A girl—no, now woman, unequivocally, though she’s still a girl to me, with some of those endearing habits left over from childhood that most of us, the unlucky ones, lose when we (supposedly) mature: in her case, biting her lip and casting her beautiful dark eyes to the ceiling as she considered a posed question—a woman kneels before me, her hands bound, her pert breasts thrust forward, the position revealing the contours of her ribs.
“Sir,” she whispers. “Do whatever you want to me.” I reach out and run my hand through her hair, black as pitch, dropping down to one breast as I pinch her nipple and begin to undo my belt.
How did we get here? Let me back up.
I’m a PhD candidate in comparative literature a top university, one which was in the news last year for student protests, and which continues to be in the news on occasion. During the tumult of the protests, many of my colleagues noted class attendance dwindling—not that they particularly minded, since most of us are farther left than even our most sincere little radicals.