Mr. Lucky #3 Lucky’s School Day Adventure
Millie Dynamite
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Mr. Lucky #3
Lucky’s School Day Adventure
Lucky learns history by the smack of a birch switch
Mille Dynamite
© Copyright 2024 by Millie Dynamite
NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This tale is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Lucky’s School Day Adventure
The night was a cloak of velvet darkness as Jimmy Erastus Dole, known to a few as Mr. Lucky, slipped by the bridge over the stream. He offered a silent prayer of thanks for his first encounter with Deja under the bridge. Lucky moved through the streets, past the town, up the side of a mountain, and towards his sanctuary—the small cabin in the mountain clearing he called home.
The moon cast long shadows that whispered secrets of his previous encounters with his wild cat girlfriend. He turned the key in the lock. It responded with a click, and Jimmy entered his home. He always entered the house since he’d met her, Deja, his Mistress of pain and pleasure, with fear and trembling.
For often, she’d be there waiting to use him. She wasn’t, not that night.
Sitting on the worn kitchen table, a note lay in wait, its presence a bright white the reddish-brown woodgrain. Jimmy moved towards it, the hushed rustling of the paper as he unfolded it, slicing through the silence. The words etched upon it were straightforward and commanding, the ink black as midnight.
“Dear, pathetic Mr. Lucky, class begins tomorrow morning at eight am in room 324 of the old high school.”
The words leaped from the page. Each syllable a hallowed commandment. Lucky’s heart thundered in his chest. Deja’s words, printed or spoken, always inspired anticipation and dread. Mistress Deja’s wants were law, and Deja’s wishes were the axis upon which his world spun.
“Wear uniform provided, bring books on the kitchen table, don’t be one second late, boy. Courses of Study for tomorrow: History, Mathematics, Social Studies, and Sex Education. You and your fellow student must obtain a perfect rating to avoid punishment.”
His heart quickened at the thought of Deja’s class, her dark eyes discerning every subtle nuance of his being. The dread of potential punishment entwined with an eager anticipation that coursed through his veins. Compelling him towards the bed where sleep awaited—a fleeting respite before submission to her tutelage.
He set the alarm for the unholy hour of 6:30.
Unquestioned obedience was demanded by his Mistress, and he surrendered to the embrace of dreams. Dreams which were, as always, about her. Yet slumber proved treacherous, a tempestuous sea where he found himself adrift. Deja’s visage loomed in his mind. Her harsh, sensual voice lashed out with a clarity that cut deeper than any whip.
Each question posed fell upon deaf ears. Her words, jumbled or mumbled, were incomprehensible. Lucky’s mind swirled in a tempest of unknowing. Regardless of whether Jimmy Dole comprehended what she said or not, Deja demanded answers to her questions. It was required by their agreement. Therefore, Lucky answered her. His errant and absurd responses provoked her chastisement and disdain for his lack of intelligence wrapped around him like chains.
His penis swelled, not only in the dream.
Awakening, the evidence of his nocturnal humiliation clung to him. The shameful reminder of his failure even in dreams. With haste, he cleansed himself of the dried cum that he released in his slumber. And Jimmy donned the prescribed attire—the red plaid shorts with matching suspenders, the crisp white shirt, and the blue plaid bowtie, which amounted to a noose around his neck.
The world outside was still cloaked in the remnants of night as he sallied forth again, his backpack laden with the tools of learning. The doors of the old high school yawned open before him, an invitation to the unknown.
Room 324, however, remained an enigma, its entrance barred, denying him the refuge of preparation. Resignation settled upon him like a shroud as he sank to the floor, back pressed against the wall, the cold seeping into his bones, lulling him into a fitful rest.
A sudden jolt, a firm hand shaking him awake—Deja stood over him, her magnificent and menacing form. Her rebuke was a sharp smack across his face in the stillness, admonishing him for his indolence.
“Sleeping, Mr. Lucky? Here, you should be steeling yourself for the trials ahead, not succumbing to the weakness of your pathetic nature.”
Her words pierced him, the disappointment in her tone more punishment than any physical blow could ever be. Eyes wide with the stark realization of his transgression, he rose to face the day’s instruction. The taste of her displeasure soured on his tongue.
Lucky’s gaze lingered curiously upon the figure by Deja’s side. An apparition of alabaster skin and ghostly light blue eyes cut through the shadowy corridor. She was statuesque, her presence almost ethereal against the backdrop of the school’s aged walls, as if she were a Valkyrie descended from tales long lost to time. Her hair flowed in waves and framed her face, holding a sweet innocence about it and something powerful and frightening as well.
“Good morning. I’m Sandra Wineman,” she said, her voice resonating with an edge of cruelty masked under the veneer of politeness.
Deja stepped forward, her keys jangling like tiny chimes foretelling impending lessons of flesh and will. She unlocked the door to room 324 with a fluid motion, signaling their procession into the sanctum where the day’s unconventional curriculum would be unveiled.
Lucky followed, his heart pounding in sync with the click-clack cadence of Sandra’s spiked heels echoed on the linoleum floor. Without warning, a sharp, playful jab struck him from behind—the first of many. With each step, Sandra alternated between a teasing kick to his buttocks and a gentle tap between his legs, smacking his balls with a light snap of her ankle.
It was enough to elicit a response from his body, a stirring reaction he could not control nor wished to. He remained silent, acknowledging the peculiar but familiar mixture of agony and ecstasy.
This Sandra Wineman reminded him of a girl he’d known a long time ago in middle school. A cruel girl who bullied and made fun of him without a hint of mercy. She’d married well and lived in the Cherry Creek addition in Denver. Where she torments her husband, bullies him, and spends his vast fortune, and he suffers in silent, worshipful adoration of her.
The lucky bastard.
The classroom felt suspended in time, a relic with its old-fashioned desks complete with attached desktops that conjured images of simpler days now twisted into a carnality of higher, darker education. A solitary metal desk stood sentinel at the front. Adorned with tools that promised discipline and ecstasy. Books of knowledge, a birch switch, sinuous and unyielding, and a large wooden paddle.
The Board of Education had holes drilled through it to ensure each impact would be felt without the mercy of a cushion of air.
Seated now, Lucky’s eyes darted from the implements on the desk to Sandra, who took her place with a grace that belied her muscular form. Beneath the pleats of her red skirt and the pure white blouse, her body seemed coiled, ready to unleash power at Deja’s command.
Her breasts weren’t large or small and were only covered by the translucent blouse. Two stiff peaks pointed straight out from the firm curves below them.
As the early morning light filtered through the windows, casting angular shadows across the room, the stage was set. Lucky, caught in the gossamer web woven by Deja’s design, braced himself for the tribulation ahead, where each stroke, each word, each touch would be a lesson etched upon his very soul.
“You little perverts ready to learn?” Deja asked.
Not quite in unison, the pervs answered, “Yes, Miss Johnson.”