headmistress watched from before her, Coach Epstein from behind.

When she reached the headmistress's chair, the Coach grabbed the back of her underpants and used them to pull her into a standing position, her hands once more behind her head.   The Coach cupped her hands under Jess's breasts to hold her still. 

"Thank you, dear."  The Headmistress admired Jess's tear-streaked, stricken face for a moment, then leaned forward, ever so slightly, and closed her mouth over Jess's left nipple.  The Headmistress sucked her breast expertly, until Jess felt her knees buckle.

"You like that."  It wasn't a question.

"No, I don't," Jess croaked with the last of her defiance.  She certainly didn't like having her breasts sucked -- there was nothing more weak, more womanly.  She hated her breasts, hated having them touched.  Her cunt, however, pulsed traitorously inside her jockey shorts.

"No?"  Coach Epstein squeezed Jess's breasts gently, holding them so that only each nipple was exposed.  The Headmistress sucked each in turn, making them glossy and diamond-hard.  Jess kept her hands on her head and her body rigidly still, hating how electric the Headmistress's mouth felt on her hated breasts.  The Headmistress blew air on each wet nipple and the skin tightened even more. 

"You like it."  It was the coach who spoke this time.

"No."  Jess spoke through clenched teeth.

The Headmistress, without warning, hooked her fingers into the crotch of Jess's jockey shorts and pulled them slightly down.  When she withdrew her fingers, they were soaking wet.  She dragged them across Jess's lips.

"You, my dear, are a liar."  The Headmistress smiled.  "As a homosexual, the taste should be familiar to you."  Jess began weeping again, too ashamed to speak.

"Now let's see what we have here, shall we?"  The headmistress gripped the waistband of Jess's jockey shorts and yanked them down to her knees.  Jess's pussy was directly at her eye level -- the dark fur and the swollen, glistening lips.  Jess tried to turn her head away, tried to evade this final station of her humiliation, but the coach forced her to look at the Headmistress, forced her to see the Headmistress looking.

"How very pretty your pussy is."  The Headmistress placed a thumb on either side of Jess's mound and gently drew the lips apart, so that everything -- her swollen clit, her inner lips, her tiny vaginal opening -- was visible. 

"Everything a girl should be," Coach Epstein commented, running her fingers over Jess's pubic fur. 

The Headmistress unzipped the fly of her tasteful pinstriped slacks and withdrew a long black dildo, shaped more like a police baton than a penis.  The shape made little difference to Jess, however, who made one last attempt to turn and flee. 

Coach Epstein casually put her foot out and tripped her, and the girl went sprawling, her panties still around her knees.  She lay facedown on the floor, her bare ass and back facing the two older women.  When she, in her humiliation, made no attempt to get up, the coach walked over and pulled her underwear down and off, then lifted her up by her elbows and walked her, naked, weeping and struggling feebly, back to the headmistress. 

"Now, little girl, I want you to sit on my lap."  The headmistress put her hands on Jess's bare hips and walked her forward until her legs were wide apart over the seat of the leather executive chair.  "You'll notice that my... implement" -- here she gestured to the dildo -- "is decidedly non-representational.  We don't want you to go straight, exactly--" the coach grinned at this "--we just want you to enjoy being a girl a bit more than you do."

Jess shook her head violently back and forth.  "Not this, not this, please..."

Coach Epstein reached around and cupped Jess's sex in one hand.  Her middle finger stabbed into Jess's wetness, stroking the mouth of her vaginal opening, spreading the lips wide.  "If you don't want anything inside you, honey... why are you so soaking wet?" 

With that, Coach Epstein put both her hands on Jess's shoulders and pressed firmly down, down, so that Jess was forced to lower herself onto the dildo in the Headmistress's lap.  She felt it stretching her, changing her -- she who had never even put her own fingers inside herself suddenly had something long and thick and foreign deep inside her.  The coach only ceased the pressure on Jess's shoulders when the girl's hips were flush with the headmistress's lap.

"Throw your legs over the arms of my chair," the headmistress commanded.  Jess, broken, ashamed, betrayed by the sensations of her own body, obeyed, spreading herself wide open to the headmistress.  The headmistress rocked her hips, fucking Jess as slowly and steadily as her own ardor would allow.  All the while, she had one long fingernail raking back and forth over Jess's clit.  Coach Epstein kept up her relentless assault on her breasts.  The Headmistress leaned forward and brushed the lightest of kisses across Jess's lips.  Somehow that shocked the girl as thoroughly as everything else that had happened.

"Now then, dear.... Come for me."

Jess did, weeping and crying out in equal measure. When she finally stopped, she found herself with both her strong young arms draped around the headmistress's neck.  Coach Epstein stroked her bare back.

"Welcome to St. Agnes, Jess," the Headmistress said.  She leaned forward and bit the girl's softening nipple, not quite hard enough to draw blood.  "We are, in our way, glad to have you."