Deconstructing the Professor

Her soft smile faded. "No, that's not the case; once you submit, there's no turning back."

I asked, curious, "What did she do to you?"

She looked away again and whispered, "I won't get into my own details, not all of them while you're still an outsider, but I think it's important for you to know the consequences of refusing to submit to her and then later submitting. I resisted her advancements for a long time, but once I did give in, she began testing my loyalty through a series of punishments she said I'd earned. One of my punishments is that I must have an orgasm during every church service. I'm also expected to please her at some point during every family gathering, which is very risky and causes me extreme anxiety. She's also made it crystal clear that I have one further punishment to go."

I looked up at her for the first time in a while, baffled by these sexual admissions from this woman I'd always thought of as pure and strong as a rock. "Why?"

"I couldn't resist," she admitted shamefully. She unexpectedly bolted up and said, "I'll be right back."

I sat and waited for her, stunned by yet another baffling revelation. How could I possibly resist Madison if this preacher's wife couldn't? That said, after talking to this poor creature who paradoxically was so ashamed of the fallen woman she'd become, yet still could find the stature and compassion to reach out to me and attempt to give me some strength and resolve, I was more determined than ever to persevere. Her shame at what she had done inspired in me the strength I needed to stiffen my resolve not to submit.

She returned to the table but remained standing. She apologized, "I'm sorry to do this, but I'll be punished even further if I don't." She handed me her damp panties, a thong. I grasped them and tears began running down her face, "These are the ones I came in during church this morning. I'm so sorry, Felicia. I have to go."

I tucked the garment into my purse before anyone could see. Although I felt confident that I wouldn't submit, I also felt horny. I left a twenty on the table, a gross overpayment for two cups of coffee but I didn't want to face anyone, and I rushed out to my car. My head was spinning both with my need to pleasure myself, and with the new revelation of Mrs. Hart as a lesbian. Or was she a bisexual? Did Madison permit her to have sex with her husband? If so, just sometimes or anytime they wished? The endless ramifications of how Mrs. Hart's submission must be affecting her marriage and her life were unimaginable. I almost ran a red light, the distraction of my needy vagina itching for attention, and my brain a complete whirlpool of confusion.

At the light I pulled out Mrs. Hart's red panties and took a quick sniff. My pussy pulsed, her musky aroma making me even hornier and more desperate to come. I looked out my window and saw a young blonde looking at me in disgust, and my shame hit me hard. I dropped the panties onto my lap and jerked my eyes away. Distracted, I didn't notice the light change until the car behind me beeped. Oddly, even a car's horn prompted a small discharge from down below, and I knew I had to get home soon. Three more red lights and three more intoxicating sniffs of the Preacher's wife's aroma, and I pulled into my driveway and rushed to my front door, where I frustratingly fumbled with my keys way more than usual. Once I was inside, I bolted up the stairs and into my bedroom. Yanking up my skirt, I discarded my panties and pulled out Jessica's thong. I put it to my nose as I had all the others, and I began rubbing my clit like a wild woman.

Madison is in my office and sitting at my desk. Her panties are in her hand and I'm on the floor. She holds them above me like she would a bone to a dog. She orders, "Beg for them, slut."

Instead of using words, I whimper like a puppy.

She lowers her panties onto my face, but then raises them back up. I'd attempted to grab them with my teeth but was unsuccessful.

"Are you a good pet?"

I pant like a good puppy does.

She lowers the wet panties back onto my face, "No biting," and lets them linger there. I take in the delicious aroma and whimper once again when she pulls them away.

From my submissive position, I look up to her naughty smile. My vagina is dripping wet and I'm on the verge of ecstasy as Madison continues her toying with me. She continues dropping her white soiled panties onto my black face over and over, teasing me viciously. Finally, my whimpering becoming louder and more constant, she orders, "Come for me, Nigger."

The word Nigger was the trigger and I came hard once again, my pleasure not culminated but stoked, unsatisfied because of the humiliation I should have felt but didn't. As my puppylike delight faded and my humanlike shame flooded in, the orgasm finally spread through me, satisfying my needs, at least for now. I softly tapped my clit, adding a few extra seconds to my orgasm. Once I was completely spent, I fell asleep, the wet panties still in my mouth.

When I woke up a couple hours later, I grabbed the Mrs. Hart's dirty underwear and threw it violently against the wall. The flimsy fabric didn't cooperate, but just fluttered to the floor. My frustration at my weakness and at the growing number of people becoming involved in Madison's attempted seduction of me was bringing me far past my boiling point. And why was being called the N word the trigger that catapulted me into sexual bliss? I was better than this... I had to be better than this.

Even after another sexual breakdown, I was still determined to end this once and for all. I refused, even when temptation returned, to masturbate again that night. It was hardly a victory, but it was a start.

11. MANIC MONDAY

I woke up confident, although worried about the format of today's lesson. It was to be an open forum where I ask the simple question: "What can we do to end racism?" and off it goes from there. Usually this is a very freewheeling and thought-provoking discussion, but with Madison on her power trip, I was nervous. I considered changing the lesson, but if I let her begin dictating my lesson plans, I was letting her win. Again, I ignored her command to wear white, instead choosing almost all black. I wore a black skirt, black stockings, black heels, and a black blazer. The only hint of colour was the dark purple blouse underneath... hardly a major contrast. In secret rebellion as well, I also wore black panties and bra. My confidence, even after all my indiscretions, was high. Today would be the day I reclaimed my identity. Today would be the day I reclaimed pride in my colour.

I won't get onto the details of what turned out to be a fascinating class, but the ideas flowed easily and by the end of the class, anything seemed possible. It went so well that the prior week looked like a bad nightmare that had never really occurred. The posse was even dressed appropriately for class, in jeans and t-shirts, including Madison.

The class ended just as it used to do, with everyone leaving and my packing my things and going back to my office. I was checking my email twenty minutes later, when I heard a knock on my door.

I walked across and opened it, finding Madison standing in front of me, having changed her outfit since class, now dressed in a black leather skirt, black stockings, a blood-red blouse and red four-inch heels. I stared at her, surprised by her outfit and the sinking feeling that my confidence about finally turning the tide had been no more than a sham. She brushed past me and sat down... at my desk.

I closed my door and ordered sharply, "Get away from my desk, Ms. Adams, that's my chair."

Her first words to me were, "After your defiance this weekend, you're now at six. Do you really want to go for seven?"

I sighed, "Madison, I've told you before. This is going to end right now."

She smiled, flipping her heels off, showcasing her perfect feet and her pink toenails, and rested them on my desk. "Oh, my dear Professor, I agree with you, this is indeed going to end right here and now."

"Good," I responded, relieved that she finally realized I wouldn't be playing her game.

"You really don't catch on, do you?" she asked, shaking her head sadly.

This pretentious bitch was really beginning to piss me off. I replied, my words topped up to the brim with sarcasm, "Oh, don't I? Do tell."

Her smile faded. "Oh dear. I don't recommend you use sarcasm with me, Felicia. You won't enjoy the results."

I noticed her using my given name. Just one more level of disrespect added to the plethora she'd already given me.

I sighed again, "Please, just leave."

Ignoring me, she began, "Do you know that I've been doing some research, and have concluded that the Negro race was better off before the end of slavery, the Civil Rights movement and Affirmative Action?"

I sat down in the visitor's chair and asked, "And how do you propose to defend such a preposterous allegation?"

"Well we could look at the higher rates of STDs and AIDS among blacks; among black females in particular here in America, but also in Africa, for example. All of these statistics I recall, you yourself have presented to us at some point."

On the defensive, I argued, "Yes, that's true. But the point was that blacks have had a far more difficult time breaking out of poverty because of the institutionalized social and cultural legacies of slavery and white colonialism."

"And black women and girls advanced from being raped slaves and colonial subjects, all the way up to the exalted state of becoming ghetto gutter sluts and nigga hoes," she stated harshly, before adding, "While black men and boys thugged on their so-called brothers and pimped out their so-called sisters. Her tone then changed dramatically, like she was speaking the gospel truth. "America and Africa since the 1960s. 'Free at last. Thank God Almighty, free at last!'" Her acidic, sarcastic quoting of Dr. Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech was particularly searing.

My voice rose slightly. "Th-th-that w-was not the p-p-point at all..." I sputtered, my head too cluttered with rage and astonishment at her impromptu speech to think or respond at all articulately.

"Or, one could perceive it as one more example of the black race's self-destructive tendencies and of those cultural-sexual patterns and trends that have always existed. In fact, in terms of the degrading and harmful effects on blacks and whites and on society generally, a very persuasive argument could be made that overall, blacks were better off before all this equality crap ever drew breath," she rather casually, but confidently, pointed out.

I opened my mouth and flapped my thick, parched lips, but nothing came out. I felt like a befuddled, dim-witted child.

Madison continued, "Thus I have concluded that both blacks and whites were better off during slavery and Jim Crow, and that Africa was better off under white colonial rule... which leads us to you." Her manner had shifted from didactic to flirtatious.

"M-m-me?" I stammered stupidly.

She stood up and stalked towards me, then loomed above me, "An argument can be made that blacks need whites to dominate and control them for their own good. Just like children need parents to discipline and punish them and tell them what to do for their own good, and just like pets need their human masters to train and discipline them for their own good."

Her hand touched my shoulder and I was mortified when her touch sent a chill down my back going directly to my special place. I tried to ignore the tingle, to fight the temptation to stoke the fire, my head spinning out of control.

When I didn't respond, she continued, "So you see, you blacks are thus naturally more animalistic, more primitive and primal, and better in touch with your animal nature. Basically you're driven by sex, with fewer moral boundaries. While we whites on the other hand are more intellectually developed, more civilized, and thus more successful. It's well-established cultural history, quite frankly, based upon strongly established patterns of superiority and inferiority: academic test scores, plus educational and occupational achievement. In the end it's all biological, genetic and evolutionary." Her hands squeezed my shoulders possessively before she returned to my desk and my chair.

By this point in our one-sided conversation I was greatly intimidated by this white coed. Her theory, such as it was, was the same one that had been the driving force behind my own repression and propriety for all these years. I knew my personal history very well. I'd long known that if I allowed my sexual desires to control me, like so many of my ancestors had done, I'd never be able to break past all those generations of stereotypes. This fear had kept me shackled to a life of straight and narrow, one where I'd strenuously resisted any temptation that might put me at risk of releasing the sexual deviant I knew lurked deep inside me. Just ask my two ex-husbands how sexually open I'd been with them. But here today in my office, all the self-control I'd thought I'd gained during those years of resistance, during all those years of precariously holding myself above such weakness, was crumbling before my eyes.

I still hadn't spoken, so Madison continued her philosophical assessment of my race and thus of me personally. "You see Felicia, such sexual desires cannot be eliminated. Oh sure, they can be channelled, contained and restrained... kept caged, so to speak. But they can never be caged forever and you, my reluctant submissive, need to break out of your cage because of... again the phrase, for your own good. You need to break free from the invisible shackles that have held you back for too many years from experiencing the pleasure, I am guessing, you've frequently felt during this past week."

Her stocking-covered feet had returned to my desk and I couldn't believe how badly I wanted to touch them. To bow down to them. To orally cleanse them. I realized that I'd spent my whole life placing white girls like her on a pedestal. Like it or not, I'd viewed them as prettier than and superior to me, as my betters in almost every respect. Thus, I'd spent years trying to emulate their success by becoming like them in every way possible. Yet at this moment, I no longer wanted to be like them as equals, but rather I wanted to become the black slave who always obeyed her Master and Mistress. Right now I tried to stop such thoughts from taking root within my head, within my educated brain, within my proud soul. Yet, with every knifelike word Madison stabbed into my heart, with my every longing glance at her perfect white skin, I was weakening.

"Tell me honestly, Felicia. Have you not at least once touched yourself while thinking of submitting to me?"

I lied, acting all dignified, "I have not."

Her smile faded, her tone darkening, "Don't lie to me, Felicia. I can always tell by your face when you're lying to me."

"I'm not lying," I argued, although my protestation was far weaker than I'd intended it to be. I could tell I was on my last legs.

"Bullshit," Madison responded, calling my bluff, "I can also tell by the defensive look in your eyes that you're lying to me."

Humiliated, I began stumbling to my feet, attempting to stand up to leave, to escape, but she darted forward, grabbed my wrist and told me sternly, "We are not done here. Sit back down, Felicia."

Flashbacks to my childhood and to my Mother's stern voice came pouring back, and I sat down obediently, but still avoided eye contact with her.

"So... I'll ask you one more time, and if you lie to me again, I'll add yet another punishment to your already long list of disobedience penances. Have you masturbated while thinking about me?"

Just wanting this standoff to end one way or another and my wetness down below betraying me completely, I admitted, although only in a mumble, "Yes. Yes, I have."

"Good girl," she praised me like I was her six-year-old child who'd just spelled a difficult word. "See? Was that so hard?"

I didn't say anything, my mind terrified at what might come out of my mouth next. My vagina was itching to be touched, and I had to use every ounce of will-power not to act on my burning desire.

"Are you horny right now?" Madison asked, her tone saying she already knew the answer.

I snapped out another desperate lie, "No."

She chuckled, "Still lying to your future Mistress."

"You're not my future Mistress," I protested, but I was so not even believing myself.

I assumed she was smiling, but I didn't dare to look up to find out. "You're right," she agreed, surprising me.

I next surprised myself with the wave of disappointment filling me. After all this, she won't become my Mistress? Ignoring this downer as best I could, I still attempted to be strong, "Of course I am."

She stood up again, walked behind me and placed her soft white hands on my shoulders. "Oh my, Felicia, you're so very tense."

I remained silent.

She began to massage my shoulders gently, my resistance now becoming fragmented. Perhaps I could have mustered the fortitude to continue arguing with her, perhaps not. But now her touch was sending waves of pleasure through my entire body. She'd managed to slip past my defenses and was now melting my resistance from within.

She must have leaned forward, for I felt hot breath on my ear, stimulating further sexual sensations within me. "It's time. You want to submit to me now, don't you Felicia?" Gone was the harsh Mistress, the indomitable slaveholder. At this moment she had become distilled seductiveness, the very essence of enticement.

My heartbeats seemed to echo through the room so loudly I felt I might burst. My head was spinning in so many directions, my years of fighting to become equal to these entitled whites struggling to remain with me. Yet the pleasures I'd experienced during the past week, sordid as they'd been, were also washing away my fortitude and my logic.

Her hot breath on my ear was only making me feel more confused, more distracted, wafting me further away from my comfort zone like it didn't even matter anymore. She whispered, her voice so seductive I felt like helpless prey, like the field mouse who at the last moment hears the sound of the eagle's plummeting wings, "Submit to me, Felicia. Don't fight me, don't fight yourself any longer. I know what you need. You know you want to submit to me. You know you need to give yourself to me entirely. You need to free yourself from this stultifying illusion you've clung to for so long, this illusion of needing to be dignified and proud, your illusory need to resist your sexual temptations. Be who you are. Be your history. Be my..."

She didn't finish.

Her next word, which I was hanging on for like an eager dog waiting for her bone, was interrupted by a knock on the door. The knock was like an endorphin killer, or like being thrown unexpectedly into a cold shower, a harsh wake-up call. I whispered frantically , "Get your shoes on, Ms. Adams." Thankfully she went behind my desk and abided with my request before returning next to me and seating herself in the chair she should have been sitting in all along.

I composed myself as best I could and went to open the door. It was my department's secretary with the agenda for a meeting scheduled to take place in an hour. Although I was flustered, I desperately tried to portray poise and professionalism. She gave me a quizzical look but didn't say anything as she handed me the agenda I'd requested she type up for me. As she closed the door behind herself, I took a deep breath, relieved I hadn't been caught in a more compromising position. Yet, the near disaster was a wake-up call, and I knew it was a warning from above not to submit to Madison.