Per Subiugum Libertas Part 2 (Mf cons nosex)


Disclaimer: This story contains graphic sex should not be
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Per Subiugum Libertas Part 2


   First, to answer some potential criticism...

   A sane man might protest that I am abusing my power, leading astray a young mind in a time of crisis and confusion.  To which I say, what better time is there to lead a young mind astray?

   Surely no sexual gratification is worth prison.... While there's only one way to know the answer to that, I won't be finding out, since Didi was over the magic age of 18.  So not illegal, just immoral.

   One might object to so harshly introducing my sick proclivities to Didi,  for throwing back her offer of relationship encumbered with (or should I say bound in?) restrictions.  I have no response to this charge.  I could argue that the discipline, firmness, and purpose which our relationshup came to encompass was excactly what an anxious and neurotic teenage girl needed.  But I don't hide myself behind justifications.  I did it because I wanted to - the benefit to her was incidental (at least at first).

   ***

   Morals aside, for a moment, I never thought much would come of it.  I had thought my ransom of pictures was so far beyond the pale that anything would be a matter of fantasy and conjecture.  I was wrong.

   As unbelievable as you might find it (I assure you I found it more so), Didi walked into my office about two weeks after our last confrontation, and dropped a plain manilla envelope on my desk, with a smug grin of victory on her face, arms crossed across her chest.  At first I didn't realize what it was - I picked it up and almost had a seizure when I saw what was inside (I'll spare the salacious details, but suffice it to say that the pictures within would be quite damaging).

   I learned then and there, for all her huffing and puffing and posturing and bitching, never to underestimate Didi's resolve.

   "Come back after classes," I told her.  She smiled, and flounced out the door.

   ***

   I considered how to begin.  I didn't want to push too hard, but at the same time I wanted to set the tone.  She would get the support she wanted, but she would earn it through indulgence of my kink.

   When she returned, she closed the door without being asked.  

   "First - the rules.

   "Rule One:  You may leave anytime you like.  I will never try to stop you, or hold it against you in any way.

   "Rule Two:  If I order you to do something, you must do it.  If you choose not to, our arrangement ends.  I won't ask you to do things I think you're incapable of, but the decision rests with me, not you.

   "Rule Three:  No one knows.  I now have the pictures, which I will use in the event that we are ever discovered."


   She stood there, looking at me, nodding.  I don't think this is what she pictured.

   "Do you masturbate?"  I asked.  She stood there, motionless, afraid, her eyes pinned to mine.  Silence.

   I repeated the question, slowly, deliberately.  She started to say something, choked it back, turned red, and finally, nodded.

   I pointed to the chair next to me.  

   "Show me."

   Staring at me with those now-red eyes, that look of infinite blame and betrayal, she turned and left my office.


    ***

   I went back to grading, and ten minutes later, she was back.  Legs splayed over the arms of a chair, she came, her mouth open breathing raggedly, and staring at me the entire time.  Strongheaded determination overcame embarassment.

   ***

   This then was the pattern of our relationship:  demand, refusal, wait, compliance.





Continued...





Writing fantasy is like nailing a bird's feet to the ground.  Where, in the mind, one can fly from scene to scene, in writing tedious connection is needed.  Where things can happen over, differently, in endlessly delightful variation, in writing it happens only once - an entire indefinite dough of possibility extruded into a single noodle of narrative.  And just as surely as nailing a bird down kills it, writing it will kill the fantasy.



I always love to hear your thoughts and opinions:  foxbat00@gmail.com


Yours,
Foxbat
