Chapter 13 (Sam)
After dropping off Chelsea, I dozed most of the ride back until we were in the slow, quiet streets of Tritesville, the town where we lived, and felt like the town where nothing happened. One part of me was uncomfortable coming home after spending two weeks doing anything and everything to my mother and sister. Another aspect of me remembered how it felt like to look down at Kristen kneeling between my legs, struggling obediently to take me all in while Chelsea watched wide-eyed, knowing she was next. Under familiar beams of sunlight filtered through broad maple leaves, it felt like a fever dream.
“Would you get my suitcase too, dear?” asked Mom as we turned onto the driveway. At any moment, I could check her, but she refused to let that change the family dynamic. I didn’t know what she would put on my chore list over the weekend, but she was making a B-line for the office today after dropping me off, something about an emergency with the McVoy account.
“Yes, Mom,” I said as we waited together in the minivan for the garage door to finish clanking open. Dad’s SUV was absent, probably also at work, which made pulling the suitcases up the garage steps easier physically and mentally.
Arriving at an empty house with a functional controller was anti-climactic—outside our windows were oceans of green lawns, shady trees, and not a single living person. Even when my neighbors returned home in the evening, most would be too old or too young. Checking retired Mrs. Stevensen next door to make her drive me back to Chelsea’s college was tempting, but it would have been a violation of the Veil and an awkward trip.
I got a beer from the fridge, which I wanted mainly because they were forbidden. The clink of the bottle against the glass shelf in the house’s silence resonated against the emptiness of the rooms. A little unnerved, I grabbed two more bottles, the magnet notepad from the door, and a pen from the odds-and-ends drawer and exited through the back door to the pool. I was already wearing my swimsuit for shorts (to annoy Chelsea,) and I took off my shirt to sun myself on the edge. The rays scorched my shoulders, and the water’s surface made chilly rings around my calves. Through the wide slats of our picket fence, I kept my eye on the road in case I saw anyone worth checking go by. Not dropping the pen, notepad, or both would be tricky.
“Girls,” I wrote at the top left and underlined it. On the top right, I wrote “Bucket list.” The glare off the yellow pad made it hard to read.
“Delaney Davis,” I put first on the girls’ list. We had kissed on a dare four years ago, my freshman year, her senior. I put my hands on her waist, feeling how real she was through her shirt, and hadn’t closed my eyes. Her expectant half smile, snub nose, and soft brown hair were imprinted on the insides of my eyelids ever since. The day after, when I saw her in the halls, my heart pounded, and I broke out in a sweat. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do to her (with her?), and I left the bucket list space next to her blank.
“Ms. P” was next; her real name was Ms. Pfeiffer, a teacher so recently out of college that she could have been one of the students. I remember the first lab in her class, measuring the meniscus in a test tube. She’d put her hand on my shoulder and leaned over the counter next to me to see how my group was doing. I felt her touch like a lightning bolt, didn’t learn anything else for the rest of the day, and flunked my first quiz in her class so she would tutor me in study hall. Her enthusiasm for biology was catching, and by the end of the year, I had a passion for her and science. “Blowjob,” I put under the bucket list column. It wasn’t exotic, but I had spent enough time with her in my imagination to know precisely what I wanted
“Sadie Mackenzie,” got third place. She lived nearly within walking distance but would be asleep now—she worked late as a bartender. I saw her about once a year at the neighborhood Fourth of July party, last year wearing Jean shorts and a bikini top. My friends and I had ogled her, and she, noticing, teased us by doing handstands or bouncing on the balls of her feet in a way that made everything jiggle. More than once, we’d cooled down together in the water, pretending like we didn’t see that the others had boners. “Gangbang,” I wrote in my bucket list by her name. Feeling beneficently magnanimous, I crossed it out and wrote, “Sex party” instead.
“Claire,” I wrote next, one of my older sister’s friends. She was a quiet A student who would have been socially invisible if she weren’t so beautiful. I’d seen her topless once when Chelsea left her door open during a sleepover. We locked eyes as I returned from the bathroom and froze. I couldn’t help myself, even knowing she would see, and looked down. I had a glorious second to try and memorize the view of her heavy chest and slender torso before Chelsea pushed past me, slamming the door behind. “Bring to orgasm very slowly,” I wrote, planning to savor each gradation as she transformed from introverted bookworm to moaning sex-kitten.
“Ally,” I didn’t know her last name—another of Chelsea’s friends who’d been rumored to have given blowjobs even before she was collared. A fat drop of sweat fell from my face on the pad, turning her name into an inky puddle, which broke my concentration just enough that the bobbing blonde ponytail of a jogger caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. She was almost out of sight around the corner, wearing a t-shirt and loose running shorts. The success of the check startled her, and she looked around to spot who had done it. I ran a few quick programs, one so she had to find me and another to tell her where. Without waiting to see her face, I grabbed my shirt and headed back to meet her at the front door.
For a moment, I was blind in the relative dark, and my shirt stuck to my sweat. I stopped to turn up the air (a few degrees too cold to be naked with someone) and checked my phone—both my parents would be late. I wondered if they were avoiding coming home. Through the frosted front door glass, I saw the shadow of the mystery woman sharpen into her silhouette, which reached out of frame, and the doorbell chimed.
“Sam?” she asked as I opened the door.
It took me a moment because the last time I had seen her was before my growth spurt, and I wasn’t used to looking down at her. “Ms. P?” The strangeness of meeting a teacher out of class at the grocery store was nothing compared to this. We were both caught off-guard.
“Uh,” she said, giving me a sidelong look. “Is your father home?”
“Is my father home?” I parroted, confused. Then, understanding her misunderstanding, “No, I checked you. I passed a PEAT text this summer.” She frowned. “Sorry, Ms P, I didn’t know it was you.”
“That’s ok,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Just uncheck me, ok? See you in a month for the math Olympiad club, right?”
I nearly did uncheck her, even bringing the option up on my console, but the cache was open to one of the last programs I’d used on Chelsea. It had altered her memories of the session—an effect that skirted the spirit of the Veil because it lasted outside a check.
“No,” I said, deciding, and her eyebrows came together in a worried crease. “Remember, it’s natural; we’re supposed to go with the flow.” I was repeating what she had said during sex ed about captures. A few minutes later in the class, one of the boys had asked if she had ever been checked, which made her stutter and blush.
She was as flustered with me on the porch as she had been then. There were still beads of sweat on her forehead from running, and her face was red from the heat. “I’m sorry, but I remembered I left the stove on at home; I’ve got to go,” she said, making a flimsy excuse. Without waiting for me to reply, she turned and walked stiffly away, getting to the edge of the porch before I activated a program.
“Come back, Ms P,” I called after her, and her shoulders slumped as she realized she couldn’t help herself.
“Piaget stage one, right?” she said, smiling mirthlessly as she turned. “Right out of the textbook. Ok, Sam, what have you got for me?”
It was the question she asked students when calling on them for a presentation. “I’ve only checked a couple of girls,” I said. “I thought we could figure out more about how this thing works together.”
It was the right thing to say; she took a deep breath and gave in to what was happening. “Ok, Sam. Just remember how scary it would be if you had to give up control if you were in my place.” She cringed when she recognized what she was doing.
“Stage two,” I grinned. “Reasoning with the captor. Come inside, Ms. P, and close the door. We can hang out in my room.”
“Jenny,” she said, following me into the house. “I guess we should be on a first-name basis now.”
I left her in the hallway outside my room long enough to scoop my floordrobe into the closet and hit the lingering odor of teen boy with febreeze. There wasn’t much I could do about the overflowing trash cans or the posters of scantily clad women except reassure myself that she wouldn’t remember anything I didn’t want her to.
“Hey,” I said, letting her in.
“Hey,” she said. We were both struggling to fill the pauses.
“Just sit on my bed. I’ll show you what I’m doing.” Seeing my teacher obediently waiting on my navy comforter was surreal, and my boner rose to half-mast. I sat beside her so it wouldn’t be so conspicuous and did something I’d always wanted to do in class but never dared: I rested my hand on her thigh. She looked up at my face with an expression that transformed from startlement to vulnerable acceptance. My erection rose by another twenty degrees.
“You can see it registering what I’m doing to you in real-time,” I said, holding up my wrist for her to see the flow of symbols and code.
“Why do men sometimes type out commands and sometimes do it mentally?” she asked, leaning closer to me to see the screen. Her shoulder rested against my upper arm.
“Mental commands depend on my mental state, so they’re fluid. See here,” I pointed, taking my hand momentarily from her leg, “this is the hold on your cortex, so you have to do what I say.”
“Interesting,” she said hesitantly, but not as disturbed as Chelsea had been at seeing the interface.
“Watch, I’ll show you something,” On the screen, a row of changing bars appeared, as well as a network of lines connecting pictograms. “I’ve taken the command program off and replaced it with another. Let’s see if you can figure out what it does. Tell me your name.”
“Jenny,” she said, watching the screen, and her tone was tense and expectant. “I’m not sure I understand it yet.”
“Just wait,” I said. “OK, now tell me about the last time a man checked you.” Her shoulders tensed, and on-screen, a line of code glowed red. I grinned; she was falling for the trap.
“It was in college,” she said, and at the same time, she leaned forward and unlaced her running shoes. “A graduate student checked me at a bar. He was nice about it.”
“Uh-huh,” I said dubiously, knowing she was lying. “Why did you just do that?”
“Because you told me to?” she asked, confused.
“No, that,” I said, pointing at her shoes unlaced by her feet.
“I . . . I just wanted to be comfortable,” she said uncertainly, and I couldn’t help smirking a little.
“Jenny,” I said, “Unlock your phone and give it to me.”
“I don’t have it on me,” she said, which I already knew because I would have seen the outline of it in her pockets. At the same time, she grabbed her t-shirt by the hem and lifted it over her head unselfconsciously. I watched intently as she revealed bare skin just as I had imagined it in my fantasies.
After, in just her sports bra, looking at the shirt in her hands, she said. “I get it.”
“And,” I said, enjoying the flipped tables of being her teacher.
She blushed, weighing the consequences of lying, “And every refusal increases my arousal.”
“Now that you know, are you willing to tell me about the last time you were captive?”
She didn’t answer, but she lay back in the bed, arching her hips so she could slip off her shorts. Underneath were grey, utilitarian bikini panties. Compared to my mother and sister, she was slender, skinny even. Sitting back up, she crossed her arms and legs.
“Sit up straight,” I said, “arms by your side,” and she did obediently. She couldn’t bring herself to look at me while I checked her out and stared intently at my control device even though it wasn’t showing anything new.
“I’m sorry,” I said, adding a command to her queue, “but I have to know; tell me everything.” She felt the visceral compulsion take hold, blushed, and began.
“You remember Eric?” she asked. I did, the lacrosse team captain who had matriculated last year, another PEAT test success who was infamous around town for sharing the women he captured with his friends. My mom had been an involuntary guest more than once at his team’s parties after a big win. “He lived next door from me and would check my girlfriend and me when bored, used to make us do. . . things to each other.”
“Wait,” I said. “Girlfriend?”
Jenny sighed resignedly at my interest. “I prefer women. Please don’t tell anyone at school.”
“I promise,” I said, but she didn’t look relieved. “What did he make you do to each other?”
“Butt stuff,” she mumbled. “In front of the windows so that he could see us, other people did too.”
I didn’t push her any further, but I was fascinated by the idea she had a girlfriend and filed that away for later. “Ok, ok, I won’t pry. Do you want to take over the controller and try and create a program for yourself?”
She perked up like a wilting plant after watering, “Oh, please, yes. Is it safe?”
“They build in controls to ensure programs don’t get out of hand,” I confirmed. “I’ll let you if you promise to write something we’ll both enjoy.”
I had to twist uncomfortably to get my wrist where she could touch the screen, and after a few unsuccessful positions, we pulled the corner of the desk near the bed to rest my arm on while she typed. While she was absorbed, I explored her thighs with my free hand, pulling her shorts up to expose as much as I could. She did her best to keep her legs squeezed together.
“Oh, these must be the programs you’ve run recently,” she said, and it was my turn to blush, knowing she’d found my cache history. “Wait, isn’t Chelsea your sister?”
“It was her opening vacation,” I said defensively.
“Mmm,” said Jenny disapprovingly, repeating some of the titles I’d favorited to find again, “Silly Bimbos,” “Naughty Girl Needs Discipline,” and “Good Girl Craves Cock.”
“I thought you were going to write something for yourself,” I interrupted, feeling that it was unfair for a checked woman to make me uncomfortable.
“It will have to be a pretty good program if I’m going to avoid being your “Drooling Sex Bunny,” she said half seriously. I started to pull my arm away, but she pleaded with me. “Wait, wait. I’m sorry, Sam. Give me a chance to write a program, and if you don’t like it, you can pick one from the list.”
“Deal,” I said, accepting her gambit, “but relax your legs a little, would you?” She took a deep breath and did, giving me access to the soft heat of her inner thighs while she punched away at the screen. She said things like “Oh my!” or “That feels nice” under her breath as she experimented. Just as I began to fidget restlessly, she said, “OK,” with finality. “Tell me what you think.”
Parsing the first few lines was disappointing. The coding was clumsy, and the commands were rudimentary. It would take control of her cortex every five minutes, compelling her to try a new sexual act until I came—first, she would let me play with her chest, then an over-the-swim trunks hand job, and so on. But iterations grew more intense as I scrolled further down, and my eyebrows raised. “Jenny, this will make you want ass to mouth?”
“If you last that long,” she said, looking pleased at my reaction. And then I understood her bet—anything I could want to do to her—and more—was on the list, but she thought she could make me come first.
“I accept,” I said, continuing to scroll and wondering why she had such an extensive list of perversions on the tip of her tongue. “Except I don’t want to be the only one hot and bothered; it would be weird. Not being able to make me come is going to turn you on in a major way, but you can’t until I do.”
“Deal,” she said reluctantly, I think because we both knew she had no choice.
She watched me review and edit the program, switching her attention between my face and what she could see on my controller. “Oh,” she said as I ran it, “That’s intense,” and stripped out of her sports bra. Her small boobs bouncing a little from the elastic band. For the next five minutes, my cock aching with rigidity, I played with them, running my fingers over them to map their shape and kneading them in my palms. Jenny tried to remain aloof, looking out of the window as I groped her, so I began to pinch and twist her nipples to get a reaction.
When the five minutes were up, her poker face concealed the wave of pleasure I’d programmed into the timer. She scooted closer to me and put her hand over my bathing suit. It was as electrifying as the first time she’d touched me in school. Her demeanor, as clinical and detached as a nurse’s, made my reaction feel inappropriate and over the top, but I couldn’t help myself. The sight of my teacher topless and the feel of her hand wrapped around my shaft was going to be too much. I closed my eyes and tried to think about baseball. When the clock reached zero again, a little sigh of desire escaped her lips, and she pulled the elastic band of my swimsuit down so that her bare fingers rested against my cock. I knew I wouldn’t last, and just before her fingers drove me over the edge, I surreptitiously ran the program “Sleeping Beaty.” Jenny’s arm slowed to a stop, her eyes closed, and she swayed in place like a sleepwalker. I couldn’t stop myself from dry-humping her hand for a moment.
“Holy moly, Ms P,” I said after getting control of myself, “how did you get so good at handjobs?” Before doing anything else, I took the opportunity to feel her up, starting from the explored territory and then the parts of her only I’d seen or imagined—from her little boobs and sharp nipples to the crease between her sides and hips and then her neck up to her Cupid’s bow mouth. She made slight adjustments to keep her balance without waking up. The warm, wetness of her breath on my hand inspired me, and I stood up.
Ignoring the feeling that any minute she would open her eyes and ask what I was doing, I turned her head forward—she was facing sideways toward where I had been sitting—and put my thumb on her lips and then in then until I was exerting gentle pressure on her tongue, which parted her lips into an O. The sight of drool pooling in her slack mouth and then running down her chin was more temptation than I could resist. I eased my cock back over the edge of my swimsuit.
I had only used the Sleeping Beauty program once before with Chelsea after telling her ahead of time what I was going to do. The aches and pains in her ass afterward frightened her into making an extra effort to please me while she was conscious. I put my hand on Jenny’s head to hold her steady, put the head of my penis between her lips, and gently and slowly thrust forward. Her relaxed, unconscious mouth opened easily for me, and I only felt a slight tightness as I reached her throat. I pushed her nose to my stomach and enjoyed the sensation of filling her before pulling out. The peacefulness of her sleeping face connected to my cock by a string of spit made me feel guilty for breaking the rules of our game, but not enough to stop. I thrust into her more quickly the second time and then gave in entirely and fucked her face. The only sound in the house was my cock squelching in her throat until I groaned, coming into her belly.
“It’s your fault for being so hot,” I said, as guilt replaced my desire for her. I rinsed out her mouth with a glass of water—I had to tip her forward to spill it messily back in the cup—wiped her face clean with a towel, and lay on the bed recovering and trying to decide what to do. Wiping her memory was an option, or replacing it with something else, but that wouldn’t undo anything.
As I debated, my cock began to respond again to her naked, helpless body and filled my head with all the perverted acts she’d put in her program. I wanted to beat her at her own game even though I knew I’d cheated. Sitting back where I had been, I placed her hand on my cock, which brought me fully erect and turned her head to face me. She was drooling again, but I resisted temptation, dabbed at her chin with the towel, and stuffed it down the side of the bed before bringing her back awake.
“Huh?!” she said, opening her eyes and sensing something was off but not knowing what. She stroked her throat with her free hand and swallowed, grimacing at the sudden taste in her mouth. Before she could think about it, the newly thawed five-minute counter reached zero, and she put her hand to her stomach as the programmed wave of arousal hit her. Her eyes widened as the possibility of going down on me became an unavoidable compulsion. She tried to protest until my cock muffled her, which she didn’t know was the second blowjob she’d given me that day.
Deep throating me was several steps later in the list, so she just put her mouth around my tip using her hand to squeeze the base of me, the other resting beside me for balance. More in possession of myself now, I used my controller as a window to her mind, seeing from charts and graphs the arousal in her, paused while she was asleep, now building like a tsunami. It swept away worries about fidelity to her girlfriend, what she would say to my parents if they came home, and whether I would tell my friends. The sensations of helplessness and humiliation at being used by a student were like sandbags protecting her self-control from completely washing away. I smiled to myself, enjoying her predicament.
Fingering her was next, and she followed my direction to lie back on my bed after taking off her panties. I used my controller as a secret guide to what touches would turn her body against her mind. She was wet and soft when I started, and by the last minute, she was moaning and bucking her hips. When the timer reached zero, her pelvis muscles clenched around my fingers. Afterward, while we were moving to the next position, I saw her realize with horror that I might not come before her long list of torments became a reality.
Even before I penetrated her, we were shiny with sweat and had explored every inch of each other’s bodies with our hands and mouths—Jenny’s self-control and modesty were in tatters. A turn before real sex, the list had me play with her clit, and I, struggling not to come again, needed the break. I think she had meant for me to use my fingers, but I wanted to taste her and kissed and licked her instead. The sensation was the last straw; it broke her resistance and washed away her remaining boundaries.
“Suck it, Sam,” she moaned and added softly and with self-awareness a moment later, “Please, Sam.” When I did, she arched her back, used one hand to squeeze and tweak her boobs, and ran the other through my hair. My cock throbbed, and any sensation would have put me over the edge. By the end of the timer, she was more animal than woman, begging with half words for me to take her, which I would have done even if it weren’t the next item on the list.
I only managed to thrust into her once before coming, holding myself in her by her hips. Her orgasm responded to mine, and for a few intense minutes of sweat, bucking hips, and moaning, our reactions fed off the other’s, leaving me lightheaded and faint by the end. The evening sun shined on us at an angle through the window. I stayed inside her until I softened, enjoying the soft pulses of her insides after the urgency of sex, and she stroked my back, her hips still thrusting gently under me. It took a minute for us to return to the real world.
“Sam,” asked Jenny, looking up at me—I supported myself on my elbows. “I want to make another deal with you, but you can’t tell anyone ever. It’s a violation of the Veil.”
I pulled out of her, feeling with my flaccid penis the wet mess I’d made between her legs. “Ok,” I said, propping myself up on my elbow beside her. I ran my hands over her belly and chest up over her face. The look she was giving me was a mixture of intensity and vulnerability.
“If I don’t change my jogging route, can we keep this outside school?”
I laughed, “Yes, Ms. P, I get to do anything to you as long as it’s not at school.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she replied as though she were frustrated with me, but I could see she was relieved.
Later that evening, my parents called me in for a family conference. They’d found the beer bottles I’d left in the yard, a significant breach of trust, and I was grounded. But I didn’t plan to leave the house tomorrow. I had to keep an eye out for Ms. P.