|The Blood Bather|
Seen from the back, a boy who looked similar to the unformed man was crossing the campus towards the library. And yet much had changed.
Gone was the toque and in its place was a fresh hair cut, his black hair washed and combed neatly to the side, reminiscent of the old superman comics he used to enjoy. He wore a white button down shirt and a pair of wool slacks instead of loose jeans and a grimy T shirt. He still carried too much weight in his middle but his arms where beginning to show some tone as he hefted his backpack, which was also slimmer by several pounds. But it was in his general gait and demeanor that the biggest change had occurred. He walked with his back erect, he was purposeful, there were no more instances of muttering and his oral hygiene was beyond compare. Yessir, much had changed.
Not that Darryl had exactly noticed. It was more of a series of slight suggestions brought about by his new Mistress. At least that was what he liked to call her in private. Or did she suggest it? He couldn't remember. The one thing Darryl was good at was keeping a secret; that much was obvious. For a month he had lived a male fantasy of epic proportions, an every increasing variety of sexual perversions that even his former life of gay porn had barely touched on. Besides, no one would believe that he was having an affair with his professor.
Darryl barely remembered that day in the bathroom at the library but since then his life had done a complete turnaround. Each day was spent in perfect adherence to his Mistress' schedule. He was to wake up at 6am and run on the athletic track until 7am, then shower and eat a breakfast that included protein. By 9am he should be in his first class, or barring that, in the library studying for his next one. Lunch was promptly at the noon hour and also included protein and vegetables. Gone were the junk food and the afternoon powernaps on his laptop. Darryl had not played a video game in a month, it was a miracle. He used his time during the day for assignments and cleaning his room because his evenings were spoken for and this vocation had brought the most change. His Mistress required him in her office by sundown. He was to enter even if she was not present and prepare a small soup, or some thick rich coffee that was native to her part of
Eastern Europe. He would sit and drink these in a
contemplative fashion until she was ready for him. It was in these quiet
moments that he felt most himself, yet it couldn't be farther from the truth.
Never before had he borne so much responsibility and executed so much effectively. He had never been so productive and engaged in his life, ever. When he opened doors, when he spoke in class, when he walked down the street, people took him seriously and no one bumped into him accidentally on purpose to embarrass him. Darryl had hardly looked in a mirror in a month but could tell that his clothes fit him differently. He was no longer fat, but beefy in an attractive way. Yesterday he had caught a woman making eye contact with him while riding on the local bus. He had stared blankly, his face still until she had looked away. This was sometimes how his Mistress looked at him before sex, like she could smell something on him. It was a major turn on.
His Mistress of course was Dr. Elzbeta Nadasdy, his professor in Victorian Studies. She had taken his virginity and given him so much more. His training, if that was the right word, had begun so slowly. He was of course in awe of her, so when she deigned to bring him to her office he was gobsmacked. He stared at her practically open mouthed as she undressed him and threw away his clothes, into a corner. She asked that crawl on his hands and needs across the room to retrieve them. What a sight he must have made, panting and sweating from the heat of ardour and the embarrassment of her scrutiny. But he did and she was well pleased. Instead of dressing she asked that masturbate, sitting right there on the floor, leaning against the far wall as she sat in her office chair, legs crossed. He was literally mortified, in that he thought his flesh might actually die, but the passion that he generated was most satisfactory to Elzbeta. She smiled so charmingly at him he felt like a child that performed well in school and was showing her his card, instead of wiping off the mess with his old t shirt. He was exhausted.
Elzbeta walked over with a glass of red wine and took a sip, her body statuesque in the single lamp that burned over the desk. Then she leaned over and kissed him, chastely, lip to lip, no tongue. He puckered like a fool and into his mouth she spit a small amount of wine. No, not wine, a fluid that was warm from her mouth but tasted of iron. Was it blood? No, it was sweet.
He swallowed and felt a burst of energy, a surge of hormones directed at one spot. He stood for the first time as a man and grabbed the object of his desire, his erection jamming what must have been painfully into her hip but he did not care. Elzbeta encouraging him in a thousand different ways, with her slight laugh, the soft permissible body, her heat and the sound of whispering angels all around that guided him in the deepest recesses of brain to react on a purely sensual level. It was an unstoppable force of thrust and release as banged away at her on the desk. It was a wave that rocked within him, he at the centre at the top and rolling in the bottom, in all parts of it at once. Time for him stopped when he came with a shout of ecstasy and slowly collapsed over her on the desk, supporting his weight with his arms. When it was over he blinked with new found eyes and noted in a very bland and cerebral way that he was in Love with the golden saint that lay beneath him, defiled.