BDSM 101 Ch. 01

Ass

I looked down at my paper with a sense of triumph. There, in idiosyncratic purple ink, was a lovely uppercase cursive A scrawled in the corner. With a note underneath — “Great job! I’d give it a 110% if I could!” That too made me smile, but the most important part was that I was maintaining my perfect GPA as I finished out this semester. The class was critical reasoning and analytic writing, or Philosophy 5B. The professor was Dr. Sabrina Allston. I looked up, and we locked eyes from across the classroom. I smiled appreciatively, and she smiled back warmly. She was perky, but of course, not vapid. Throughout the entire semester, including during her office hours, all we ever spoke of was the curriculum. Yet, I enjoyed her presence and enjoyed the schoolwork quite a bit more for it. I also thought she was gorgeous.

She had short, maroon-brown hair. I couldn’t quite tell if it was dyed because it fit her so well, but I thought it must be. Didn’t think I’d ever find out with an inquiry about her home décor choices. (Does the carpet match the drapes?) I’d never be so crass with a professor. But, I’ll be honest with you reader, when the course material strayed into being boring I found myself viscerally imagining a visceral exploration. That wasn’t so unique to this professor. I had a thing — a career based fetish, I suppose. Some women like firemen, policemen, more generally “men in uniform” but I liked women in academia. My calculus professor was also quite striking, but I found the subject she taught to be so unattractive. Philosophy though, that was sexy.

A few times during the semester we’d actually gotten into a few small debates — nothing unfriendly, but there was something predatorial in the glint of her eye when she spotted a weakness in my arguments. It kept me on my toes. It made me sharper. It was also rather hot.

I was, for the most part, a total teacher’s pet. I typically loved providing the perfect answers to her questions, and I was a great contributor to class discussions. But those few times when we conflicted had a delicious tension to them. See, she had a doctorate and everything, but I’d been arguing since the moment I was born. I’d always been a brat and it tended to come out quite a lot when she challenged me — in front of the stymied audience of twenty five other students.

Our last skirmish was over how one might define a fallacious appeal to authority. The point of contention was whether or not a governmental agency was a legitimate source of information. I, being the rebel with many causes, said it wasn’t. She held a conditional disagreement with my point of view. We went back and forth until she realized it was taking up too much class time.

I’d found quickly that my passion for the subject went beyond just earning that perfect grade. I really and truly wanted to delve into the subject matter — perhaps for its own value, or maybe because I just found her to be incredibly stimulating. The answer was likely both. I had mixed feelings the next time she declined an invitation to entirely derail her lesson plan. She’d asked a question to which I replied “Occam’s razor,” a concept which was entirely absent from any of our texts for this course but appropriately and succinctly answered her inquiry. Her face lit up, but there was a subtle chorus of confused noises from the other students. “Oh, we’re not getting into that.” She said and gave a more canned explanation that fit what would be on the exam, and what was in the text. It was, after all, an undergraduate course. Everyone at the school had to take this or another English class based on literature to satisfy a graduation requirement.

My writing, including this final paper, had been a bit “canned” too. It was far from creative. It was truly probably the driest most boring thing I’d ever written. It was a twelve page essay on the health benefits of plant based diets as well as why one should avoid the consumption of animal products for the sake of their longevity. I could’ve made that interesting, but I wanted to be true to what was being taught. I’d structured most of my paragraphs using basic deductive argument forms — modus tollens, modus ponens, and the odd syllogism if I was feeling a little wild. I included some inductive reasoning but my first draft was literally annotated with “(if p then q”), a proposition (“p”), and a conclusion (“q”). If my reader isn’t familiar with that — it’s just as boring as it seems. But it was a perfect replication of what had been taught. My argument was solid. My paper got the highest score in the entire class. I’d beat out everyone who was actually majoring in philosophy. I was majoring in chemical engineering.

The guy sitting next to me had received a 78% and was currently fuming over my shoulder as he observed my grade. I tucked the paper away. I started to pack up everything from my table, and it really hit me how much I was going to miss this class. I still had to take ethics, but my schedule for the next semester only permitted me to take an online course. I illegal bahis looked up and tried to appreciate the view — feeling almost certain that I’d probably never see Sabrina again. Nearly everyone had left when I began to leave as well.

“Lana?” She asked as I approached her desk on the way to the door. She didn’t look up from her laptop. She had piles of papers on either side of her, and was still clearly quite busy. “So, I know we haven’t had much time to really entertain what we’ve been wanting to talk about and — ” She cleared her throat here. “Debate .. And I’ll certainly be tied up with grading for the next few days. But, after that, if you’d like to spend some time together we can pick up where we left off.” She glanced up here, eyeing me over the rims of her glasses. “Appeals to authority and whatnot.” I, being a useless lesbian entirely desensitized to the over-familiarity of heterosexual women, was only enthused by the idea of talking to her and spending time with her. It was more than enough.

“I’d love that!” I replied warmly. She smiled and went back to typing.

“There’s a quaint café off of University avenue, or — if you’d like you could join me for brunch at my home?” It was a dream come true. But life isn’t an erotic novel, so I was still realistically just thirsting for the mimosas and conversation.

“Brunch sounds wonderful.” I said, quite pleased. She smiled and paused to scribble a post-it note then handed it to me.

“Now, shoo — can’t you see I’m busy?” She was smiling much too much to be taken seriously for even a moment. I was grinning as well as I shoved the note in my pocket and left.

Later that evening in my own apartment as I set aside textbooks to resell online, I chanced across the one I’d used for Dr. Allston’s class. I reached into my pocket to unfold the note and sent a text to her number.

“Hey, it’s Lana Valerian.”

“Hi Lana!” She replied back with a smiley face attached, and then a moment later with her address. We set up a date the following weekend.

Despite her backlog of material needing to be graded, and whatever litany of other tasks might’ve kept her occupied otherwise, the we texted back and forth all week long. By the time I showed up at her doorstep, I already felt like I was seeing a good friend. I thought about it, and well we had known each other for over half a year at this point. Then she opened the door, and were I a thinking creature at that point I wouldn’t have been able to deny to myself that I still had an overwhelming crush on her. I hoped I wasn’t blushing too much.

She wore a dark grey camisole, covered by a deep lavender cashmere shawl, as well as black leggings. She was barefoot on the entryway tile. The house behind her was incredibly large, elegantly decorated in a style that seemed to be Victorian but I never was much about interior design. To say the least, it was fancy. And it smelled of potpourri! She welcomed me in and I crossed the threshold into the entry hall.

“You have a lovely home.” I commented, knowing full well it was such a typically ‘polite’ thing for a guest to say but truly meaning it. Dr. Sabrina Allston was quite a different sort of friend than the company I kept. My friends and I were all crammed into apartments that smelled of fast food and video game culture. Or worse, some still lived with their parents. I was fortunate enough to have received a very generous scholarship so I didn’t have to resort to that. But, I was definitely not living anything like this life.

“Would you like a tour after brunch?” She asked sweetly with a slightly too big grin. Something about that smile registered as being ‘off’ but I couldn’t place it and wouldn’t know until later. I accepted the offer and I followed Sabrina to her kitchen.

The kitchen, in contrast to the rest of the house, was very modern. The countertops were black marble but all of the fixtures such as the sink, the ovens, the dishwashers, etc. were a very dark stainless-steel inset into what might’ve been mahogany. Again, I don’t know a darn thing about interior design. I just know it looked amazing. On the center island I noted everything that she had made. I was a little taken aback. I glanced towards the sink, seeking a skillet, a baking pan, and other cooking implements there soaking in hot water and soap. She’d actually spent what looked like at least a good hour making brunch. She handed me a ceramic plate and began to help herself.

“I love cooking.” She explained while neatly serving herself some cut fruit with a pair of ornate tongs. It looked like an exotic, tropical fruit salad with pitaya, chunked coconut, and pineapple. I followed suit. “I recently had the kitchen remodeled. It doesn’t necessarily match the design of the rest of the house, but it’s not the first thing I’ve updated to suit my desires … Regardless of convention. Probably won’t be the last either.” I nodded along as I explored everything she had made. After I’d plucked what I liked of the fruit salad I turned to the next dish. illegal bahis siteleri It took me a moment to figure out what it was. She saved me the trouble as she set one of them on my plate with a large pair of tongs: “Eggs, backed into an avocado half with smoked gouda and soy-bacon bits.” She explained.

“That sounds amazing!”

She smiled in response. I found myself drooling over the food nearly as much as I’d been drooling over her in class for the last several months. However, aesthetically, the coup de gras was a platter of beautifully decorated tarts. The filling was, I believe, lemon curd but they were topped with flowers cut and baked from dough. The level of detail, even after baking, was exquisite. I looked up at Sabrina, and she enjoyed the awe and appreciation plain on my face.

“These are beautiful. Are you sure we can eat them?” I asked. They were almost too pretty to eat. She picked one up and slowly took a bite out of it. Her smile lingered in the sparkle of her eyes even as she chewed. I took that answer and helped myself to two.

We dined in an outdoor rose garden just off the patio. The rest of the property fell away below the grassy knoll the entirety of the house was perched on. There was a small vineyard, and a vast orchard. It was absolutely beautiful, and a sight to behold in the late morning — even as it was the midst of winter. I wondered at how everything must look in the prime of spring. The view kept me occupied as I ate, and there was no awkward silence. The silence was incredibly tranquil.

After we ate, we ended up talking for a few hours. Conversation flowed and satisfied almost everything I wanted to know about her — at least the broad strokes. We may have known each other for a while, but our former relationship didn’t permit this level of familiarity.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking, why do you have such a large house if it’s just you?” I questioned.

“Well, I didn’t buy this house. I actually inherited it.” That made a lot more sense. It seemed a bit much for even a professor’s salary. “But I love it. I love how expansive it is. I even like how quiet the inside of the house is with just myself and my pets. What a lot of people might see as an empty space, more of a house than a home, is really my own private queendom. My castle.” I loved watching her as she spoke, getting lost in the smallest appreciative reverie towards what she had. Given how I lived, with room-mates in their twenties who enjoyed television, video games, and loud music more than serenity I felt an obvious state of envy. Her life seemed perfect.

“Do you want to see it?”

“Yes!”

We explored the outside of the property first and it was a wonderful walk. Throughout the orchard and the rest of the property there were horseback riding trails that we strolled along. There was an unkempt rose garden — and perhaps it was neglect on her part that had it so, but I just liked that she kept the roses and I think I liked the almost wild way they grew as opposed to the strict, pruned composure of a topiary. Her greenhouse was small and kept fresh herbs. It was entirely automated, and very humid. Walking out past the greenhouse and down a hill, the barn rose up before me.

“How many horses do you have?”

“Four.”

“You must spend a lot of time down here. I want horses myself but they require a lot of their handlers…” Peculiarly enough I didn’t see her as the equestrian type. Her hands were too soft, manicured even, and I couldn’t imagine her having the time to care for four horses.

“I have a ranch hand.” She replied. I nodded. Feeling quite comfortable in her queendom, I opened the barn door myself when we arrived at the threshold. She stepped in and I followed. She immediately went to the horses that were there. I spent some time checking out the set up.

“Is this the tack room?” I asked and she said yes without removing her attention from the horse she was stroking on the nose. But she paused, and an odd glimmer occurred in her eyes. She looked over and said — “You can look around in there if you’d like.” I was quite happy to.

The tackroom was a much smaller subsection of the barn. It was akin to a shed. There were four saddles on large wooden pegs on the wall, and all sorts of other leather gear that was requisite for this pastime. I reviewed the bridles and I was relieved to examine the bits despite that they didn’t look like any I’d seen before. I couldn’t help it — if she used a curb bit I’d have to like her less. It was my nature, I loved animals quite a bit more than people. What was fixed on the end of the bridles was what appeared to be a snaffle bit, but made of some kind of plastic. Two of the bridles didn’t even have bits — they appeared to just have adapted nose bands to guide the animal without the use of a bit. The last was an old plain snaffle which was familiar to me. The bridle it went with looked old too. I admired her care in this regard. The last, I could reason, was just a bridle and bit that the horse canlı bahis siteleri it belonged to was quite used to — perhaps not one she’d trained them with. The bridles without a bit were the most impressive to me. I moved on, and I didn’t balk at the whip curled up on a wall or the crops that hung with it as well. I’d been squeamish to use a crop the first time one was handed to me, but the ass I was riding clearly wasn’t bothered by it much at all and I’d learned later that it was more the sound that was effective than the striking sensation. The whip didn’t bother me whatsoever, as it hung near a lunging line. I’d seen that she had large pastures, but seeing to the exercise of the animals was a good and responsible thing. At far as I’d seen, I’d yet to meet anyone who actually whipped a horse. Cracking it in the air or at their heels while exercising them in a round pen was the proper technique as far as I knew, and as far as I wanted to know. Any harsher means of dealing with horses was nothing I wanted to know of, regardless of how it may produce meticulously obedient animals. I found myself smiling as I recognized how she treated her animals in all of this gear, but the thought left me after my investigation concluded and another one — much more debauched — look its place.

The image of Sabrina in form-fitting white jodhpurs and boots that came to mid-calf was incredibly hot. In the calm of this amazing estate, I’d forgotten how I used to think of her in class. In that moment, in the tack room by myself as I ran the tongue of a riding crop over my palm, I remembered how much I wanted her to fuck me. And much more besides.

“What do you think?” She asked from the doorway and I jumped. I placed the crop back on the hook and turned. I smiled broadly and felt a stroke of confidence overcome me.

“Two snaffle bits, one in what looks like plastic, and two bridles with no bits at all — I like everything about you that I’ve learned from that.” It was such a unique and singular compliment, and effective too — she earnestly loved what I said and it was clear on her face. She leaned against the frame of the door, grinning.

“And you don’t mind the whip?” She asked, and maybe it was my imagination but there seemed a hint of menace in there. Somehow good-naturedness and menace could coexist so perfectly on her face. It was all tied together with what looked like mischief.

“Not at all.”

“Good … In my opinion, the types that are always punishing their horses clearly aren’t actually in control. I’m not necessarily a soft touch out of a devotion to gentleness — it’s more effective, smarter.” She turned away from me and made a clicking noise. I heard hooves. The large brown head of a gentle giant joined her and she placed her hand back on his nose. “This is my old guy. The metal snaffle bit belongs to him. He’s so used to it that changing it at this point wouldn’t bring him any comfort.” She mused and turned to face the horse entirely as she kept speaking. I found myself leaning against one of the stands for the saddles and just watching. She scratched his ear. “They’re very submissive animals. They want a leader to provide social organization and protection. It’s much easier to just be that to them than to operate off the absurd notion that this giant beast has to do anything I say — some kind of ridiculous and violent alpha male mentality. They do what we want because they want to, not because they have to.”

“I’m so glad you realize that.”

She grabbed him by the halter and lead him away. I heard the bolt to a stall slide shut. I followed out of the tack room, and then out of the barn. The walk back to the house was quiet, but comfortable. I felt so at ease here, it was incredible. I found myself loving this magical place — the trees, the animals, the queen and her castle. It was exactly the kind of life that I wanted for myself after college.

“I’d love to go riding with you some time.”

“I’d like that too.”

Those were the only words spoken on the way back in. Inside the house we walked through the formal dining room, the living room, the sun room … God this house had a lot of rooms. They all had a kind of magic to them. The same magic that animated the rest of the grounds. Everything here in her castle was peaceful. The room that interested me the most, so far, was the library. The walls were floor to ceiling shelves full of books that were old and new. There was a sliding ladder to help reach the upper shelves. I felt like Belle in Beauty and the Beast upon seeing the Beast’s library — but without the Stockholm syndrome, and Sabrina was certainly no beast. She showed me to the section that she had to do with my major, and gave me time to browse. She attended to a stack of papers on a heavy, very old desk. I saw her in the corner of my eye and then looked over. Immediately, thoughts of fucking on that very desk crossed my mind. I blushed and jammed my nose back into a book. I wasn’t entirely sure why — maybe it was our former roles, maybe it was my insecurity, maybe it was just me being a useless lesbian (see urban dictionary) but she seemed entirely off-limits. It seemed like a bad idea to even consider an actual pursuit of my fantasies. I couldn’t image losing her as a friend.

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