Dorothy Submits

After Dorothy had graduated she decided, by way of thanks, to visit her old maths teacher. Whilst she was studying at university he had retired and might actually not have heard her good news. Despite his being strict, intolerant and domineering, once he had spotter her talent he had nurtured it and guided her. It had been he who had set the sparks that had kindled her enthusiasm and then fanned the flames into a roaring passion. Now she had been awarded a first, offered the opportunity to pursue advanced studies in all the right places: stay on, Oxford, MIT, Princeton, Harvard, she could take her pick from the cream of the elite. And if she wanted mere money, well she was being courted by several computer companies to design, develop and extend their capabilities for encrypting data.

At that moment Dorothy was stood on his doorstep in front of his brown front door, its paint beginning to peel in places. The neglect was more than simple genteel decay, the house had a slight air of menace; like Mr. Smith himself, it intimidated. Despite, or possibly because of her slight misgivings Dorothy stiffened her resolve and rang the bell, half wondering whether, and half hoping that, it would not work. It did, and loudly as well.

Nothing happened. Dorothy waited but still nothing happened. She was actually turning to go when she first heard a rather stiff bolt being rocked up and down to work it back. She turned and remounted the step as a second, equally recalcitrant, bolt was withdrawn and was standing bright, smiling and composed by the time the third bolt had been tugged aside. The door even creaked on its hinges as it was opening. Dorothy shivered, partly because it was just a little spooky and partly because she was recalling how Mr. Smith used to creep inside of her head during her night time fantasies.

He was lean as ever, skinny as a rake and ponderously tall. So tall he maintained a permanent slight stoop as if attempting to condescend to level of ordinary humans. "Yes!" he demanded, peering down at her over the tops of his half eyes, "Miss Reed, if I recall correctly. Some talent, wasn't there? Whatever do you want?"

I came to say thank you, Mr. Smith. Sir." She added, the last word reflexly and despite her trying her very best not to.

"To say thank you Miss Reed? Well I can't say that never happened before because it has. But it has been a very rare event. I accept your gratitude young lady but what precisely is it that you are thanking me for?"

"I achieved a first, in pure maths, Sir," she smiled winsomely.

"You went up to Cambridge, didn't you? A year early too. Yes? Well Miss Reed I suppose congratulations are in order?" He posed this as a question: as if there were considerable doubt over whether or not it really was worth congratulating someone over a first in pure mathematics from Cambridge University. Then Mr. Smith did something very rare, he actually smiled, "Welcome, Miss Reed, to the club."

"Sir?"

"Yes Miss Reed I too took a first at Cambridge in pure maths. I too was destined for great things. I undertook post graduate studies that would change the world. But in the end I was sent down for bedding my bedder and was sentenced to teaching ignorant, rude, ungrateful children the rudiments of my craft for the remained of my existence: miserable. Well come in I suppose. I can't manage champagne, not at this sort of notice at any rate, but I can make a nice cup of tea: China, Ceylon or Darjeeling?

It took Dorothy a moment to realise he was asking her to decide what type of tea she preferred. "Uh Ceylon," she ventured at random, "Ceylon, Sir; I mean." She cursed herself inwardly for this addendum but Mr. Smith would never be anything but 'Sir' to her.

Mr. Smith smiled, "you don't have to call me Sir anymore you know? You're not my pupil any longer and, at least on paper, every bit as accomplished as myself."

"No Sir. Sorry Sir. Damn it, it's reflex Sir," and Dorothy burst out laughing. "I'll try not to, Sir," and poor Dorothy dissolved in a paroxysm of giggles at this final faux pas. Calling Mr. Smith Sir was a habit that would be very difficult, if not impossibly, to break herself of.

It was Mr. Smith's turn to laugh, "well if you can't help it girl, you can't help it. There's seed cake too, " he confided. "I have to make it and bake it myself these days. Can't buy the stuff anymore."

Dorothy, who was short and bespectacled, was also very plump and in accordance with her stature accepted the latter offer with alacrity: Dorothy was very fond of cake and simply adored chocolate, though if she over indulged she soon became spotty.

Mr. Smith showed her into a now rather shabby but formerly grand room that was half parlour, half study: in front of the magnificent Victorian fireplace was a leather suite set around a coffee table, the walls were lined with bookcases and below the window was set a vast very cluttered yet still ordered desk. The desk was the only thing in the house that Dorothy had spotted which was cluttered.

"Sit, or peruse my little library, please yourself. I'll go and brew some tea for us both and cut some cake." Whilst Mr. Smith was gone Dorothy elected to examine his collection of books. One wall was all 'Sets, Logic and Axiomatic Theories' or 'Vectors, Matrices and Linear Equations.' old, extraordinarily well thumbed, text books. Another was full of paper backs, Fleming, Le Carre, Deighton, ancient spy novels, all tales of daring do, even Rider Haggard and Kipling but nothing new. She had just reached his surprisingly extensive collection of poetry when he returned bearing a tray.

"Come and sit yourself down Miss Reed. Ceylon tea, seed cake and biscuits too, but no chocolate ones I'm afraid, I've already eaten all of those. Ought to have been chocolate for a celebration, but there you go, I'm very partial to chocolate biscuits."

Dorothy sank in to the worn leather chair indicated. "Sorry it took so long but to get the flavour of these delicate teas you need to brew them properly; anything less than five minutes and you might as well drink dish water." Dorothy noticed he strained the tea into the cups, so tea leaves not bags, she ought to have guessed.

He sat and then raised his cup in mock salute, "congratulations Miss Reed, well done indeed," and, for the first time Dorothy had ever known, Mr. Smith actually sounded totally sincere in his praise.

"Well Sir," Dorothy giggled as she realised what she'd just let slip, yet again. "It's all due to you. You realised that I had talent, understood what I was capable of. You pointed me in the right directions, loaned me the right books, marked homework that was set for no one else but me and showed me the tricks and short cuts. That mapping transform, the one you call your epsilon method, the lecturers at University hadn't come across that one before!"

"Oh that," and Mr. Smith actually chortled. "No they wouldn't have, figured it out for myself, that one. That was my thesis when I was sent down. Sad that. But then even old fuddy-duddies like me were young once upon a time you know." Dorothy realised he was not talking to her but to himself, his mind far far away.

"Yes Sir. I'm really grateful. I only wish there were something I could do in return, though I've no idea what."

"I don't expect there is. But that's a very generous offer and one a careful young lady would put strings on when she makes it to an old codger like myself."

Dorothy laughed but she did wonder if he really was simply joking, or was he... Well, was he alluding to something further. Hinting maybe? Despite his stoop, he was actually quite a handsome old devil, lean, carefully brushed silver grey hair, dressed impeccably in a grey slightly worn suit with shoes you could see your face in. Once upon a time she only had to think about him and her tummy felt bubbly and her slot became all juicy and if she fingered herself then she came so quickly. That old feeling in her loins returned suddenly, although Dorothy reflected, perhaps not wholly unexpectedly. She was not on fire but was definitely warming up and quickly too.

Dorothy was aware of her own unattractiveness. She was short and fat. Her hair was mousy brown, long and straight yet still straggly, it framed her heavy glasses and her teeth were crooked; if only her parents had been a little less indulgent when they had suggested she had them straightened. Her breasts were big, which appeared to be a plus but so too was her bum and unless she shaved regularly, which she hated, she soon became ever so hairy between her legs. She was not a virgin, but whilst sex had been pleasant and her partners had certainly appeared to extract much enjoyment from her she had never found it to be that wonderful. Her fingers were more effective and as to her rabbit, well. Peter was such a wonderful pet: efficient, clean and obedient. If only he were just a little quieter, especially now when she was having to live back home with her parents.

Coquettishly she threw back, "I can't imagine Sir that you'd ever ask anything of me that might needed to be wrapped up with string. Anyway I'd gift wrap it for you with pink ribbon and a pretty bow."

"You never know young lady. You never know. Well not until you find out." Then he changed the subject entirely and asked of her studies and how she had found Cambridge. It was only when it was time for her to leave that the hint of playfulness he had exhibited earlier returned. "I enjoyed out little chat Miss Reed. I enjoyed it very much indeed. Perhaps you might even care to return one evening and enjoy that glass of celebratory champagne I alluded to."

Dorothy thought of how her thighs had melted and moistened earlier on and accepted before he had had time to reconsider, "Wednesday evening Sir? About half past seven?"

He paused, obviously taken aback by the speed of her response but also by her obvious enthusiasm. "Wednesday, at half past seven?" He paused pretending to think deeply, "I'm certainly not doing anything," he chuckled, "I'm never doing anything anymore, so yes, delighted to. Let's consider it a date."

When Dorothy rang the bell of Mr. Smith's house for the second time she knew that this time it was no innocent chance encounter. Oddly, despite him being considerably older than her father, thin to the point of scrawny, grey, strict and imposing, Dorothy had the 'butterflies in the tummy' feeling that usually ended with her indulging herself in a delightful bout of masturbation. She was definitely more than slightly moist between the legs and would not be put out or upset if something were about to happen.

"Good evening Miss Reed," intoned Mr. Smith after he had wrestled the bolts back once more.

At least tonight he had been a little quicker to answer, thought Dorothy.

"Do come through to my..." Mr. Smith paused for thought, "sanctum," he finally improvised. Tonight Dorothy noted the desk had been cleared and it looked as if the room had been dusted very thoroughly. "Please take a seat, I must fetch the champagne through." He made for the door, "and glasses too," he appended as an afterthought. As he bustled out Dorothy sensed his distraction, clearly she was not the only one with other things on her mind.

Dorothy didn't sit as instructed but went to inspect Mr. Smith's books. The unexpected poets corner had sparked her curiosity. At the top were classics, Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Milton, Dunne. Below were anthologies, Mr. Smith appeared to have an affinity with the poets of the first world war, the Great War; the spines of these were more battered. Under these were dozens of paperbacks of more contemporary poetry. Well contemporary with Mr. Smith Dorothy decided, though John Cooper Clarke, Linton Kwesi Johnson and Benjamin Zephaniah were all present, correct and the volumes were used and worn indicating that they had been well used.

Dorothy was about to go and sit down when three distinctly familiar books, placed on a shelf close to the floor, caught her eye; the three volumes of Fifty Shades of Grey. Apparently purchased but then abandoned: only the spine of the first volume was cracked and then only slightly, leaving the book appearing almost pristine. On the other hand the nearby copy of the Story of O, a book Dorothy had also heard of but knew little about aside from its reputation, appeared well used. As did a book under it, 'Bound to Serve' by Jay Merson. Not that she had heard of that one but, her curiosity getting the better of her, Dorothy had pulled the book out and the slender young lady with her arms secured firmly behind her back on the cover left in her no doubts as to the nature of the content. Mr. Smith obviously had hidden depths which extended beyond poetry. As Dorothy bagged one of the well worn leather arm chairs she began to speculate about just what exactly she might be letting herself in for.

Her musings were cut short by the return of Mr. Smith brandishing and ice bucket with the neck of a bottle protruding above its rim and carrying a pair crystal flutes in his other hand. He set the glasses upon the low, rather ugly, but very sturdy coffee table with a flourish and placed the bucket between her chair and the sofa. "Right, let's open the bubbly shall we?" A rhetorical suggestion really, as Mr. Smith did all the work.

To Dorothy's surprise there was no pop, no flying cork to avoid, no effervescent rush, just a quick flick of the wrist followed by a gentle phut. "Mustn't waste the bubbles and the Germans believe that a loud pop shocks the wine and ruins it, obviously an exaggeration but there might be something in it. He poured slowly and carefully, dexterously ending on a deft twist of the wrist to stop stray drops from spilling.

The wine was cold, dry and very fizzy. Dorothy giggled as the bubbles caught the back of her mouth and did funny things in her nose. "Well cheers Dorothy and many hearty congratulations, you really are a very talented girl you know."

"Thank you Sir," she responded and toasted him with her glass. "But without you Sir it would never have happened. Even an avalanche needs a careless footfall to set it in motion."

"I think you might have stolen that expression young lady."

The conversation that followed was good, witty and light hearted and Dorothy relaxed utterly. The champagne was light and dry and Dorothy sipped rather more quickly than she usually dared, the bubbles went up her nose and the alcohol gradually liberated her from her usual reserve and blew away her caution. Dorothy became bolder and Mr. Smith, truth to tell, gently led her on slipping ever lewder innuendos into his seemingly pointless banter but all the while he was carefully monitoring her reactions. He gauged the time to be ripe when, the bottle more than half empty, she replied to him, "possibly Sir. But now what can I do to repay my debt Sir, a genuine no strings offer all bedecked gaily with pretty pink ribbons!"

"Don't be silly, you owe me no debt, I was glad to help. Delighted to have someone actually exploit my talents for once."

"Even so Sir, when an old man like yourself mentions of strings, even casually, it suggests that he is thinking of something that needs to be kept tight. You can tell me Sir, after all I can always say no," and Dorothy's shoulders heaved as she giggled.

"Well actually Dorothy, there is but..."

"Go on Sir. It's not like you to be reserved, let alone shy. What's on your mind?" she coaxed as she did her best to flutter her eyelashes.

"Well I do enjoy a seeing woman dressed a certain way. But it is a mere foible, a whim a trifle." However, trivial as his desire might be, he did rush on before Dorothy had the chance to interrupt, "I've had older friends do this and we both enjoyed ourselves but it really needs a girl like yourself to make it convincing."

"Do go on Sir. I'll dress up for you Sir, though I'm hardly the shape for it. I'd do it right this instant if you asked." Dorothy surprised herself with that last outburst but all this forbidden chatter with her old mentor had been making her urge to slip a hand between her legs and rub grow stronger by the minute. She was going to have a wonderful time in bed with dear Peter when she arrived home.

"Well I did lay a few things out on the bed in the spare room. Not for you, don't imagine that, but our little chat the other day did set me to reminiscing and..." he tailed off lamely.

"Let's go," bounced Dorothy which was interesting in itself: Dorothy definitely possessed the right figure for bouncing very provocatively.

"Follow me," Mr. Smith - asked was the wrong word, more commanded - demanded perhaps. Dorothy complied, feigning meekness. He led her up the broad staircase and opened the door of the room that lay opposite to the head of the stairs. It was small, set with a hard wooden chair, a small chest of drawers, a neatly made single bed and a heavy old fashioned wardrobe with its door slightly ajar. "If you undress completely, hang you clothes up neatly in the wardrobe, close the door and then just slip these on."

"Yes Sir," she snapped, mimicing a soldier on parade, and Mr. Smith decorously left her to disrobe in private. Mr. Smith she decided did not mess about, undress completely was quite unequivocal, she was to be completely naked before she put on her costume. She inspected the garments he had laid out for her. A pair of shoes were set neatly on the floor: flat, black, square toed pumps. A little large Dorothy judged but better that than too small. A white cotton blouse, a short navy blue pleated skirt, almost a gym slip, a pair of thin grey woollen ankle socks and a tie from her old school lay on the bed; what alarmed Dorothy was that that was all. He wanted her to dress up for him in a short skirt sans panties and braless to boot.

Still, she reflected, a promise was a promise and anyway Dorothy was feeling light headed, carefree and she was more than a little moist down below. She tugged her yellow cotton summer dress over her head, peeled off her large white bra, wriggled out of her giant tights and slipped off her soft cotton panties cutely decorated with a motif of teddies. The dress she placed on a hanger before she hung it in the wardrobe, the remainder of her outfit she folded and placed on a convenient shelf in the cupboard. It was only when she closed the door that she discovered the ugly secret of that stout and imposing wooden wardrobe. When the door swung home it closed with a distinct click and when she tried it she found that it was locked shut. Only Mr. Smith could let her have her clothes back, she was ion his power now. Dorothy shuddered but the alcohol had melted her reserve, so she shrugged and dressed in the outfit Mr. Smith had provided.

She had wanted to trip down the stairs gaily but, as she had suspected, the shoes were too large for her and she had to descend warily; had they been the next size up, she would have carried them down and slipped them on at the foot of the stairs. For reasons she did not understand she knocked at the door of Mr. Smith's sanctum and waited.

"Enter," a voice boomed curtly. Mr. Smith was dressed as she had left him, in one of his worn but carefully tailored grey suits but now he had an academic gown over it and he looked very stern.

"Ah, Miss Reed!"

"Yes Sir," Dorothy replied uncertainly, she was not sure where this was going but already had a lurking suspicion that her absence of regulation grey school knickers was soon to be revealed.

"Mr Norris has informed me that you have been behaving badly during his lessons. Not mere mischief but giving a calculated and malicious exhibition. Sitting at the back performing lewd and lascivious acts in an attempt to distract him. What have you to say to that?"

"No Sir. I never did them Sir," Dorothy quavered. "I don't even know what lavicious means, Sir."