Thursday, September 8, 2011

The Placement of Modifiers

What sexual adventure would I like to have that I haven't had before? Actually, there are several.

The possiblility of being Domme-for-a-Day (or a few hours)intrigues me. This doesn't mean I am the stuff of which scary Mistresses in 7-inch heels, leather corsets and an arsenal of accoutrements are made. Sorry, that's not me. At least not in real life.

However, my fantasy alter ego, Dr. Athena Chalkdust, gets to do outrageous things to consenting students and other interested bystanders who secretly need discipline. The consent is what makes it all so juicy. In real life, the actual power that university profs/instructors have over their students makes fully consensual sexual relations (or physical contact of any kind) between them very dubious, and that's why there are rules against that sort of abuse. I fully support the rules in real life. Fantasy, however, is a whole other world.

My first Dr. Athena story, "Splitting the Infinitive," appeared in Best Lesbian Erotica 2001 and Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (if you follow this), Volume 2, both from Cleis Press.

My second Dr. Athena story (a memoir of her introduction to BDSM as a submissive), "My Debut as a Slut," appeared in Best Lesbian Erotica 2005.

My third Dr. Athena story, "The Placement of Modifiers," appeared in Best Lesbian Erotica 2009. In this story, Dr. Athena is trying to have a quiet drink in the one gay/lesbian/bi/trans bar in town (she is a major shareholder) when a dyke with no manners or understanding of sentence construction tries to get a reaction out of her by being confrontational. Here Dr. Athena describes her response, for which the dyke is ultimately grateful.


“You feel good,” she snickers into my hair. “I know your type, honey. You like to go slumming with dykes because we’re the only ones who can get you off. Then you go back to your safe middle-class neighborhood and pretend you don’t know us if you see us on the street.”

She doesn’t miss a beat, and neither do I. “Bernie,” I coo back. “You still don’t even know my first name. And you won’t unless you learn a few other things first.” The song ends, and I pull her by the hand to a relatively private corner.

“Were you planning to invite me to go somewhere with you?” I am still grinning.

“My truck’s in the parking lot, babe,” she grins back. “It’s really comfortable. Some of the whores who work the truck stops don’t mind going with women like me, and they like what I do for them. I bet you wouldn’t give them the time of day, but a bitch in heat is a bitch in heat.” She pinches one of my nipples, running her other hand down my back.

I laugh and step out her reach. “Ah. No one could dispute it. But there’s a question of trust here, Bernie. I’m sure your paid companions never exaggerate your value to them because they need your money. And I do enjoy your company, although you really don’t seem to know why. Unfortunately, I’m not tempted by your hospitality. Your rudeness is neither sexy nor admirable, and it makes you seem untrustworthy, not a quality you want to flaunt if you’re trying to pick up a bitch like me.”

I sigh. “I’m not going to leave this building with you. But there is a room upstairs where we can be alone. After we take our leave of your friends and mine, of course. Would you like me to give you a tour of the place?”

Bernie tries so hard to affect boredom that she is amusing to watch. “Sure, why not? It’s a bar, babe, not the fuckin museum, but if you want me to go upstairs with you, let’s go.”


The whole bar feels as drenched in lust as the worn carpet is drenched in beer and the ashes of cigarettes which are now excitingly illegal if smoked indoors. For the sake of her self-image as a gift for bitches in heat, Bernie seems determined to regain some control of the situation. She probably imagines my cunt as a lonely pit of yearning for her psychic dick or something more tangible. I am almost moved to compassion when I think about the surprises in store for her.

We are at the foot of the creaky wooden stairs that lead to the dimly-lit second floor, the setting of many titillating rumors. “Go ahead, honey,” Bernie tells me, seizing both my lower cheeks and giving them a slight push.

“Of course,” I tell her over my shoulder. “I have surer footing on these stairs.” I exaggerate the sway of my hips as I climb the steps ahead of her, giving her the show she obviously wants.

I unlock the door of a large room with soundproofed walls. I have abandoned the pretense that I am going to show her every corner of this venerable building, which is allegedly haunted by an older generation of deceased gay men and a few legendary dykes who were the founding parents of the organized queer community in this town. I’m sure that Bernie’s vibes would offend some of the spirits here.

Peace, I tell the ancestors in my mind, suspecting that they can hear my thoughts. Respect can be learned.

The room is only lit by the lights from outside. Bernie grabs me in a crude bear-hug, reaching for my mouth with hers, while I struggle to squirm out of her grip so that I can turn on the lights. “Light,” I tell her, hoping that a one-word command will penetrate the mental static of her rising hunger.

“We don’t need it, honey.” She holds me to her armored chest. She tries to grab one of my ass-cheeks with one hand while holding me with the other, and this weakens her hold on me enough to enable me to raise one foot, clad in a narrow-heeled shoe, and stomp her toes through her threadbare running shoe.

“Aw, shit!” she gasps. “That hurt, bitch. You really wanta play rough?”

I turn on the wall-lights, a stately set of Victorian sconces holding yellow light bulbs. “Bernie, would you like me to fetch the bouncer up here? If I do, our little tryst will be over.”

“Well, don’t step on me with your stupid heels any more.”

I decide to grant her that; after all, my heels have a steel core which can punch holes in hardwood when I’m not minding my step. And there are so many other simple but effective devices that I can use to make an impression on her.

“I’ll show you something, Bernie. Before we do anything else, I want you to see the view from the window. There’s something out there that you can only see from close up.”

In front of the window is a large oak desk. The chair that matches it has been pushed to the side. She walks uncertainly up to the desk, apparently not noticing the padded cuffs that are permanently attached to the back of it. Or else she assumes they are not meant for her.

“You can lean right over the desk,” I encourage her, “then look down.” I am cheered by her obedience as I enjoy the sight of her fleshy butt in tight denim, projecting toward me as she almost lies on the desk, peering into the darkness. I quickly grab her right wrist and fasten a cuff around it before she can pull it away.

“Oh, ha-ha,” she sneers. “You want to tie me down and make me yours?”

“Yes.” I am pleased by her understanding. “I’ll release you if you want, but in that case, we’ll be returning downstairs and you won’t get any relief. Unless you get it from someone else.”

Bernie tugs at the cuff, and seems shaken when it doesn’t budge. In her current position, she can’t get a firm foothold on the floor. I can see her awareness of her vulnerability gradually spreading through her mind like the light of dawn chasing away the darkness. To be safe, I stand well away from her feet.

“Uh, you’re not really into this bondage stuff are you, professor?” She racks her brain for a way to persuade me to let her go. “This is kinda stupid when you think about it. What do you think I can do for ya if I’m stuck here?”

“Quite a bit, my dear. I’m waiting for your answer. Are you willing to take what I’m more than willing to give you, or would you like to call it off?”

(To find out what happens next, you have to read the rest of the story. Hint: it involves a 3-inch length of fresh, peeled ginger. And that's just the beginning.)


  1. Ah, Jean!

    You're quite right, it's the consent that makes D/s so exquisite. The sub can't get out of admitting that she wants to be dominated.

    And I've got to read this story. Ginger figs are definitely up there on my "never done" fantasy list. I'm really not sure which of Susie's three categories they fall into, though!


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