by Melinda Minx
When she finishes, some students try to come ask me questions, but I wave them off. “Ms. Fa—Ms. Weissman is your teacher now. Ask her.”
I wait in the back while she handles her students, and when she finishes with the last one, I see her hurriedly rushing toward the door behind the student.
“Ms. Weissman,” I say in my deepest, most authoritative voice.
She stops, her hand still holding the door open, one step away from walking out on me without saying a word.
She finally looks at me, tears filling her eyes, but she bites her lip and flips back to anger. “What?”
“I thought you’d be glad to see me,” I say. It’s not fully ego, I’m testing her reaction, though I do admit I did think she’d be happy to see me.
She scoffs, still hanging in the doorway. She really should close the door.
I step toward her, and she takes a half step back, nearly falling out into the hallway.
“You’re upset,” I say. “That I didn’t talk to you afterward.”
She rolls her eyes. “You think? Honestly, Dr. Leeds, I thought it was already time. You’ve been avoiding me for two weeks! I thought you’d moved on. You said it wouldn’t be forever, so why not just once?”
I shake my head. “That’s not it. Once is not nearly enough.”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot. I can see how she’d think my actions over the past few days don’t quite match my words.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I say.
“How?” she asks.
“Everyone has a deep, dark fantasy.” I point to the door. “Shut that door.”
She looks at me with hesitation, but then realizes I’m ordering her. She lets go of the door. It slides shut.
“Tell me yours,” I say. “I’ll make it happen.”
Her face turns red.
“Tell me,” I hiss, leaning closer into her.
“Not here,” she says.
“Whatever you want,” I say. “That’s what makes it a fantasy.”
“For so long,” she says, “you’ve been my fantasy. And I thought I’d had you, and—”
“It’s rare, Ms. Faria, for a man like me to let you choose like this. Don’t squander it. Whatever you ask will be with me, that’s a given; dig deeper.”
She shakes her head. “Forget it.”
“No,” I say, pressing her against the door, my wide shoulders and chest looming in front of and above her, just inches from her breasts.
“It’s stupid,” she says.
“Nothing you want is stupid,” I whisper. “I want to give you exactly what you want. If you hold back just because of embarrassment, it will be so much less than it could be.”
“Turn around,” she says, her cheeks going totally red. Burning red.
I turn around. I feel her breasts press into my back, and she wraps one hand around my waist, while grabbing my cock through my trousers with the other.
“You promise you’ll do it,” she says. “No laughing at me, no questioning, you’ll just do it?”
“I promise,” I say, facing toward the front of the lecture hall. I’m unable to see her eyes.
“Okay,” she says. “This is what will happen. Tonight I’m going to text you a location and a time. You don’t respond to it at all…”
Yes. Yes. She’s thought about this before. In detail. It’s not some vague fantasy she’s going to fumble out to me, it’s something she’s thought about numerous times. She’s run it through her head, asking herself how each little step would go down, I can already tell from how she started, and my cock stiffens hard beneath her hand as I anticipate her fantasy unfolding before me.
“You’re going to go there at the time I tell you,” she says. “And you’re going to be someone else. Not Elijah Leeds. You’ll need to buy some clothes this afternoon, something that Elijah Leeds wouldn’t wear.”
The temptation to tease her now is strong, but I resist. If I tease her or joke around, I risk her clamming up and telling me to forget it. She’s made me look away from her out of embarrassment, it wouldn’t do to poke fun at her now. Still, the irony is not lost on me: she told me I was her fantasy, but now she’s telling me I can’t be Elijah Leeds. I settle for twitching my cock against her hand in response, a way of nodding to her that I’m listening and intrigued.
“When you get there,” she says. “I should be flirting with another guy. I’m not actually interested in him at all, but I want you to steal me from him, humiliating him in the process.”
My cock twitches involuntarily now. This is too good.
“You’re a man who takes what you want, and you want me. I want the fucking opposite of these past two weeks where you ignored me. You look at me, and there’s no resisting it, you have to take me, by force if necessary.”
She pauses, squeezing my cock but not stroking or moving. Is she waiting for me to say anything? I put a hand on her wrist, and I move her hand up and down along my long, hard shaft.
I hear her moan, and she presses her cheek into my back. She continues speaking, and I feel the vibrations of her voice echoing through me as she speaks.
“You’re going to take me to a hotel,” she says. “That’s your goal, and you’re going to fuck me as if it was your last night on Earth. The thing is, I’m going to protest. I’m going to tell you no. I’ll put up a fight the whole time, and I’ll tell you I don’t want it. I’ll tell you it hurts, and I’ll beg you to stop.”
She moves her other hand from my waist to my chest, and she runs her hand up and down my six-pack abs through my shirt. “The thing is, Dr. Leeds, I don’t want you to stop. I just want to feel you fight for it. I want you to take it from me. Tonight, ‘no’ doesn’t mean ‘no,’ it just means ‘push harder.’”
“Unless I say ‘morning bell,’” she continues, “then you don’t stop. That’s the only word that really means ‘stop,’ do you understand? That's the safe word.”
“I understand,” I say, my voice heavy and shaking with anticipation.
17
Nikki
I get home and my heart is still pounding. I can’t believe I told my fantasy to Dr. Leeds, and even more unbelievable is that he’s going to make it much more than a fantasy for me.
I don’t know why it’s a fantasy of mine. Then again, having Dr. Leeds tie me down and blindfold me is a form of surrendering to a man’s power. My fantasy is really just another version of that—being taken and used by a strong man who knows what he wants.
I get home, run into my room, and throw my bag onto the bed. I collapse onto it, and my breasts feel sore as they bounce against my bra. The soreness reminds me of what is growing inside me, what I’ve not told Dr. Leeds.
I have him back for one night, and I’ll tell him after that. I can’t risk him disappearing on me again.
I’ve felt sore in a number of places since Dr. Leeds ravaged me, but it’s been long enough now that I’ve mostly healed. I roll my sleeve up and look at the faded marks, which remind me of the big red gashes I had all over my right wrist. The cuts were bright red and of varying intensity, showing each place where the cuffs dug into my skin. I had to wear long sleeves for almost a full week to make sure no one saw the cuts.
My ass was sore, too, and even though he only spanked me once on each cheek, he spanked me hard.
My muscles were sore in general, as I hadn’t done such prolonged physical exertion in months. It hadn’t felt like exercise while we were doing it, but thinking back on it, I was stretching myself to the limit for several hours.
I reach up and touch my breasts through my shirt. I press down, and I realize they are definitely tender. This is the most delayed soreness of what we did together. My breasts are going to grow as my pregnancy progresses. After all other soreness has healed, this reminder will remain.
I sigh and pull my shirt off, then unhook my bra. The air hits my breasts, and I fall back onto the bed and sigh out in relief.
“That feels better,” I whisper.
/> I look at the clock. It’s one o’clock. I don’t have any more classes or obligations for the rest of the day, but I have a lot of work to do in preparation for tonight.
Even though I’ve mentally run this fantasy through my head hundreds of times, planning for the real version of it requires a smidge more accuracy and precision than the fantasy version.
I can’t just wear “the hottest and most ‘fuck me’ pair of thigh high boots” like in my fantasy. I have to actually find those boots, try them on and make sure they fit, and be able to afford them. I run that same issue through with every item of clothing, down to my choice of underwear, and I realize that there’s no way I’ll be one hundred percent ready by this evening.
I should have told him I’d text him a time and location two or three days from now. The issue with that would be that I’m impatient, and that Dr. Leeds’ cocky ass has already forced me to wait two weeks. I need him now.
I can sacrifice the quality of my outfit in order to live out my fantasy a few days sooner. It’s certainly worth the tradeoff.
Besides, I can’t exactly hold this pregnancy information secret much longer. I owe him honesty, and I know how he’s likely to react when I tell him.
“I don’t want one-point-five children and a white picket fence.”
I decide that for tonight I won’t worry about being pregnant. Tonight is for living out my fantasy. It might be my last time with Dr. Leeds.
In my fantasy, it was always a random guy out of nowhere. I’d honestly never thought of it actually being Dr. Leeds. I told him to pretend to be someone else because he specifically asked me what my fantasy was, and not to hold back.
Now I’m realizing that this is essentially combining my two biggest fantasies. I’d wanted Dr. Leeds ever since I’d laid eyes on him, and now he’s going to become the center of my other darkest fantasy.
I try to imagine who he will pretend to be. Will he really do a good job at pretending to be someone else, or will he phone it in like some kind of porn actor? I imagine some cheesy porn where a cable guy comes to fix the TV. He throws out a few cheesy lines about fixing the TV, and then the woman smiles at him, and suddenly they are fucking each other for no logical reason.
That’s not what I want. I should have been more specific. I really want Dr. Leeds to pretend he’s someone else. I want to believe it. And it’s not because I don’t want him for who he is, it’s because I want to be taken and used by a total stranger. But in the back of my mind I’ll know it’s him, and I’ll know that I’m safe.
I decide I will be someone else too. It will let Dr. Leeds know straight away that I’m serious about pretending, and that I don’t want either of us to phone it in.
I open my closet and push all of my real clothes to the side. I dig deep into the back and find what I’m looking for. It’s this super slutty dress my friend bought me almost as a joke. It has so many openings in it that I somehow doubt it could really stay on my body. It has openings all down the legs on both sides, creating “windows” that show the bare skin of my leg. There are even more windows that would show my back and breasts. The dress itself is form-fitting, so even while showing a ton of skin, it’s tight as hell. The windows even go up to the hips, exposing large parts of my ass.
Not that I’ve ever worn the thing, but I think it will fit.
Who would wear this fucking thing, though? I’ll have to build my character around this gaudy dress.
No sane woman would wear this out to a club. I can see someone wearing it for her boyfriend or someone on a special occasion...in the bedroom. But wearing it out? You’d have to have some serious complex…
Then it hits me. I imagine who I will be: I’ve been sheltered my whole life. I’m from a town in West Virginia that’s so small you’ve never heard of it. It’s tucked up in the mountains, and it’s ten miles to the nearest Wal-Mart. When it snows, we can’t even get to the gas station because the roads are impassable. My parents homeschooled me, and I wasn’t ever allowed to so much as talk to boys—and as I got older—men.
Even at 25 years old, my parents still tried to control me. They made me dress like we were going to church just to eat supper on the weekdays, and I finally just snapped.
A few weeks ago, I went down to the main road and hitchhiked up to Pittsburgh, which to me is the biggest city I could possibly fathom.
As a reaction to having to dress like a good little girl for over two decades, I go on a spending spree—maybe I had inherited some money from a grandparent’s passing—buying sluttier and sluttier outfits…until finally I get this dress. The sluttiest dress you can wear without being naked. And tonight I’m going to wear it out, because I’ve decided that I’m going to lose my virginity tonight.
I’ve messed around since arriving in Pittsburgh. I’ve flirted with guys, but I’ve completely chickened out when they made the slightest hint of going in to kiss me.
Tonight, though, with this dress, I’m going to lose it to whichever guy is man enough to take it from me.
I lick my lips and find my hand is down my pants. I finger myself for a few moments, then stop.
I don’t want any release until tonight. Until whoever Dr. Leeds pretends to be tonight comes and takes me for himself.
I walk into the club in the Strip District. It’s the area just north of downtown filled with all kinds of nice shops, bars, and great restaurants. It has a solid clubbing scene, as well, and it’s further from campus. I don’t want anyone from campus to see me tonight, especially not a student. It’s a risk, I realize, but I’ll take certain risks to live out this particular fantasy.
The moment I walk into the club, all eyes are on me. The dress is covered in those little “windows” that run up the sides, including windows on the top and bottom of my breasts. Only the nipples are covered, really, and a small strip of fabric runs across my cleavage, dividing it in two.
The fabric is a dark, wine-colored red, and it’s thin and sheer enough that—was I not wearing a thong—you’d definitely see my panty line through it.
The women look at me with judging scowls. I can hear what they are thinking even as they look at me. “What kind of bitch wears that to a club?” Hell, it’s the same thing I’d think if someone else was wearing this dress.
The guys just ogle me like a fresh piece of meat. I catch a few women elbowing their boyfriends as they stare slack-jawed at me.
Before I can even reach the bar, one of the single guys is on me.
“Hey, girl, hey,” he says.
What a fucking poet.
“Hi,” I say, trying to do some kind of mountain girl drawl.
“You...you from here?” he asks. “I’m Chez. Let me buy you a drink. Or two. Whatever you want, baby.”
I laugh nervously, giggling. “I’m Betsy-Sue. Pleased to meet you, Chez. That’s an interesting name.”
I see his eyes widen. He thinks this is too good to be true. A guy who opens with, “Hey, girl, hey,” must be used to striking out, and I’m letting him feel like he already hit a homerun.
He pulls up a stool for me and waits for me to sit down. “You wait here, gorgeous, and I’ll get us some drinks. What you having?”
“Umm,” I stammer. “Something virgin.”
Even though Betsy-Sue isn’t pregnant, I am. No way I can actually drink.
As soon as his back is to me, I pull out my phone and text Dr. Leeds the name of the bar. For the time, I just write ‘now.’”
He should be here in thirty minutes or less, assuming he’s ready to go, and assuming he takes my request seriously. If he somehow stands me up or makes a fool out of me tonight, I’ll be done with him. I decided that before I put on this damn dress.
“Your name’s really Betsy-Sue?” the guy asks me.
He’s got thin lips, which he’s licking as he looks down my body, his eyes lingering at each window into my bare flesh. His blonde hair is buzzed almost bald on the sides, and it’s just slightly longer on top. He’s tall, but wiry, and I get
an immediately weird vibe from him.
My adrenaline spikes as I consider my answer. As soon as I start talking again, there will be no turning back. I could still walk away right now.
But the fantasy is that whoever Dr. Leeds pretends to be will all but kick the door down to rescue me from this guy. He’ll take me away from him—and whether I like it or not—he’ll take me home with him. I already told Dr. Leeds to come right now, and I don’t have time to start over with another guy.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess it makes me stick out like a sore thumb in the big city.”
“Where you from?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Ohio?”
“West Virginia,” I say. “So I’m a real hillbilly.”
“You, uh,” he stammers, looking down at me. “Hillbillies dress like this? Maybe I should have gone to West Virginia a long time ago.”
I laugh nervously, giggling louder than really makes sense for his joke. He gets a big dumb grin on his face at that, and I actually start to feel bad for leading him on.
The bartender slides us shots of vodka.
“Ah,” he says. “Here we go!”
I ask push my shot back toward Chez. “This isn’t virgin.” I look up at the bartender, and he pours me a glass of ginger ale, then mixes with with some juice.
We clink our glasses together and drain the drinks.
Chez looks pissed off that I’m not drinking vodka, but he tries to keep his emotions from getting to his face.
Chez gestures toward the bartender for more drinks, and I watch intently as he pours.
“I ain’t gonna slip you anything,” Chez says.
“Huh?” I ask.
“I see you watching the bartender pouring, like you’re worried I’m gonna slip some rope in your drink.”
How bad a sign is it that he calls rohypnol “rope?” It implies to me that he says the word often enough to need a convenient abbreviation for it.
