Risk Versus Reward Ch. 12Risk Versus Reward Ch. 12


Author’s Note

Risk Versus Reward is a prequel to Girl Friday and focuses on the story of Karin, the ‘H.R. Lady’ who provided Charlotte’s rather unique interview experience when she was hired. You do not need to read Girl Friday to understand what’s going on in Risk Versus Reward. But if you enjoy this story, Girl Friday should most definitely be on your reading list.

In the last chapter, Karin found herself face-to-face with the woman of her dreams, the woman she thinks of as Miss Spiced Latte. But as so often happens, the ideals of our dreams do not always measure up to reality, and Karin finds herself left as a shivering sobbing mess at the end of her encounter. But will that one night be enough to dampen her enchantment?

I hope you enjoy Karin’s continuing story.


* * * *

Chapter 12: Loveless Fascination

After my experience at the club is it any surprise that I found myself shacking up with Miss Spiced Latte, Doctor Tina Moreau? Well it should be. It certainly was for Desi and for Elena and maybe it was a little bit for me too, and it definitely took some adjustment. But as cold and uncaring as she might seem to be, for whatever reason I found that I was enchanted by her. Perhaps obsessed is a better word, that’s how Desi phrased it, like she has any room to talk with the P.E. teacher from hell fascination she currently held. But Desi assured me that Betty — that’s what she called her pretty much all the time now except during regular class time when she respectfully referred to her as Mistress Nguyen, usually uttered with some degree of difficulty around a riding crop clenched firmly between her teeth — she assured me that Betty was an absolute sweetheart at home. I got the full story during one of our alfresco dining experiences in the garden.

Desi lay on the grass atop Elena’s lab coat with a big fat cheese-eating grin on her face while Elena popped her head up from between Desi’s thighs and smiled from ear to ear. She didn’t even feel the need to ask Desi if she enjoyed it, I don’t think there was any doubt in anybody’s mind as to the level of Elena’s skills and there were certainly no doubts as to her determination. And while those two were busy grinning and making goo-goo eyes at each other, I set about running my tongue over Desi’s face to clean up the mess I had recently gushed all over her cheeks. I figured it was the polite thing to do since she had been nice enough to give me a screamer while I rode her face and enjoyed the tongue show that our mutual girlfriend put on down below. And before you go thinking that Elena was the odd one out, the only participant left without a happy ending, let me tell you that she indeed got hers as well, and it was from one of the faculty.

Word of our lunchtime antics had gotten around and we were almost always attracting a sizable crowd these days, and after a while some of our onlookers decided to take part in the fun. This time around it was our culinary instructor Miss Chowdhury who had done the honors. Maybe it was a signal that the staff approved of full-time submissives mixing with the lab coat brigade, or maybe was just that Miss Chowdhury was already three sheets to the wind with zero inhibitions to hold her back — it was past morning cocktails for her after all. Whatever Miss Chowdhury’s reasons, she ended up cheering us on right up close and personal while sliding her middle finger in and out of Elena’s ass with varying speeds and intensity.

And yes, she was nice enough to moisten it first. I watched a long string of saliva drop from her mouth to land between Elena’s cheeks before Miss Chowdhury barged her way in through the backdoor. I briefly wondered what the alcohol content of that saliva was, but after seeing the way Elena was quivering and panting I didn’t think it was all that important. I’m pretty sure I witnessed her having an orgasm from that finger plunged in her ass, and the only thought on my mind during and after was wondering why Elena had chosen the lab-coat brigade when she was obviously so well suited for what Desi and I were studying.

“Oh my god, Elena,” Desi heaved, “you should seriously reconsider your options. Maybe I could ask Betty to talk to somebody on the staff and get you into the full-time program. Or better yet, Karin here could talk to her keeper. I hear she’s pretty high up on the food chain.”

My keeper. That’s what Desi called Doctor Moreau when she was feeling sarcastic, or when all of her polite restraint had abandoned her after a particularly earth-shattering orgasm. It was definitely a case of the latter this time around.

“She’s not that bad,” I said, “just a little distant at times.”

“At times?” Desi said. “When’s the last time she slept with you Karin? And having her sneak into your room to fuck you senseless and leave you in a sweaty heap doesn’t count.”

“Isn’t that what your she-devil does, Des? Fuck you until Gaziantep Konak Escort you can’t see straight? Your words honey, not mine.”

“Yeah. But she makes me dinner beforehand and snuggles with me afterward. It’s called give and take Karin, it’s what …”

“Bubalas, please!” Elena barked. “Your bickering kill my afterglow.”

“Sorry baby,” I said and extended my hand to Elena, partly as an offering of apology and partly to encourage her to come up and lie beside Desi.

“I still love you Des,” I said as I lay on the other side, and Elena and I became the two slices of bread in another one of The Academy’s famous Desi sandwiches.

“Much better,” Elena cooed as she too snuggled in.

Our audience had departed as quickly as they had appeared after seeing that the show was over, and that left the three of us there in relative peace to enjoy the warm sun of early afternoon and each others company. And as much as I used to look forward to my evenings at the club, I looked upon the midday dessert rendezvous with even more fondness. It wasn’t just the orgasms either. I mean those were nice, wow were they ever nice, but it was good just to hang out with my friends too. It often made me wonder about the fates of Jordan and even quiet little Shauna. I liked to think of them in a similar situation as us, albeit with a little more clothing, hanging out on the college quad and watching the pretty girls walk by.

“So you did come?” Desi turned her head to face Elena who was still grinning even though her eyes were closed now, apparently drained by the use of her very own superpower of making Desi and me trade our bickering for snuggling.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Small come, but still come. Miss Chowdhury has skilled finger and big anal fetish. I give all her happy endings that way. Through backdoor as you say.”

“Honey, you’re in the wrong line of work,” I said.

“Oh Karin, you flatter me.” Elena’s eyes fluttered open. “But I cannot do this fucking all the time like you and Desi. I need downtime. Put my feet up, watch Downton Abbey on television, rest my tired pussy.”

We all got a good chuckle out of that, Elena’s so eloquently professed need to rejuvenate her genitalia at the end of a long day as well as her continued obsession with British period dramas that aired on the local PBS station, and that pretty well ended our little lunchtime conversation on a high note. The rest of the time was spent with Elena and me wrapped up in Desi’s arms, since she was in the middle, and exchanging the occasional kisses whenever the desire arose. And that gave me plenty of time to close my own eyes and let my thoughts drift — drift back to Desi’s comments about Doctor Moreau, or my keeper as Desi called her.

* * *

After our clandestine rendezvous in the back room of the club I had thought very seriously about taking off her damned diamond-studded collar and having absolutely nothing more to do with her. I mean she practically pulled my nipples off by carelessly yanking on my bells and then fisted me within an inch of my life only to leave me in a sobbing heap on the floor. I didn’t even get a kiss or a snuggle — or a thank-you. So why was it that I was so damned determined to have her as my dominant?

I suppose the blame lies squarely with Walt Disney, and before him Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont, the two people responsible for Beauty and the Beast and the perpetuation of the myth that young women have to put up with cruel and misogynistic bullshit in order to win the affections of a mate. By all rights I should have marched right out the front door of The Academy and never looked back. The scholarship offer had evaporated, but maybe I could have joined Jordan and Shauna at University of Michigan, got some student loans and tried to make it work. But in the end Belle from Beauty and the Beast won out and I decided that I could use my submissive girl superpowers to change Doctor Moreau for the better.

So when the mysterious handwritten note came with really nothing more than an address and a time — no mention of please or I am delighted to request you presence, just an address and a time — I packed up my toothbrush and headed out the front door. I didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye to Desi since she was already in the clutches of Mistress Nguyen, but it’s not like I never saw her again. We still had Lesbian Hogwarts.

I continued going to my classes at The Academy during the day, and there was the requisite calisthenics ritual every morning before breakfast, it was just done by myself now and in my own room. Yeah, my own room. Desi was right, I didn’t even get the pleasure of sleeping with Miss Spiced Latte. She still barged in uninvited to fuck me whenever she was in the mood, but honestly it wasn’t all that often and it wasn’t that great either. Usually it was when she had a particularly stressful day at the office, just like dominant lady in the orientation videos. Except even after summoning all my submissive girl superpowers I couldn’t quite seem to put the same contented smile on her face. I did everything I was supposed to, I fetched her wine when she got home — and later on martinis — I cooked healthy homemade dinners for her and I even tried my hand at pleasuring her in her evening bath. But it wasn’t shaping up like the videos at all. Belle had yet to change the heart of the Beast.

Most days I felt like a 1950s television housewife, cooking and cleaning, fetching slippers. OK, maybe slippers was a bit of an exaggeration since Doctor Moreau preferred ankle socks to keep her toes warm rather than the traditional slippers, but the idea was the same. I was turning into the modern day equivalent of June Cleaver, except without the house dress and without the annoying neighbor kids showing up all the time, thank goodness.

Still though, it was just about that dull and uninspiring and the only reason I stuck around rather than packing up my toothbrush and tossing my name back into the dating pool was because of Doctor Moreau’s experiments. She always conducted them in a white lab coat embroidered with Doctor Moreau in red letters just above the pocket of the left breast, and as far as I knew she never wore anything under that coat. I used to dream that one day the lab coat would fall open, revealing her beautiful mocha flesh and dusky nipples as she cupped her breasts one at a time, offering them to me to suckle as I lay strapped to her chair. But that only happened in my fantasies and it was mostly just a case of the cold sweats that I felt whenever the lab coat went on.

Apparently her great, great — I’m not sure how many times great — grandfather had done some pretty wacky, and probably ethically-suspect biological experiments back in the day. Well the old apple doesn’t fall far from the tree as the saying goes, and Doctor Tina Moreau had some crazy experiments of her own lined up, except hers were mostly psychological in keeping with her field of study and always seemed to be performed on the student body — specifically my student body.

But in all honesty, as nervous as it made me, being her personal guinea pig was the best part. The good doctor had this device that she must have had custom made since I had never seen anything quite like it, nor have my internet searches ever turned up any information about it. The device was in the shape of an egg and was clad with metal in two halves separated by a thin strip of insulating plastic, and it had a bundle of wires as thick as my pinky protruding from one end of the long axis. Doctor Moreau said it recorded my level of arousal by measuring the electrical conductivity of my vaginal secretions. All I knew was that the metal construction sure made it cold going in.

Doctor Moreau always started the experiments by strapping me into this weird adjustable chair thing kind of like what dentists have in the office, only with stirrups that she would bind my feet to. And once she had me immobilized, only then would she begin unceremoniously shoving that metal egg thing up inside me. It was big and she never lubed it saying that it would only interfere with the readings, so it was a bit of a struggle most times. Though lately I began to get wet from the moment she pulled it into view and my perversion disturbed me a little. But I figure that was due to the fact that Doctor Moreau would usually start the egg vibrating for a few minutes to record what she called a baseline reading of my biological responses from the device. I translated that as seeing how turned on I was by measuring how wet I got.

That was always quite pleasant, though what generally followed was not. She said that her goal was to elicit a Pavlovian pleasure response to unpleasant stimuli in order to create the perfect submissive, at least that’s what I thought I heard her say. All I knew was that she would torment me for a while before she used that vibrating device and sometimes her own fingers to make me come like a fucking rocket. So that’s why I stayed in her strange house stuck in the 1950s, not for the hours of torment in her mad scientist lair, but for the mind-bending orgasms that followed.

Today was going to be a good one too. Doctor Moreau was conducting the same experiment she had been running for the past several days that involved the vibrating pussy juice conductivity tester and a wicked plastic drinking straw. How wicked can a plastic straw be? Let me tell you. This was not a simple disposable plastic drinking straw, it was much more robust than that, and bent into a crazy squiggly shape. I believe it’s what kids called a silly straw or something like that, silly because whatever you’re drinking has to go through all these crazy twists and turns before it gets to your mouth.

But it really didn’t matter, because neither of us had ever taken a drink from the thing, nor did I think it was particularly silly after the first couple times. The silly straw’s use was simply to cause me pain — or unpleasant stimuli to use a Doctor Moreau euphemism — so that she could measure my response by recording the electrical properties of my vaginal secretions. Translated into layman’s terms it meant that she would hold one end of the straw to my skin and pull back on the other until I thought it should have snapped in half. She would hold it there for a second or two, to do a quick check of her instruments or to give me time to fret over what was coming my way, I’m not sure which. And when she let loose — and let me tell you, I will never look at those damn loopy straw things the same way again.

She had the straw pressed up against my thigh as always, and she had managed to find a relatively unspoiled patch of skin to rest it on. Doctor Moreau held one end firmly against my skin while she pulled the other end back a couple inches, preparing to let it snap back against my tender flesh. Now you wouldn’t think that a straw could do much in terms of delivering pain, but believe me that would be a mistake.

The silly straw is quite capable of making me cry out and has on more than one occasion as it delivers a sharp searing pain that lasts for several minutes past the initial snapping blow. So as she held the straw in place I was not at all surprised that the pace of my breathing was rapid and shallow, and that my thighs were beginning to quake before she even drew back on it. But in addition to that I felt something else, something between my legs, something deep inside my core that by all rights should not have been there. I felt a perverse twinge of anticipation and a rapidly building moisture as I waited for the inevitable blow to land. I was getting turned on just waiting for her to snap me.

Doctor Moreau looked up from her instrument panel and smiled. “I’d say you’re half way to an orgasm and we haven’t even started yet. What do you think about that, Kitten?”

“Yes, Miss. I’m feeling — I don’t know exactly what I’m feeling — I’m feeling scared, but a little excited too. Is that what’s supposed to happen?”

Doctor Moreau loved it when I showed interest in her work, and asking questions about it never got me in any kind of trouble. In fact it almost always resulted in quite the opposite, and right now the good doctor had relaxed the tension in the drinking straw and was instead absentmindedly brushing her index finger along and between my dripping swollen folds. This is what I had signed up for, this little span of time in which my anticipation built while my dominant showed me gentleness and caring before fucking me into oblivion. The only problem was that with the doctor, these tender moments really only ever existed in the laboratory and that saddened me a little. I knew she would eventually get her mind back on her experiment, but for now I was set on enjoying the pleasant ministrations of her finger. So pleasant.

“Ow, fu–.” I bit down on my lip as I almost let that one escape. Doctor Moreau prefers that I bear the unpleasant parts of her experiments in silence, or at least not swearing like a sailor, but she surprised me with that snap and it hurt. But now she was back to gently stroking my pussy, which let me tell you was leaking way more than I would care to admit. Though Doctor Moreau seemed rather cavalier about my current state and I’m sure that the smile crossing her lips had more to do with the instrument readings she seemed intent on studying rather than my feelings of pleasure all swirled up and mixed with the sharp pain from the plastic drinking straw.

“Very good Kitten,” she cooed, “you’re learning.” And with the tenderness of an adoring mother, Doctor Moreau laid her palm against my forehead and smiled before pushing a sweat-soaked clump of my hair aside with her index finger. “I was going to wait for our next session to ramp up the experiment again, but I think you’re ready now.”

I swallowed hard at the mention of ramping it up. What the hell did that mean? I thought about how we had started the experiments with Doctor Moreau raking her nails over my naked flesh to elicit a reaction from me, causing the needles on her instruments to quiver and jump. That made today’s session with all the red marks from that damnable silly straw look absolutely tame in comparison, and I quickly came to the conclusion that ramping it up held nothing good for the girl strapped to the chair.

“Miss,” I said. “Miss, could we take a break? Maybe I could have some water? Please Miss?”

And then the doctor reached into her pocket for something, but it wasn’t water. She didn’t pull her hand out right away either, and that’s when it dawned on me that the only real pocket on her lab coat was the one on her left breast, just below where her name was embroidered in red letters. The other pockets, the ones on the sides at hip level, I think those were just for show. I’m guessing that they were only slits in the fabric, or if they had started as pockets that she had cut the bottoms out of them so that her fingers could slide all the way through — all the way through so that she could touch herself.

Bir yanıt yazın

E-posta adresiniz yayınlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir