This story is a sequel to A the Hard Way, but you don’t need to read that series to enjoy this one. Just know Professor Deacon set her sights on Emily, a first-year student she judged might be seduced by discipline. Her successful corruption of Emily was assisted by Ffion, the captain of the university’s women’s rugby team and a former student of hers. In gratitude for her help, Deacon has gifted Emily to Ffion for the weekend.
Friday Evening
Emily
It looks like Ffion lives in the same sort of place as me: an old Georgian terrace remodelled into student flats. That shouldn’t come as a surprise — Ffion is a student, after all — but I wouldn’t expect to find much BDSM happening in dank rooms with plasterboard walls. It’s the sort of place where everyone in the house can hear if you fart, never mind scream.
Is she going to make me scream?
I don’t know what to expect. I didn’t get what I expected in Professor Deacon’s office, but I let it happen… and I enjoyed it. Even when it really hurt, I enjoyed it. But I think Deacon wanted me to enjoy it, so I’d come back for more. Ffion only has me for a weekend, so she might be happy just to hurt me.
And humiliate me. She’ll definitely want to humiliate me. She rounded up so many people to watch my shame, she must have got off on that part.
So, if I knock on this door, I’m asking for a weekend of pain and humiliation. If I don’t knock, I’m asking for god knows what punishment from the prof.
I don’t know which one scares me more. But I know which one excites me most.
* * *
I don’t know what Ffion looks like. I’m expecting a six-foot beast with a broken nose and a buzzcut, but she could be anyone. Anyone except the nerd who answered the door. He’s definitely not a rugby player.
“Hi! I’m after Ffion?”
He looks me up and down, and grins. “Hey, I know you! You’re Bukkake Girl!”
Well, that’s clearly going to follow me through three years of uni. And it’s not even true.
“I never fucking did that, alright? It’s a lie. Does Ffion live here or not?”
He turns and walks off down the hall, calling out, “Oi, Fifty Shades of Gay! Fresh meat for ya.”
And I’m left standing at the door like a lemon, waiting to find out who’s going to squeeze the juice out of me.
A door opens at the end of the hall. A cute blonde with a wicked smile pokes her head out to answer my question. “Hey, Emily! Come on in. Sorry about Rufus, he’s a DICKHEAD!!”
The dickhead gives her the finger and takes a sharp left. I take a tentative step over the threshhold, and Ffion steps out of her room.
She’s pretty. No, she is fucking gorgeous. And so much smaller than I imagined. She’s five-four, maybe five-five, and slim enough to be a model… if you needed someone to model abs, and deltoids, and biceps. Everything which isn’t covered by gym shorts and a sports bra seems to be taut, tanned skin stretched over solid muscle. If she was a guy, and a few inches taller, I’d be drooling over her.
But I’m not going to be drooling, am I? She’s going to make me scream.
* * *
Ffion
The girl in the OnlyFans videos looked a lot more confident than the frightened rabbit who steps into my room.
Professor Deacon has taught me a lot: about myself, and about how to help train her new pets. Pet Training 101 is, ‘If you want them to be receptive, they have to feel comfortable.’
“Sit down, Emily. Let’s talk.”
I can see relief washing over her as she perches on the edge of my bed.
You have to make them comfortable, but you also have to maintain control. “Not there! I sit there. You sit on the floor. Here.”
I point, and she almost shrinks off the bed, becoming this little quivering thing at my feet.
Now she understands who’s in control, it’s time to restore some comfort. “Do you know how Professor Deacon gets away with it?”
“What?”
In this case, comfort will emerge slowly from confusion. “I don’t know exactly what she did to you, Emily, but I know what she likes, so I can guess. She did similar things to me, once. More than once. She’s done it to dozens of girls, for years, yet she still has a job. She told me you’re smart, so tell me how. How does she get away with it?”
“I don’t know?”
“If you complained about her, she’d be fired. No question. You wouldn’t even need to prove anything. Just the complaint would be enough: the potential scandal would be huge, and she’d be gone. So how does she get away with it?”
“But… I didn’t complain?”
“Bingo. I didn’t complain either. Neither did any of the others. None of us ever do, and she knows we won’t. She’s a psychology savant; she can read people like our secrets are tattooed on our foreheads. She knows who’ll submit to her, and how far they can be pushed. So she finds the good girls who want to obey, and the bad girls who want to be good, and she teaches them how to earn her approval. And none of us complain, because she wouldn’t approve of that. We consent to everything she wants to do, because she does the things we want, even if we didn’t know we wanted them. That’s how she still has a job.”
“So she could see my kinks?”
“As clearly as she could see your pink bits in your videos. That’s her… now tell me: how do I get away with it? I’m a marketing student, which means I do know a little psychology, but I’m hardly a mindreader. So how do I play with Professor Deacon’s toys without getting sent down, or arrested for assault?”
“I don’t know?”
“Consent, Emily! It’s all a game. If you got up and left now, I wouldn’t stop you. I’d tell Deacon about it, and she’d want to punish you, but you could tell her to fuck off as well. If you choose to stay, I’ll spend the weekend hurting and humiliating you, as long as you want me to. You can tell me to stop at any time. Have you got a safeword?”
And there’s the comfort, finally. It’s not complete, not yet, but I can see the tension start to slip from her shoulders.
“I’ve never needed one.”
“You need one this weekend. Or two. Me, I like red and yellow cards: red is a penalty, so play ends right there; yellow’s more of a warning, so I’ll check in and change what I’m doing. Can you remember that?”
“Sure.”
“Good, because I won’t stop for ‘stop’, or ‘no’, or anything else. Nothing except ‘red’, ‘yellow’, and ‘mercy’.”
“Mercy?”
“If you beg for mercy, I’ll be merciful. But your begging needs to be convincing. If you really need mercy, tell me to stop. How do you tell me to stop?”
“Red card?”
“Good girl. Try not to make it a question, though. Say it like you mean it.”
I don’t know much about Emily apart from the videos Professor Deacon shared, and nothing I’ve seen suggested the word ‘bashful’. But that’s definitely the adjective for the little smile I raised when I called her a good girl.
I’m going to have fun with this one.
* * *
Ffion and Emily’s story will continue in Penalty Kick:
. . .
“Aren’t you worried he’ll report you for assault?”
“What, and explain how he ended up in that position? I don’t think so.”
. . .
It’s the weekend, so I mentioned you here:
https://medium.com/all-about-m/10-reasons-your-substack-notes-are-flopping-acc97bf62846?sk=44db209def435e0aa8fc435dac51b9f6
Also, I miss the median log.
I knew I would like this story, and I do! Is it next week already? 😉