A Reason to Stay Pt. 02

But something about this particular Outsider feels different. She doesn't just accept her fate over time, sinking deeper into depression. Nor does she double down on optimism, burning herself out looking for answers she'll never find. Instead, she milks Mr. Fancypants Lyon for every drop of luxury he's good for, while still doggedly looking for a way home, while also giving everyone who tries to make her life harder a giant 'fuck you.' And somehow, she juggles everything with enough finesse to keep from being kicked out permanently. I know plenty of full-fledged Mentors who would struggle and likely fail in her position. Though I'd never openly admit it, I find myself begrudgingly admiring her resolve.

She also proves, much to everyone's dismay, to be disastrously magnetic. Not just by conventional means of good genetics, but sheer force of personality as well.

There is an unpredictableness to Jez that makes her dangerous. When she first gets here, her black hair is straight and long, her brown eyes reserved and uncertain. By the time a year passes, she has chopped her hair to half length and dyed it several different colors, and her eyes appear decidedly sharper. By the time three years pass—the same amount of time it took for me to achieve Mentorship—she has stopped dying her hair, shaved it down to a masculine cut, and turned her eyes into figurative lasers.

It isn't just that she physically changes. I mean, sure, the haircuts and muscle mass help alter perceptions of her, but it's less about what is different and more about why.

Jez never does anything without two hundred percent conviction. If she cuts her hair, it's because it no longer serves who she is. If she decides to square off with someone, it's because she's been counting and they've crossed five lines too many. She may bend and she may yield, but she changes for no one except herself. In a world where everyone obeys what they are told is best, from trends to roles to which trash goes into which bin, she is an abomination.

And she is fascinating.

I'm baffled at first as to why she keeps showing up to my lessons. It is so apparent on day one how miserable she's going to be that I make a conscious effort to dissuade her. I know Sebastien must have put her up to this, so I offer her a way out. Or so I thought.

I challenge, mock, and push her so far out of her comfort zone that even my best pupils look at me with uncertainty. Confident she won't be showing up the next day, I go back to my quarters after class to drown my guilt in pleasure. I enlist the help of both Orla and Maverick, and that night we lose ourselves in the throes of passion well into dawn. Afterwards, when they ask me what brought on this sudden burst of insatiable need, I just shrug and say, "First years are annoying."

They take the hint and back off.

Naturally, it isn't the last time they ask. Because Jez shows up to training the next day, bruised but uncowed, ready for another round of ass whooping. And every time she throws my callous pity back in my face, even after I've slammed her onto the sparring mat, I find myself seeking out more Mentor bedmates, determined to fuck away the look of defiance in her face.

It never works. And to make matters worse, the situation only gets more complicated.

For one, her malicious persistence means she actually starts to improve. Her stances straighten out, her jabs become faster, and her body grows toned in a most distracting way. For another, her burgeoning skills give her confidence like nothing else before has. It's as if knowing she can physically pummel someone to the ground gives her the courage to set her true self free. The transformation is both unexpected and extraordinary.

Jezia is a pretty but solemn thing when she first arrives. Long hair, willowy, graceful, with a serious manner and skin like creamed honey. She elicits a quiet kind of attention wherever she goes, partly due to her Outsider status, but mostly because the energy around her just seems to draw inward. She is private and elusive. It makes her mysterious, and some people find themselves attracted to mystery like moths to neon light. I suppose that might be one reason why Sebastien dotes on her so much.

I, on the other hand, judge her to be mousy at first. Shrewd, yes, with a sprinkle of attitude, but a wallflower nonetheless.

Then one day some of my more zealous students decide to corner her, and that's when everything irrevocably changes. It's as though she's been bottling up who she really is, and all it takes is one, savage moment to pop that cork for good.

She's been training with me for about a year by then. Her hair is shorter and tipped with blue, but each time she shows up, she is always covered modestly, refusing to wear the official sparring uniforms. I've never bothered correcting her; I keep hoping it will be one more reason for her to feel discouraged. Though, after a year, I'm not sure why I hold onto that hope.

The other students don't outright bully her, but I know they shoot her looks, whispering snide comments just within earshot. Unfazed, Jez always stares straight ahead, acting as if she can't hear them. I'm so wrapped up in my own, inner turmoil that I fail to realize it's only a matter of time before some of the trainees try something more drastic. Jez's affiliation with Sebs protects her, but only to an extent. And Academy students, being the best and brightest Neon has to offer, are nothing if not resourceful.

That day, I just so happen to be on my way to the showers, eager to get in a quick rinse before my next class. But my meager slice of solitude is cut short by screaming. I sprint down the immaculate, grey halls toward the commotion, expecting to find an accident of some kind. When I round the final corner, however, I stumble back at the sight before me.

Three of my students are lying on the floor, noses bloodied and coughing for air. Some sport scrapes and torn clothing while others are missing chunks of hair. But none of them are as bloodied as Jez.

She is standing above them, chest heaving, one eye already swollen shut, lower lip cut and knuckles bleeding. And gods help us, her clothes are torn to absolute tatters. Curiously enough, one of our standard training tops is shoved awkwardly over her long sleeved shirt. Or, well, what used to be a long sleeved shirt, as one of the sleeves has been ripped clean off while the other hangs on by a literal thread.

It doesn't take long for me to piece together what happened.

Jez fills me in anyway. Her assailants are too terrified to correct her at any point; they know they will likely face expulsion for their violent offense.

Apparently, they had followed Jez after class and backed her into a secluded corner, where they ordered her to take off her clothes and put on a proper uniform. When she refused to comply, two grabbed her by the arms and held her up while the third forced the training top over her head. They had succeeded in humiliating her, but not without laying down the final straw.

Jez stumbles at this part of her retelling. I can tell she isn't proud of what she did, perhaps even a little afraid of what she is capable of. Her voice wavers as she looks down at all the blood splattered across her body. She says she must have gone berserk, attacking all three students in a blind rage, refusing to stop until they were facedown on the ground. She hadn't meant to hurt them so badly. She just wanted them to stop, to leave her alone. And she was so, so angry.

Vividly, I remember her shaking. But the part I'll never forget is how the horror on her face slowly crystallizes into terrible conviction. If given the choice, I know she would kick their asses all over again. She isn't afraid of what she did...she is scared of not feeling more sorry for having done it.

In the end, both parties decide to settle their differences in that very same hallway. The students would give anything not to be expelled, and Jez has her own reasons for not wanting Sebestian or the Academy Board to find out what she has done. They make their apologies, shake hands, and go about their separate ways. I am there more as a witness than anything else, stunned at how civil they are after such savagery.

It's no wonder that positions of leadership in Neon tend to be dominated by the feminine. I can't even imagine what would happen if decisions were made based on anger or pride.

The following day, Jez shows up to class as if nothing ever happened. Only this time, she walks in properly uniformed, not an ounce of self consciousness to be found. Her three, defeated opponents from yesterday gawk at her behind bruised cheeks and carefully arranged hairstyles. They were just in the middle of telling everyone how they had stayed late last night sparring and suffered an accident with some of the heavier training equipment. As their explanation trails off, Jez glares at me with her good eye, fists clenched and shoulders taut with tension. Everyone can see the cuts and bruises, but no one wants to be the first to sling accusations.

I meet the questioning challenge in her gaze with indifference. My job here is to teach, not decide who stays and who goes. As far as I'm concerned, their personal troubles have been quashed.

Once the four of them realize I have no interest in correcting their little lie, they all visibly relax. There's even a hint of gratitude in Jez's eyes.

I pretend to ignore that, too.

It is startling to say the least, seeing up close the physical changes she has undergone in a year. All of her old, conservative clothing had hidden her progress. Now, it is out in plain sight, from the tight swell of her thighs to the flat planes of her stomach.

I force myself to stop staring, clearing my throat and carrying on with class as usual. But I can't help sneaking a glance whenever possible, reeling at the discovery of her surprisingly generous curves and full, lovely bosom. The harder I try not to imagine how perfectly her breasts would fit in my hands, with just a tiny bit spilling over my fingers, the quicker I itch to dismiss class. Cold showers become more and more frequent on the days she attends. I also acquire a whole new appreciation for groin guards.

And it only gets worse. Because when does it ever not?

Her muscles grow more defined, her ass ever rounder and fuller, accentuating the slimness of her waist. And when she walks by, others move out of her way. I am, of course, not the only one who starts to notice these changes. For every envious pair of eyes, there is another heated with keen admiration. But because of her status, no one dares to so much as ask her out for coffee. She remains untouchable, except when we spar.

I'm not supposed to show favoritism, especially not to an Outsider. But Jez has a way of turning what you are or aren't supposed to do on its head. Every attempt I make to escape her gravitational pull just gets twisted back on me, tethering me closer.

The most shameful part of it all...

...is that I think I might actually enjoy it.

I like that no one else can touch her. I like that she keeps coming back exclusively to my sessions. And I like that I catch her staring back sometimes, the heat in her eyes disturbingly similar to mine. Every time we spar, I can feel the cord of tension between us stretch tighter. I know that if we keep carrying on this way, it's bound to snap. But against all better judgment, I don't stop.

Some nights I lay awake, fearing for my enlightened soul. I wonder if this is the very danger we've been warned about all throughout our training. The ultimate temptation. The mirage on the horizon that shimmers and beckons, leading us astray toward our premature deaths.

But then a memory of our bodies crushing against one another comes unbidden, reminding me of how she feels beneath me as I pin her for the umpteenth time on the mats, pressing her into submission, and I am lost. The cup guard I wear hides my true reaction, but the way I grow and strain against the plastic becomes painful eventually, and pain makes me irritable. I punish her for it unfairly, I know. But I also know that if I punish her, it makes her angrier, and her wrath always draws her back for more.

I try to apologize, once. On a particularly debaucherous night, I down one too many shots of moonshine and start feeling, for lack of a better word, sentimental. Somehow, I get it in my head that I need to make amends, to smooth the spikes of antagonization between us. So I slip away from the needy embrace of my colleagues, stumbling into a hover car in the dead of night. When the automated system asks me where I'd like to go, I slur with conviction: the Enlightened Estates.

The control panel lights up green as my status clears me for access. I don't know exactly where Jez lives, but I do know where Sebastien likes to hole up and pretend at independence. I figure he wouldn't let her out of his sight, so she has to be nearby.

Turns out I was right.

I am the only passenger in the hover car, which isn't surprising given the hour. Vaguely, I remember the blur of nighttime landscape and muted, neon lights whipping by my window. It only takes a matter of minutes for the car to arrive at Neon's most affluent neighborhood, housing important figures like council members and esteemed researchers. The streets are smooth and empty, not a blade of grass out of place.

Straying away from the larger, more secluded manors, I make my way instead toward the cluster of houses reserved for lesser faculty and the like. These residences are smaller and more compact, but still well beyond the means of the average Neonian.

Definitely a far cry from my plain, one bedroom quarters at the Academy. I'm lucky I have my own bathroom.

I stop when I notice an odd piece of décor on someone's front lawn: a small, squat man made of stone, with a pointy hat and beard. Weird. Looking up, I let loose a breath of disbelief. It isn't hard to guess who this house belongs to. Everything about it is at odds with its neighbors, from its overflowing plants and climbing ivy to the ridiculous amount of swirling stonework and bas relief. The one, dead giveaway is what appears to be a clay sculpture of a fist with its middle finger pointing up. It's sticking out at an angle from a pot of nasturtiums sitting on the porch. I would've never known what that gesture meant, had Jez not pointed it at me once, followed by the words "go fuck yourself."

It wasn't hard to put two and two together.

And who the hell grows nasturtiums in a high class place like this? Strange, spicy plant for a strange, spicy girl, I drunkenly think to myself. I consider knocking on the front door, but think better of it. I'd rather not be caught on her door camera, less than sober and arriving at a suspiciously late hour. Plus, I can see a faint light in one of the windows. My inebriated brain decides it would be better to go straight to the source of my guilt ridden torment.

All the decorative moldings and ivy make it easy to scale up the walls. Once I get high enough, I peer into the window and promptly almost lose my footing.

Jez is sitting in a chair, her back facing me and hand deep in her own panties. I can see everything she's doing in a mirror across the room. Her legs are spread wide, arms squeezing her breasts together, black bra and underwear barely containing her curves. She's panting with eyes half closed as her fingers pump in and out. I can actually hear her moaning through the window.

My mind goes blank. Holy fuck...

I'm hard in an instant. She looks so shameless, so vulnerable, all sense of inhibition abandoned. I can't tear my eyes away. I want her so badly in that moment that my body moves of its own accord, sliding open the glass pane with every intention of helping her finish.

But then her eyes snap open, spotting my drunk ass crawling through her window, and the next thing I know I am facedown in dirt, the wind knocked out of me and the smell of flowers invading my nostrils.

Groggily, I sit up and try to recall what happened. I remember our eyes meeting for one, heart stopping moment. Then me scrambling back out when she comes charging at me with a lamp. I manage to dodge her vicious swing, but only because I launch myself in the opposite direction, straight into her neighbor's precious bed of moonflowers.

The pollen is stuck in my nose for a week, causing me to sneeze every three minutes. As recompense, I am also tasked with replanting everything I destroyed in Madam Larosa's garden. Luckily, the punishment isn't worse and Jez tells no one what really happened, only that I had mistaken her window for someone else's and fallen in surprise. But every night since, I replay that scene in my mind over and over, unable to stop stroking myself as I do. Her shapely legs spread apart, mouth open with sighs of pleasure, the squish of her fingers fucking her own cunt.

And the name she moans as she is nearing her climax.

Ahh...uhnn ffuck..f-fuck me, please...don't stop... Aed—

Every time I get to this part of the memory, I come instantly. The thought of her fantasizing about me, wanting me, filling her pussy with my imaginary cock...I open my eyes to find my hands and stomach yet again covered in sticky, white goo.

Honestly, I don't mind having to miss out on teaching in the mornings to replant all of those shrubs and flowers, because it puts me right back in proximity of Jez's window. And because I'm not teaching, Jez is always home at the same time, watching me from above.

She tries to hide it at first, pretending to be making her bed or passing by to grab something. But then I decide it's easier to work shirtless, and suddenly I catch her lurking by the window minutes at a time, staring with a hateful gleam in her eyes. I just grin and salute her before going back to digging. Madam Larosa certainly doesn't mind, cooing and clucking every chance she gets at what a nice young man I am and offering me beverages at least ten times a day. Meanwhile, I can almost feel Jez's malice seething through the walls.

I am on my last day of replanting when she finally exacts her revenge. Madam Larosa is sleeping in and I have permission to enter her property without supervision. I've just finished laying out all of my gardening tools when someone clears their throat behind me.

I turn around, and it's Jez, holding a glass of water and wearing a fluffy robe. And underneath that open robe I can see her black bra and underwear—the same ones she had been wearing that night I fell. They hug her curves greedily, digging into her smooth, sleek skin.

I drop the spade in my hand. She pretends not to notice. "Here, for when you get thirsty later," she offers politely. Then she wraps up her robe and heads back inside.

With no memory of actually accepting the glass of water, I stand there holding it for a solid minute, dumbfounded, before realizing the pun she just made. It leaves me feeling irrationally vexed, but my training kicks in and I push the feeling aside. Setting the glass down on a ledge, I pick back up my spade and get to work.

A few minutes later, I start to hear moaning.

It's obviously coming from her window, which is conveniently open. I ignore it at first, and only because it's so faint. But then she gets louder, and if I stop digging long enough, I can just make out the slippery sound of fingers sliding in and out of a slick, wet pussy.

I'm glad I'm crouching when Madam Larosa finally makes her appearance. She is smiling and shuffling closer in her mauve, velvet slippers, a glass of orange juice in her hands.

"Good morning, Mentor Aedin. Hard at work again, are we?" Her rheumy eyes crinkle as she doddles closer. Glancing around, she notices the glass of water on her patio and titters. "Oh! I see someone has already made sure you're properly watered."