Sex Education #powerplay #teacherstudent

I've been pretty open for the past year or so that I not only write as Willsin Rowe, but also as Abi Aiken. (Heck, I have three other pen names, too, but I keep those close to my chest).

And while I had a couple of solo titles out as Abi, right now I only have co-written titles out. Among those titles (all written with the lovely Rozlyn Sparks, which is the pen name of my even lovelier friend, Katie Salidas) are two trilogies. These trilogies both deal with different types of power play. The first one, Consummate Therapy, is the story of a stressed out female billionaire who's exhausted all means of mainstream therapy in trying to deal with her career-based anxiety. Her doctor ends up sending her for "Submission Therapy", where she gets taught, over the course of the three titles, the benefits of being able to let go. To allow others to do their jobs without her micromanagement. And in effect, to know her place.

But it's the other trilogy I'm focusing on today. It's called "Sex Education", and is a fun little romp between a flighty college student, Chelsea Hopkins, and her favorite teacher, Professor Blake. Again, it's a form of power-play, but while there is a D/s vibe to the stories, for me the kernel of the relationship is Blake's ability to draw her focus, to distract her from her mild self-harming tendencies... and to know that her place is in fact far more elevated than she feels.

As I was searching for an excerpt, I found myself drawn back into the banter and the voice of our main character. I feel she exudes an identifiably human weakness, as well as an internal steel she's reluctant to acknowledge. For those of us with Y-chromosomes she also pulls at several strings... not just the one between our legs. She awakens the very male desire to protect and even nurture. Sure, Professor Blake might force a cold shower on her as a form of nurture... but men and women tend to nurture in different fashions anyway! Heh.

* * * *

Excerpt from "Extra Classes" (book 3 in the Sex Education trilogy)
by Abi Aiken & Rozlyn Sparks

She glanced over the list of classes and nodded as she saw each grade. Mostly C’s a few B’s, pretty well par for the course for her. Passing was all that really mattered to Chelsea, and she’d done enough in every class to scrape through.

And then one grade in particular slapped her in the face and sent a shower of icicles through her blood.
Hands shaking with rage, Chelsea nearly crumpled the paper she’d just printed. How could he? Her heart was a war drum setting the pace as she stormed out of the building on her way to Professor Blake’s lecture hall. 

Rage made her deaf to her surroundings, and tears blinded her. This wasn’t the plan. Today was supposed to mark an end to the secrets. It was supposed to be the first day of the rest of her fucking life. This wasn’t how it was meant to play out at all. She gripped the treacherous scrap of paper in her fist as if it had a life she could squeeze out of it.

Even in heels she managed to almost sprint up the short flight of stairs and into the brownstone building without a single stumble. As she made plans get to the bottom of this—and quickly—she couldn’t help but think on how anger suddenly gave her mind the focus it always lacked. Well, not always. Professor Blake had tapped all kinds of reserves inside her. Which just made this betrayal sting even more. 

The lecture hall was empty, thankfully, because after cooling her heels in that cattle call of students she had no patience left. In through the hall and down the steps, her heels clip-clopping the whole way like a pantomime donkey, she found the door to his private office and threw it open. 

“You failed me!” Okay, so it would have been kind of smart to see if he was truly alone before screaming her accusation out at the top of her lungs, but smart had left the building. Chelsea still struggled with the whole concept of self-control. It seemed to be something which happened to other people, not her.

For all the noise and bluster of her entrance, Professor Blake seemed utterly unmoved. He simply sighed and finished writing in his notepad before looking up to meet the angry glare of his student and lover. “Sit down, please, Miss Hopkins.”

“I will not.” Her voice sounded almost alien to her, the words squeezing out of the tiny spaces between her gritted teeth. “We were supposed to be celebrating tonight. We were finally going to be able to acknowledge our relationship.” She held out the mangled page, pointing the end of it at him as if it were a dagger. “And you failed me!”

Professor Blake adjusted the glasses up on his nose and fixed Chelsea with a look so cold and calm that the heat of her anger cooled in an instant. His eyes told her wordlessly she’d crossed a line. She wracked her brain to remember anything he’d said to her that she could have somehow misunderstood.

Before opening his mouth, Professor Blake turned to his file cabinet and selected a folder. He eased it open and glanced at the contents for a moment before speaking.

“Whatever I may be in the privacy of my own home Miss Hopkins—and whatever personal relationship we may have—is secondary in importance to our professional conduct when we are on school grounds. This is an institute of higher learning. It is not a meeting place or a social club. And though your pouting behavior might give lie to the statement, this is not high school. Here, we cease to be lovers, confidantes, even friends. We are here for the furthering of education. Your education. The amount you pay for this privilege should give you pause.” He tossed the file in front of her. “And this mockery of an examination result should fill you with shame. You have spat on all your good work, and more cuttingly, on all of mine, as well.”

The file landed open and her final test lay on top, unfinished. Barely even a mark on it besides her name. If memory served, it had been a bad day. One of what she thought of as her insect sessions, where she was buzzing from thought to thought with nothing really to land on. In truth, she really hadn’t wanted to take the test. Professor Blake had been riding her hard—in class and in bed—preparing her for that test. The pressure had built up in her head so much she froze when the moment arrived. Of course, that was no excuse. But the brat in her had told her she could use her sweet young pussy to get away with it.

Clearly her inner brat was an idiot.

After giving her a moment to take in the document, he scooped it up and slid it back into the folder, clapping it shut so sharply it felt almost as if he’d slapped her. “I do not even know at the moment where to begin.”

He turned crisply and shoved the folder back into the cabinet. It was maybe the first time Chelsea had ever seen his actions driven by anger.

“You have disappointed me beyond words, Miss Hopkins. And your actions leave me disappointed with myself for all the leniencies I have granted you.”

“Leniencies?” Chelsea felt her eyes gaping along with her mouth. “What leniencies? You ignored me for the past week, except to single me out in front of everyone for any tiny mistake I made. You loaded me up with all sorts of shitty mumbo-jumbo and called it advanced reading.”

“Miss Hopkins…” His voice once again crackled with warning, but Chelsea was on a roll.

“And you’ve taken up so much of my time with your fucking sex games. That’s why I failed. I had no time to sleep, let alone study.”

He whirled to face her again, his blue eyes bright and sharp. “Miss Hopkins, you will hold your tongue. I demanded of you nothing which you were unable to handle, nor unwilling to give. Either in work or in… play. You have repaid my efforts with tardiness, bratty behavior, and an arrogant disregard which borders on professional suicide.”

Tears burst from Chelsea’s eyes as she took in the blunt force of his disappointment. She wished she’d taken the seat when he offered it. Her knees were suddenly on the verge of failing her, but to sit down now would feel like yet another loss.

“Miss Hopkins, I presented you a golden opportunity to excel. As has so often been the case throughout your life, it is your attitude which has been found wanting.”

He paused as he lowered himself into his leather chair. And then hit her with the hardest blow in his arsenal.

“I feel we need to take some time apart and reevaluate our situation.” 

It couldn’t have hurt more if the blow had been physical. She wanted to scream the word, no, but her throat was too dry to speak. Her mouth, however, gaped open. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. It was only one lousy test.

One test that made up the majority of her semester grade. God, she was so stupid. Had she really thought her skills in the bedroom would let her coast through? Had she been thinking at all?

“Now, if you please, I shall need you to take your leave. Some of your classmates made at least a token effort, and I have appointments to see several of them and discuss the futures they saw fit to strive for.” Professor Blake’s eyes returned to the notepad on his desk and he picked up his pen as if this conversation had no effect on him. Even his hand was rock steady as he made notes on the test papers.

Sometimes Chelsea wondered if he was part machine. His emotional control was so complete at times it was hard to believe he was the same man who could bring her to a roaring climax with only his tongue.

The world had gone numb for a moment, and Chelsea wasn’t sure how to act, what to do, where to go… and whether any of those mattered at all to him anymore.

“I–I can do better.” She summoned up all the voice she could and still only managed a mumble. 

“It is my awareness of that very fact which makes your result so disheartening, Miss Hopkins. Now if you please, I’m busy. Go home.”

Push And Pull

Under my Abi Aiken name, I co-wrote (with Rozlyn Sparks) a trilogy of BDSM Billionaire stories. I’ve mentioned those before on here, I believe. “Submission Therapy”, “Occupational Therapy”, and “Immersion Therapy”. The Aiken & Sparks team also co-wrote a trilogy of professor/student power-play stories, the “Sex Education” series.

Those were both a lot of fun, and it was through the writing of those six stories I came to realize what it is I like about the sexual kind of power play. It’s the mental side of it.

So many jokes are made in mainstream culture about “whips and chains” and “spank me, I’m a bad girl/boy”. That’s all well and good, but of course it’s working with uninformed clichés, and based only on what folks see in passing. And for me, there is an undeniable physical beauty in shibari, for example, but it’s not something I particularly need or want in my life or in my stories.

No, for me, the greatest thrill in power play is the mind game, paired with intimate physical contact. I tend not to write too many toys, tools or accoutrements with any power based stories. When I write them, my focus is almost exclusively on male dominance and female submission (though there is at least one exception), and I truly do envision it much like the creation of art.

My canvas is the skin of her body. My brushes are the hands of her Master. And my inspiration is the meeting of their minds and needs.

Once again in a co-writing situation, I have two short, sharp stories out in a series called Stolen Moments. I’m writing these with the sexy Sassie Lewis, who not only is a dream to work with, she’s also a hottie who I get to see in the flesh almost every week. Sometimes several times. 

These stories almost qualify as free-writing. They’re done in two voices (his and hers), and we write them in to-and-fro sections. Literally. One of us will start the story in a Private Message on Facebook, then the other returns fire. Back and forth, back and forth, and all in one session until the story reaches a conclusion.

These babies come out with no set plan, and usually with no setup. It’s raw storytelling, and the editing process is as short and sharp as the writing. We clean up the mistakes and cut away echoes, and there’s not a lot more to it than that. In fact, we have a third complete story written, but we’ve chosen not to publish it, simply because it was forced in the writing process. The raw naturalness was not there, so the work is not reflective of the series.

The Stolen Moments series are basically as they sound… brief encounters between two characters we choose not to name. Are they the same characters in each story? Are they married? And if so, is it to each other or not? These are all scene-setting elements, and integral to the nature of the stories, but the heart of each story is the power differential between the characters, and the way it comes across.

Again, it’s the mental side of power. The fact these two characters know each other intimately. Beyond simply physical intimacy, they understand each other’s weaknesses and strengths, needs and wants.

She has an innate need to submit. To reach an internal nothingness which then facilitates a physical, mental and emotional release, through orgasm. His power comes through in the way he understands that, and her, so deeply. He revels in his own ability to suppress his base wants and needs in order to draw out the session and heighten the pleasure for them both. For example, though he might desperately want to sink his teeth into the ripe flesh of her nipple, he will instead caress that skin with only his breath. It’s the clear need he implies by withholding which intensifies the moment.

Her power manifests in a different way; through her submission. Using that previous example, it will be the way she angles her body to bring his entire focus onto the stiff flesh of her nipple. Placing the temptation before him to see if he can resist. That’s one way she will direct a scene, but not the only one.

Essentially, they both want instant gratification. What they need, though, is to take the scene to a far more potent conclusion. And for these two, it can only be done through the push and pull of temptation and resistance.

From "Need", the second story in the Stolen Moments series:

It’s been years since I quit smoking but I still remember what it was like. Those mornings when I’d wake up and light up. The first deep pull on the cigarette would bring my body and mind to life. And it’s like that with her. A kiss is never just a kiss.

She switches from gentle to full force arousal in seconds. The sweet soft caress of her mouth quickly turns to ferocious longing, but for the moment I can't tell who's leading who. All I can feel is the luxury of her gorgeous full-figured body against me. The round solidity of her ass fills my hands, and the ready way she curls those thighs around me as I lift her brings my entire body and soul to life.

The heat of her cunt radiates through the fabric and kisses my cock through my boxer briefs. Damn her. I'm making all the moves, yet she's still fucking driving it. It’s that ancient ballet between the sexes, where she leaves all the right gaps and I fill them like poured water. Everything she does is an invitation. With just her eyes she can pull me from slumber to fully-fledged raging hard-on in a matter of seconds. And with her mouth... oh, god...

She claws my naked back and pulls my hair, and it all hurts but not nearly enough. I need to dive into her, swim across that bountiful flesh, dash myself against every bone in her gorgeous body.

I climb onto my bed, holding her up as I balance on my knees for a moment, before we both crash to the mattress. Her fleshiness is the perfect cushion and my solid weight pushes a sweet moan from inside her.

The first two Stolen Moments books, “Feel” and “Need”, are both available on Amazon, and through Kindle Unlimited.

True Love vs. Trophy Wives

Okay let me start by saying that I really don’t give a rip if two people who are of disparate ages—in either direction—fall in love. Weirder things have happened. It’s hard enough to find love in this world, take it where you find it, hold on with both hands, and don’t let the details bog you down.

Something that does make me roll my eyes on a good day or gag on a bad one—the trophy spouse phenomenon.

This isn’t about love. Trophy spouses are power plays. And yes, since we live in a world where there are still more men in positions of power than women, trophy wives are far more common than trophy husbands. Though Hollywood may be showing us a few of those, and maybe someday the corporate and political worlds will catch up.

I find it incredibly tacky, not to say asinine, when someone reaches the age of forty or fifty and suddenly decided to ditch the spouse who helped them build their career, usually the mother of their grown or nearly grown children, and replaces that spouse with a younger, shinier model. Frequently half their own age, and often, it seems half their IQ. Yes, this is a stereotype, but trophy spouses are often chosen because their intellect is not sufficient to challenge the spouse in power. They deliberately choose someone attractive, dim and usually the age of their first round of children. The original spouse is frequently shafted in the divorce because they have given up so much of their own time and identity to helping build their spouse’s career that they’ve set aside nothing for themselves.

This is a mid-life gesture to say, “I’ve still got it. I have the best car, the best house, the hottest spouse, and that makes me better than you.” Like I said up front. It's not about love. It's a power play, pure and simple.

Pathetic. And frequently a short-term solution at best. Soon the trophy spouse starts to age. Of course by then our serial jerk-off usually has a nice sound pre-nup in place. And the whole process begins again…