Writing the Story

I'd been on the table for about an hour when I decided I should just relax. She was obviously going to keep me waiting awhile.

Lying face-up on Alex's kitchen table just as she'd instructed, I took a big breath, trying to settle down. I swallowed again. The wood of the table felt sticky on my back, and on the backs of my thighs. The backs of my knees pressed against the edge of the table, my calves hanging over. I tried to stop swinging my feet back and forth, but it was hard not to.

I balled my hands into fists again beneath my ass cheeks. This was how she wanted me. Face-up, naked on the table, knees at the edge, hands clenched into fists beneath my ass, holding it up slightly. Look straight up, Alex had said. Nowhere else. I watched a fly land on the ceiling again, then fly off, landing somewhere else.

I'd gotten used to being naked here, but lying on the table like this just felt weird. Naked. That's what we called it anyway. I still had this device over my cock, this clear plexiglass tube locked over it, the thing that never came off. I hoped it would come off today. My cock still showed through it, though it was totally off-limits. Alex called this naked.

It had been seven weeks. I'd been coming here every day for seven weeks. In that sense, today was no exception. But any other day I'd be stripping, then putting on my slave skirt, then serving. Serving Alex. Washing Alex's dishes, maybe, or ironing Alex's clothes, or mopping Alex's floor, but always, every single night, massaging Alex's feet. Always.

I rocked slightly to the right and quickly scratched an itch on my leg and as I did so, I could feel my skin peel away from the table before it stuck to it again. Where was Alex?

Just months ago she had still been my student. Spring semester, Freshman English. She always sat toward the front. That second week of classes, Monday morning, she had approached me.

"So Dr. Hyland, I saw you last night." She had a funny little smile.

"Last night? Where?"

"YOU know..." A big smile on her beautiful face, big lips and white teeth and pale skin framed by dark hair, that slightly upturned nose. I felt dizzy. "I KNOW it was you!..."

Oh god. There? I'd been at a relatively large BDSM gathering, a collection of regional munches, with lots of little workshops. Had my student, was her name Alex, maybe, had she seen me there?

"You saw me...saw me there?"

"Yep." A big smile. "I sure did!"

"Oh god."

"Don't freak out. I was there too."

"You were-"

"My boyfriend, he likes to get spanked sometimes. I was learning some tips."

"Oh. I...I uh..." I couldn't speak. This was embarrassing, and weird, and just wrong in some way. Holy shit Alex looked young. She was probably still eighteen.

"So umm like, Dr. Hyland, are you, like a dom or a sub?"

"Me? Oh well I uh..."

"No, no, don't tell me." Alex smiled at me knowingly. "You're definitely a sub. No doubt about it."

"Hmmm..."

How much should I tell this very young woman, my student? I was mortified that she'd seen me there, that she knew this about me, that she could read me like this.

"Anyway..."

I declined to answer her. I just shrugged, and gave her a helpless look.

Alex took her seat. Throughout class though, she just stared at me with a seriously intense look, her pale face and dark, shoulder-length hair, her intense blue eyes and wide upturned nose, wearing her hoodie and athletic pants. Alex's eyes never left me for a second. It was damn near creepy. I wondered if I was imagining the look, if I was over-reacting. Was this all coming from my awkward embarrassment, my self-conscious imagination?

As it turned out, it wasn't. The look was real. I knew as soon as I read one of Alex's assigned journal entries, late that night. I logged in to the assignment portal and clicked on her entry.

"She knew her English professor was attracted to her. But in class, she didn't fantasize about an ordinary romance with him. She imagined this man kneeling at her feet, giving himself to her, willing to do anything she demanded. The idea of it thrilled her."

Alex's journal posting went on to describe a college student, much like herself, fantasizing about her English professor, a man remarkably like me, submitting to her in a sort of owner-slave relationship. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe.

I just sat there, stunned, wondering what to do. I suddenly felt hot. My stomach turned itself into knots. I looked down at my hand; it was shaking. My entire body followed, shaking, almost convulsing in a sort of excited panic. What the hell had I stumbled into?

The entire evening, I didn't grade another thing. I just thought about Alex, and read her entry over and over and over. I looked at her student profile in the online directory, gazing at her picture as I read the story she'd written yet again. Finally, near dawn, I posted my response.

"What she didn't know was that her professor wanted nothing more than to kneel at her feet, in abject surrender, ready to obey. He wanted to be controlled. He wanted to hear her pretty youthful voice casually issue orders. He wanted to experience her possessiveness, her care for him expressed through her strict demands, her random cruelty. He wanted to be made to know his place."

I went on, continuing Alex's story. I never bothered to critique her writing, to give tips or make suggestions. I just continued the narrative, writing in character. Finishing up, I hit send before I could have second thoughts. Then I panicked. What in the hell had I done?

The next class, Alex was in her seat before I got to the room. As I walked in, she greeted me without smiling, arms crossed over her chest.

"Good morning Chris."

Chris? Not Dr. Hyland?

"Good morning, Alex."

She continued staring at me, briefly, unsmiling, then ran her right hand through her hair and looked down. A minute later, as I was organizing my papers, I looked up and saw Alex staring at me again, as if she were supervising. Class was weird. She kept staring, possessively. While all the other students filed out, she slowly put away her books, all the while staring hard at me while I fidgeted nervously. She then rose slowly, and walked out the door.

A day later, I read Alex's next journal entry.

"Oh, she knew. She knew exactly what her professor wanted."

The entry went on, becoming more specific and more explicit. It was also deadly accutate. Alex seemed to be able to read my mind, to decipher every shameful unspoken desire.

Over the entire semester, every one of Alex's entries, and every one of my responses continued the narrative. Together, we created the ongoing story of a professor enslaved by his student. She remained unflappable in class, sometimes smilng at me possessively, sometimes looking more serious. I got used to sweating nervously through class while she closely watched my every move. Alex called me "Chris," out loud, even in front of other students.

Nervously anticipating every new journal post, squirming in embarrassment, I felt the heat of her authoritative stare, class after class. Every minute in Alex's presence I felt watched, felt supervised, felt judged. I knew nothing would likely come of this, but through the pit-of-my-stomach nerves it was fun, or at least delightfully, erotically disturbing, our mutual fantasy.

The final week of class I nervously read Alex's last journal assignment.

"Within a week, she would no longer be his student, and the ethical rules that constrained him would no longer apply. She planned to confront her professor in his office the afternoon following the final. But was he actually serious? Was he just playing a game with her, or did he have the courage to live out his desires, to make them reality? She was excited to find out."

Oh god. What the hell was Alex planning, I wondered. Was she serious? There was only one way to find out. I would have been in my office anyway that afternoon. Until then I'd be a nervous wreck. I had no idea if this was just a flourish, or if she was actually planning to confront me. And if Alex did confront me, well, how would I go about telling her no, that this was every kind of inappropriate?

I should have never played along, I thought.

I enjoyed every minute of it though, regardless of how wrong it had been.

I'd been miserable, worried sick that someone would discover my unprofessional correspondence with a student.

I'd also felt more alive than I had in years.

The realization hit me, and I felt suddenly scared. I wasn't sure I would actually tell Alex "no." This whole situation felt out of my control, and I experienced a hard to describe sense of vulnerability, as if whatever was going to happen was fate, was destiny, and I neary cried at the thought.

On that eventful afternoon, I sat at my desk, trying to grade papers but unable to concentrate on anything. Late in the day, I heard Alex's voice outside my door, speaking to someone animatedly. She was chatting with another student in the hallway, about her summer plans. I held my breath.

Oh god oh fuck oh crap. Was all this for real? Was she here to do what I was half hoping and half dreading she would do?

Seconds later, Alex walked in the door wordlessly, a very serious look on her face. She closed the door behind her and locked it. Striding toward me, she jumped up onto the desk against the wall, sitting on it, on top of a few papers I was about to work on. The heels of her tennis shoes banged against the wood desk a few times. Alex looked at me, stared at me, unblinking.

"You know why I'm here, Chris."

"Alex, I..."

"SSSHHHHHH!!!" Alex put her finger to her mouth and shushed me harshly. "No talking. You're not allowed to speak right now."

I started shaking. I couldn't help it. I didn't know if I wanted this, not for sure, and felt so powerless to put a stop to it, but through all the nerves, I started to feel just a bit of that pit-of-my-stomach, delightful queasiness. Alex looked so good, and her snapping at me did something to me, sent me into submissive overdrive. She brushed her dark hair back from her pretty face. Oh my god she looked so young.

"So. You know why I'm here."

She stared at me as her words sank in.

"I'm here for YOU, Chris."

I trembled even harder.

"I know there's a chance all those jounal posts were just fantasy, that you don't really want to take this thing, what we already have, into reality. I know that. But I doubt it. Since there's a chance though, I'm gonna give you a choice."

I bit my lips together. A cold droplet of sweat trickled down my left side, beneath my dress shirt. My hands were still shaking.

"What we have between us, Chris, it's already real. But if reality is too scary for you, I'll let you end it. All you have to do is say 'Goodbye Alex.' That's all. I'll even let you wave if you want. Just say 'Goodbye Alex' and I'll walk right out that door. I'll never see you or speak to you again."

Alex paused, letting her words work on me.

"But if what we have actually means something to you, here's what you're going to do." Alex smiled, just a little, then turned serious again. "You're gonna kiss my foot. My LEFT foot."

Alex extended her leg, holding out her left foot, rotating it, this foot in a sock and worn tennis shoe, showing it off. Her right foot kept banging against the desk she was sitting on.

"Chris, you're gonna kneel. You're going to get down on your knees in front of me, you're going to take off my left shoe and sock, and you WILL kiss my bare foot. And not just a little peck. You're gonna kiss it long and hard, for a while. How about an hour? An hour sounds good to me."

I took a very deep breath. This sounded like a fantasy, like a dream come true, something I'd always wanted to try, but with Alex right here in front of me, I was surprisingly embarrassed. My whole body shook, hard. Alex noticed, and smiled at me.

"Nervous BOY! Oh my god."

Alex smiled, flipped her hair back behind her head with both hands,

stretched, and turned serious. Once again, she looked directly at me, bold eye contact, her gaze unwavering.

"So Chris, here's the thing. When you kneel in front of me, and start kissing, it means something. Something real. Chris, as SOON as your lips touch my foot, there's no turning back. None. If you let your lips touch my foot, I'm taking that as admitting that you belong to me. OK? Mine. Just so you know, once you make contact, there's no backing out. I won't allow it. I won't put up with any disobedience, or any excuses, or any backtalk. None. Your chance to decide is now. Afterward...well afterward, you don't get to choose."

Alex smiled, enjoying this. She liked being in control, and was savoring every second.

"So, what's it gonna be?"

I was soaking with sweat, and couldn't stop shaking. Every part of my body tingled with nervous energy. The lump in my throat grew more noticeable. These were the kinds of things I'd dreamed about, and read about, and watched workshop demonstrations about. I'd even been spanked a few times, sort of, playful little spankings from playful women who wanted to be sure I was enjoying it. But this - this was something different.

Alex was serious. Scarily serious. This wasn't a game, or a scene, or "play." She wanted to control me, for real. She expected to put me in my place. Oh my god, did I really want this?

Alex looked so fucking good, sitting imperiously on my desk, on top of my work, chewing gum, casually banging her tennis shoes against the desk, no-nonsense look laser-focused on me.

I was tempted to speak up, to tell Alex goodbye. She was demanding so much. But I knew there was a part of me that really, honestly wanted this, had always wanted this, had always wanted to be controlled by a woman, not as part of "play," but in reality. Alex was so very young. It was sort of creepy. Was she really able to put me in my place? To keep me in my place? She certainly seemed to be. It was scary how much I looked up to her despite the fact I was almost twice her age. Alex. Holy shit. I savored the painful lump in my throat, and a sort of light-headed ecstasy mixed with dread as it dawned on me that I'd already made my decision. This was going to happen. I just needed to find the courage to get out of this chair, and to kneel.

Months later, it still seemed like yesterday. Lying naked on the kitchen table, I recalled the act of forcing myself to stand. I remembered the shaky feeling in my legs. I recalled Alex's growing smile, the realization dawning on her, suddenly knowing for sure that I was becoming hers. Shaking as I knelt, the floor much harder on my knees than I'd imagined, the sensation of kneeling, just assuming that position, already sending me into spasms of humiliation.

Alex's purple and silver tennis shoe was knotted, and hard to untie. I fought with the knot for several minutes in frustration and lingering humiliation. What the hell was I doing, kneeling on this hard floor, in front of this girl? Successfully untying it, however, was scary. It was time. The shoe slipped off easily, and Alex's white ankle sock, faded and worn, was the only thing left preserving my life of freedom. After I peeled it off gently, turning it inside out as it came off, I was left with Alex's bare foot, surprisingly pretty, a little bit sweaty, intimidating as hell. It just hung there, maybe a foot off the floor.

I had to bend down, way down, pushing my face down farther than I'd been imagining. I let my lips hover, mouth open, just inches from her instep, breathing hard, inhaling the scent of Alex's foot. I couldn't turn back now. I didn't want to. Just as I had confessed in my first journal response to Alex, I wanted to give myself to her, to make it clear that I would do anything for her. I was scared, but I was so ready.

I closed my eyes.

Puckering my lips, I let my face descend slightly.

In one breathtaking moment, I felt the bare skin of Alex's foot against my eager lips. Contact. I pressed hard, kissed hard, out of breath, ecstatic, terrified.

I smiled as I remembered the moment that changed my life. Alex's foot had flexed, and I moved my head, maintaining contact, lips-to-foot, keeping up, grappling with the fact that this was a real foot, part of a real young woman, who would have to be obeyed in reality. The days of fantasy, of scripting my own submissive inner world, were over. Now, Alex was writing the story.

"Oh my god!"

Alex had sounded delighted as I kissed.

"You really do like this, don't you? Oh wow. I hope you do, because it doesn't matter now if you like it or not. Nope. I do the deciding now."

I'd moved my head, opening my eyes to get a little bit of a glimpse of the beautiful foot I was kissing, moving my lips down, closer to Alex's toes, and she continued.

"So how does it feel? You'll have to tell me sometime. How does it feel to be actually owned by another person? What's it like knowing that I own...your body? And...your mind? And...your sexuality? And your time? Your identity? I can't imagine what that's like."

I felt helplessly vulnerable as I kissed, my cock growing into a rock hard erection. I was thrilled beyond imagination, and also scared senseless. Halfway through, I felt like I was going to cry.

By the end, after Alex told me to stop kissing, and put her sock and shoe back on, I'd composed myself, but was still out of breath. With the tip of her shoe, Alex lifted my chin so that I was staring into her face above me. She kept her shoe beneath my chin as she spoke.

"Hello, slaveboy."

"Everything's changed, hasn't it?"

"You'll be hearing from me very soon.

Don't you dare ignore my texts. And don't even THINK of disobeying any of them. Until then..."

Alex left, but I had remained on the floor, in shock, for most of the evening. Now, staring at the ceiling in Alex's kitchen, I remembered the daily barrage of texts that came over the summer.

"Chris, tell me exactly what you're doing right now. In detail. Drop what you're doing and send me your answer. You have 30 seconds."

"Chris, tell me everything you ate today. Right now."

"Hello slaveboy. I need to know the name of the last woman you had a sexual thought about. Her real name, first and last, if you know it. Now."

"Buy a journal, slaveboy. A nice one. It belongs to me, already. Every night, write in it. Write your thoughts, your feelings, your desires, your fears. Write what it feels like to be owned. You may not erase anything once it's written. I'll be taking it from you when I get back this fall."

"Hello, Chris. Go to THIS website and order a chastity device. Order several sizes that might fit you. Try them all on, and wear one for 3 days straight. Tell me how it feels, and if there are any problems. Yes, you will be wearing this full time soon. Get one that's clear so that when you're naked in my presence, you'll really be naked. I want your little pee pee to show through it. Order them today, slaveboy."

"Kneel on the floor and write 'Alex T.... owns me and I will always obey her.' Write it 1000 times. I expect good handwriting. Then mail it to me."

"Today, Chris, you're going to make your slave skirt. I'll send some drawings and instructions. It needs to be made from a white bedsheet. It will tie over your left hip and wrap around your right hip, but it needs to leave your left hip bare. It will hang EXACTLY one inch below the bottom of your ass. No more, no less. This is the ONLY thing you will ever wear when you serve me."

"Slaveboy, today you will decorate your slave skirt. You will sew on my name, across the butt. Your ass will say "Alex." On the front, in front of your penis, you will sew on a capital A. Both in pink fabric. I'll send you the font and the exact color."

The summer had been hectic, rushing to keep up with my new owner's demands. I lifted my left leg from the table, feeling it peel off, then let it drop again, remembering the nervous anticipation I'd had at the end of the summer. Alex was returning.