The Tessera Method Ch. 04

Honestly I don't know who the hell I think I am putting a bunch of shit about John Keats into a mind-control fetish story.

This chapter is a little lighter on the mind control than previous ones, as its main character Hannah has already been quite thoroughly programmed and her story is just playing itself out. She's still under the influence of her earlier programming, and the Prime Tone will feature heavily, so it still belongs in the Mind Control category, though.

The sex scene in this chapter is girl/girl; just noting that ahead of time since I haven't really been writing those. If that's not what you're into, well, sorry I guess.

One more note: that thing happened again where what was supposed to be one chapter turned out to be so long it made more sense as two. As such, the next chapter will ALSO be a Hannah chapter. Hannah was supposed to be a one-off, but she's getting a trilogy.

The Tessera Method, Ch 04

It was bright and early, 9:40 AM on a Monday morning, and Hannah Chung felt like absolute shit.

Physically, she was more or less fine. She didn't have the same epic hangover she'd had the previous morning, or the one before that, but her social life was still a huge fucking mess.

On Thursday, she'd had a falling out with one of her best friends after threatening to get her middle-aged professor boyfriend fired. On Friday, she'd had amazing sex with a student named Tyler, who she'd thought was the most romantic guy she'd ever met in her life, but on Saturday morning she'd discovered he was cheating on his girlfriend with her, and that encounter had very quickly ended with her being left naked, handcuffed, and covered in dried cum in a dorm hallway, which probably qualified as "rock bottom." On Saturday night she'd hooked up with another college boy at another party in a desperate attempt to prove that they were still worth her time, but that guy had refused to try any bondage or roleplaying at all with her - not even a little spanking, and how hard would that have been, really? - and had almost immediately gone soft from whiskey-dick and passed out. Boy, can I pick 'em or what.

Sunday had mostly been spent failing to get sympathy from any of her friends about her struggles with college boys. Mackenzie was still off-limits, Tanya had apparently decided to take Mackenzie's side and was mad at Hannah too, Sara was dating a genuinely sweet guy and straight-up didn't understand Hannah's problem, Mei had pretty much no interest in dating anyone at all for longer than eight hours at a stretch, and Hannah didn't feel close enough to anyone else to really open up to them, so she'd ended up just sleeping, drinking herbal tea, watching reality TV, and doing homework. Which had helped a little, but not much, really.

And now the weekend was over, and it was time for Hannah to resume her quest to... get her friend's boyfriend fired, for the crime of making her too happy. Mackenzie was in love with Dr. Abramson, or so she'd claimed. Hannah had thought that sounded like bullshit at the time, but was it really her place to say? Why was she spending all this time and effort on this, anyway? Was it really such a terrible thing to fall in love with a professor? Every girl thought about it. Come to think of it, hadn't Hannah herself very recently had the best sex of her life while pretending she was doing the same goddamn thing? Why was she up on this high horse, again?

At any rate, the question of whether she was going to go through with her plan would have to wait until the final 10 minutes of the 19th-Century Romantic Poetry seminar Hannah was currently sitting in were over. God, why on Earth had she decided to take this 9 AM class?

The professor, one Dr. Asher Rosenberg, was talking about a poem by John Keats. "The main question Keats tackles in 'Grecian Urn,'" the young adjunct explained, "is the core truth of a fictional setting. Nobody can really determine every single detail of a town in a painting, for example, what the history and backstory and hopes and dreams of each person depicted are, because that town and those people never really existed. There are no facts to uncover. There is no objective truth. Sure, the reader can decide their own canon - death of the author, and so on - but what is that really worth? Is it true? What is truth, in this context?"

Oh, right. That was why she was taking this class. Professor Rosenberg was a fantastic speaker when he was impassioned, and he really knew how to bring this stuffy old verse to life. He was young for a professor, perhaps in his late 20s or early 30s, and there was a vital spark in his eye whenever he really got going on the subject of old poetry that couldn't help but suck you in.

He's cute, too, a voice in Hannah's head interjected. It was pretty objectively true. High cheekbones, deep green eyes, good teeth, wavy black hair which he tried to keep tamed and combed in a professional style but was always defying him just a little bit, fashionable glasses, a well-maintained black beard. Clear skin, perhaps a bit too pale from long hours in the library, but that was actually kind of endearing on him. Not the tallest guy in the world, but Hannah herself could charitably be described as 'petite' so he still had a good seven or eight inches on her, which was enough for her to wear any heels she wanted and still feel little and cute next to him. He seemed to be in pretty good shape, too. A cyclist's body, perhaps? Hannah would have to see it in a little more detail to be sure. Maybe in dim lighting, shadowed so she could only take in parts of it at once, preferably from below as he crouched over her -

No. Stop. Hannah shook her head out a little bit. Fantasizing about her poetry professor was absolutely not what she needed to do to get clarity on her current dilemma. He was pretty cute, though.

"The last stanza addresses that question with just the right amount of precision," Dr. Rosenberg continued, "steering the reader toward Keats' point of view while still leaving some room for interpretation. Brad, would you like to read it aloud for the class?"

A fratboy with a buzzcut and a chinstrap beard in a wrinkled polo shirt startled awake in his seat. "Wha? Uh, sure, Teach." He cleared his throat and coughed a couple of times, then spoke.

"Oh... attic shape? Fair attitude. With... uh... braid of marble. Men and maidens... overwrought with forest branches and... the trodden weed, heh..."

Hannah grimaced. This was a terrible performance. He wasn't pausing in the right places, and his voice was utterly flat. Combined with his frequent hesitance whenever he wasn't sure about a word, which was distressingly often, it sounded a lot like he was reading in a language he didn't understand. Clearly he didn't understand this poem, at least. Why was he in this class? Did he think it was an easy credit? College boys were just the worst.

Dr. Rosenberg made eye contact with Hannah and raised his eyebrows. "Inspiring reading, Brad." She suppressed a giggle. She'd complained to him about Brad before.

Brad chuckled nervously. "Sorry, Teach. I was up late last night."

Dr. Rosenberg nodded, clearly struggling to keep any judgment out of his face or voice. "Hmm. Anyone else want to pick up where Brad left off?"

A blonde Scandinavian girl named Kristin raised her hand. "Uh, why don't you read it for us, Dr. Rosenberg?"

He blinked in confusion. "Me? Um, I'm not sure that's really the best way to..."

Shannon, the brunette Irish girl sitting next to Kristin, cut him off. "Yeah, I'd really like to hear your reading, Professor. You're really good at communicating the author's intent."

Cindy, the Vietnamese girl sitting one row up from Hannah, joined in. "Yeah! Can you just read it for us, Professor? Pleeeeeeease?" She was quickly joined by a small chorus of feminine voices, all urging Dr. Rosenberg to read the last stanza himself.

Finally, he shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Pay attention, though." He stood with his hands behind his back, facing the window, gazing outside at the swaying branches of a nearby tree, and began to recite from memory.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

He paused for another moment, as if contemplating the words himself, and Hannah could hear a collective sigh from every girl in the room. It was hard for her to tear her gaze away from the young scholar, but, consumed with curiosity, she allowed herself a quick glance around at the other students. Kristin, Shannon, Cindy, and every other girl in the majority-female class were all staring at Dr. Rosenberg, faraway expressions on their face, a few of them even leaning their chins on both hands in a cliched expression of longing. Brad, along with the two other boys present, seemed barely awake.

Finally, Dr. Rosenberg turned to face the class, a smile on his face, a knowing glint in his eye, and continued. "In the end, Keats tells us, even in our inability to fully understand any work of art, that art can still reach us: the beauty of the art is truth, in a manner of speaking, and even thousands of years after its creators died and were forgotten, the Grecian urn's beauty, and thus its truth, remains. And of course, there's a meta-commentary to make here. Even though Keats himself died tragically young hundreds of years ago, and even though many of us might find his work difficult to understand -" Dr. Rosenberg glanced involuntarily at Brad, who didn't seem to notice - "the beauty of his verse lives on, and through it so do -"

A bell rang to signal the end of the period. The students immediately began packing up their things, requiring Rosenberg to raise his voice over the noise. " - his thoughts on the classics. Everybody take a handout and write up some short-response answers to my discussion questions on the rest of our Keats poems! We're going to have a full roundtable about them on Wednesday. Bright and early! Get some sleep this time, Brad! I'll see you all then!"

Hannah found herself taking her time putting away her text and notebook, stealing glances at Dr. Rosenberg. It was okay that she had a crush on him even though he was her professor, right? It was a very common fantasy. She was far from the only girl in the class that was interested in him, clearly. She wasn't even the only Asian girl. Cindy had been just as fluttery after that reading as anyone else. She'd even been licking her lips a little bit right at the end. That bitch. I'll kill her.

Hannah dropped her pen and squeaked a little in sheer surprise at herself. Where the hell had that thought come from? As she bent down to pick the pen up, she swept the room with her eyes. Where was Cindy, anyway?

Cindy, it turned out, was approaching Dr. Rosenberg, clutching her books to her chest, eyes averted shyly. "Dr. Rosenberg? I was wondering if you could help me with 'Ode to a Nightingale.' I'm having a little trouble interpreting it." She played with a strand of her bottle-blonde highlights absently with one finger. What a fucking slut. Hannah wanted to slap her right in her dumb whore-makeup-covered face.

Dr. Rosenberg smiled at her as he erased the board. "Sure, Cindy. I've got office hours from 3 to 4 on Tuesday and Thursday. Feel free to drop by and we'll have a nice chat then. Nobody ever comes to office hours, so I could use the company."

Cindy giggled. She actually giggled at that. Unbelievable. Those tits were probably fake, too. "Ok! I'm looking forward to it!"

He smiled at her again and returned his attention to the board, but she stayed by his side, biting her lip.

"Uh, what should I wear?"

He blinked, confused. "Wear whatever you want, Cindy. It's just office hours."

She gave a crafty little smile at that. "Oh, okay! I'll see you soon, Professor!" She walked slowly from the room, glancing back at him a couple of times.

Hannah stood there, watching Cindy wiggle her hips as she walked, a vacant expression on her face. "Uh. Hannah? Is everything okay?" Hannah whipped her head around to find that she was the only student who hadn't moved from their seat yet, and Dr. Rosenberg had noticed. He looked vaguely concerned.

Shit. "Oh! Uh. Yeah, sorry. I was just, um, remembering, uh... something. OkayseeyouWednesday!" She took a deep breath and hurried out the door into the hallway.

Okay. So, Cindy was going to make a move on Dr. Rosenberg. And that was terrible. Why did she think it was terrible? More importantly, what was she going to do about it? She had to do something, because -

Hannah came to a complete stop in the middle of the hallway as she came to a couple of very important realizations.

One was that, even after what she had just put Mackenzie through, she could no longer deny that she was in love with her poetry professor. The events of the past weekend had put her in the correct mindset to admit it to herself, and now it was an inescapable truth. And, she thought as her heart raced a bit, that truth was beauty.

The other was that she was going to have to get some help, and the person best positioned to help her was Mackenzie.

----------

That night, Mackenzie arrived home from her barre class to find Hannah crashed out on the couch with a fully-loaded bong next to her on the end table. At first, she scowled and said nothing, but then she hesitated. "...Hannah? Are you smoking on a Monday night? That doesn't sound like you. Are you okay?"

Hannah covered her face with her hands. "Maaaaack, I need to talk to you..."

Mackenzie sat next to her on the couch, laying a hand on her shoulder. She was wearing yoga pants and a sports bra, her hair gathered up in a loose scrunchy, a towel draped around the back of her neck, and she looked perfect. As always. Even right after a hard workout, she looked perfect. "Hannah, what's going on with you lately? I know you haven't called the dean yet, but -"

Hannah sat up and threw her arms around Mackenzie's neck. Mackenzie was clammy and smelled like sweat, but Hannah didn't care. "I'm sorry, Mackenzie! I judged you and I shouldn't have done that, lest I be judged." That had sounded different in Hannah's head. This was a really hard conversation to have while high as balls.

Mackenzie was taken aback, but tentatively brought up one of her own arms to pat Hannah on the back. "Lest you... Hannah, what are you talking about?"

Hannah took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. "I'm sorry I said I didn't believe you were in love with Dr. Abramson because he's your professor. Plenty of girls fall in love with their professors, and you're just lucky enough to have done something about it! And... I know that now... because I'm in love with my Romantic Poetry teacher, and I need your help, because someone's gonna steal him away."

Mackenzie stared. "Wow. That's... a lot to take in, Hannah."

Hannah nodded. "Can you forgive me, Mack? Friends again? Please?"

Mackenzie sighed and reached toward the bong. "Pass that shit over to me and let's come up with a plan of attack."

----------

"Okay," said Mackenzie through red eyes as she played with a fidget spinner, "so Dr. Rosenberg's next office hours are tomorrow at 3." She had peeled off her shoes, socks, and pants, and was lying on her stomach on the floor in her thong and sports bra. She'd been a bit more cavalier about how fully-dressed she was or wasn't while in the dorm room over the past few weeks. Hannah wasn't sure why.

"Yeah, at Jefferson Hall," Hannah responded through a mouthful of Fritos. She herself was dressed for bed in a black cami and light-blue bikini panties. She was definitely in for the night.

Mackenzie rolled onto her back and tossed the fidget spinner into the air, but failed to catch it. It bounced under the couch. She swore and rolled onto her side to reach for it, searching blindly with one arm. "And this other girl, Cindy... Cindy what?"

Hannah stole a glance at Mackenzie's firm, round ass as the white girl groped around under the couch. Those barre classes were working out for her, clearly. "Cindy Nguyen."

"Yeah, her." Mackenzie finally grabbed the spinner and rolled onto her back again, staring at it as she held it in the air, spinning away. "Is she hot? What's the threat level exactly?"

Hannah frowned and took a big gulp of water. "She's a fucking skank. But yeah, she can probably get guys. She has to work for it, though. I'm hotter, obviously."

Mackenzie sat up and grabbed a handful of chips. "Okay. So, step one is, she doesn't go to those office hours. We gotta get you in there first. Does she, like, have a job?"

"Uhhh..." Hannah snapped her fingers. "Yeah! Yeah, I'm like 90% sure I've seen her working at the Green Room!" The Green Room was a popular on-campus cafe that served coffee, sandwiches, salads, and cookies, and accepted meal-plan credits as payment.

Mackenzie smiled. "Perfect! Tanya told me that one of the shift managers, Jimmy Albano, has a huge crush on her or something. She can get him to put Cindy on a double shift tomorrow by, like, flirting with him or something."

Hannah wasn't sure about that plan. "Are we sure Tanya will help with this?"

Mackenzie giggled. "Haven't you heard her talk about my boyfriend? We tell her we're working together to get you in bed with a professor too and she'll move heaven and earth to help. She'll show Jimmy her boobs if she has to. She'll show the whole Green Room full frontal if she has to. She'll spread her cheeks on live TV if she has to! We've got this. That part's down. Then," she leaned forward and smiled conspiratorially, "you just go to those office hours instead."

Hannah nodded eagerly. "Yeah! And then what?"

Mackenzie blinked. "Then you seduce him, Hannah."

Hannah bit her thumbnail. "How do I do that?"

Mackenzie raised an eyebrow. "You flirt with him and show off your body for him until he's horny, and then you sit on his lap or something, I dunno, it depends on the situation. Haven't you seduced someone before?"

Hannah clicked forward on Spotify. Not this song. Not that one, either. "I dunno, Mack, I've never, like, seduced a professor before, definitely. How do I tell if he's interested? He's a professional. Maybe he'd just brush me off, because I'm too young and silly for him and he wants someone mature and sophisticated and -"

Mackenzie snapped her fingers. "Hey. Stop it. Look at me. Eyes front, Chung. Listen. You're a grown-ass woman, and you're sexy, and you're confident, and you can seduce anyone you want."

Hannah chewed her lip. "Can you give me, like, a really good trick or something? I don't know how to approach this."

Mackenzie stared at her fidget spinner, lost in thought. "Maybe..." She put the spinner down and picked up her phone, nodding with certainty. "Okay, Hannah? I definitely shouldn't be telling you this, but it's an emergency. This is a secret, understand? Promise me you won't tell anyone."

Hannah leaned forward, intrigued. "Okay. I promise. I'm in. What've you got?"

Mackenzie climbed up onto the couch and sat next to Hannah. She selected a song file on her phone and pushed PLAY, but rather than music, a high-pitched whine came out of her phone speaker. Hannah cocked her head. It sounded familiar. Had she heard this before?

"This," Mackenzie said in a hushed, reverent voice, "is the Prime Tone. Dr. Abramson plays it sometimes if he wants to tease me, or if he wants to get himself hard again really quick after cumming."