A Story of Student Love, or How I Became Anya's Slave
Copyright© 2026 by Asmodeus_de_Valle
Chapter 1: The Beginning
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Beginning - A FemDom story about a student who falls in love with his class representative.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Blackmail Coercion Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Sharing BDSM DomSub FemaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Spanking Group Sex Orgy Anal Sex Analingus Enema Foot Fetish
Section 1.1
I was an A student. Not a total nerd who spent all his time studying and saw getting a B as a personal tragedy. In a way, I had the mindset of a C-student who knew how to wriggle out of tight spots, though if you looked at it differently, I was a solid B student who just happened to pull off A’s. Either way, it didn’t really matter. What did matter for this story was that I kept getting top marks (with the occasional B), which meant I could let people copy my work or even explain a confusing part of the curriculum. That was the sole reason why Anya, our group monitor, ended up sitting next to me at the same desk.
Anya was the kind of student they say: “is in the WMS Department — Where Mom Shoved her”. Her admission to university was entirely her parents’ initiative; in fact, they were the ones who picked a chemistry major for her—a field entirely foreign to her. At first, she tried to get into it, but chemistry came to her about as naturally as rock climbing to a fish. So by her sophomore year, Anya hardly studied at all, yet she kept getting straight A’s thanks to her involvement in student council activities and copying off me. And everyone was fine with that arrangement—until our group moved into our junior year.
The third-year curriculum brought physical and colloid chemistry, as well as analytical chemistry. These subjects were taught by a family friend of Anya’s. Back when we were still sophomores, he’d bumped into her on campus and said, “I’ll be teaching your class next year. You’ll get straight A’s, but your parents will know your real grades.” Now, Anya had a deal with her parents: she’d get a monthly allowance of $5,000 if she kept straight A’s with no more than three B’s, and $3,500 if she maintained a B average. Yes, you heard that right—she received an amount from her parents that was noticeably higher than the average salary in our town.
So, heading into our third year, girl was forced to take two subjects seriously just to pull off decent B’s on her own merit. Because of this, we started staying late after classes, hanging out in the student council office where I’d walk her through the material.
Anya was a rather attractive girl—she had thick brown hair, stood fairly tall, and was comfortably curvy. Not overweight by any means, but, as the saying goes, “she had something to hold onto.” Over two years of studying side by side, I’d developed feelings for her, so I never minded when she asked for help.
One day, our conversation turned to history—a course we were also taking, and another one Anya struggled with. Somehow, our discussion unexpectedly drifted from enthalpy to the succession crisis of Queen Anne.
“Before her, queens never ruled England; succession was strictly through the male line,” I explained. “So even though the decision for Anne to become queen was made during her predecessor’s reign, many people disputed her claim after William died.”
“Why?” Anya asked, looking confused.
“Because queens had never ruled England before,” I repeated.
“Yeah, but why?” she pressed.
“That’s just how it was,” I said, unable to find a better explanation.
“But why? Doesn’t it make more sense for women to rule?”
“Um, maybe, but people in the 18th century wouldn’t have agreed.”
“Well, they should have. Women are way smarter than men, and much kinder too. What are you laughing at?”
“Well, you know...”
Realizing what I was about to say, Anya cut me off.
“You’re the only guy in our group who actually studies. And the only reason you have to sit here explaining chemistry to me is my dad, who tried to turn me into a scientist—which totally isn’t my thing.”
“What would you rather be doing then?”
“Politics.”
“Well, having a chemistry degree doesn’t stop you from going into politics.”
“Exactly. As soon as I’m done wasting my time here, I’ll get into proper political work. Don’t laugh, or when I become president, I’ll get my revenge.”
Anya punched me playfully on the shoulder.
“Oh, I’m terrified.”
“You should be. I’ll become president and bring order to everything. But if you kiss my leg right now, I might forgive you for laughing at me.”
“Kiss your leg?” I repeated, taken aback.
“Yes, my leg. Kiss it.”
I looked down at her legs. She was wearing a dress, exposing her lower legs.
“How much longer do I have to wait?” she said in a commanding tone.
I leaned over and kissed her leg just below the knee.
“Lower,” she ordered.
Hesitantly, I gave her leg another kiss, a little lower down.
“Hey, Anya...”
“Yeah?”
“If you become president, do you think I could become the president’s husband?”
“Like ... the First Lady?” Anya chuckled.
“Well, in a way...”
“Is this your way of confessing your feelings to me?”
“Well ... yeah.”
“Are you serious, or are you joking?”
“I’m serious.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Kiss my shoe.”
“What?”
“I want proof that you’re serious.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Well, then you don’t love me. Besides, it’s time for us to go,” she said, getting up from her chair.
“Wait. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it—but only once.”
“Alright then, go ahead. I’m waiting.”
To fulfill her wish, I had to get out of my chair and drop to my knees. But just as my lips touched Anya’s sneakers, she unexpectedly placed her other foot on top of my head.
“Hey!” I protested.
“Don’t move,” Anya replied. “It’s not like I’m pressing down hard. Though I totally could.”
After about fifteen seconds, she lifted her foot off my head.
“What was that about?” I asked, standing up.
“Oh, nothing. Just because.”
“So ... are we dating now?” I asked after a brief hesitation.
“No,” she shot back immediately.
“Why not? I did what you asked.”
“Sure, but was that really a big deal? Is that supposed to be serious? Besides, I need to think about it. Come on, let’s go.”
Section 1.2
The next day, Anya acted as if she had completely forgotten about our conversation. She talked about classes, the upcoming analytical chemistry midterm, and how much she absolutely hated titrimetric analysis. I, on the other hand, couldn’t think about anything else.
After the second class, as the university hallways filled with the noisy chatter of students, Anya suddenly stopped near a window. Without turning her head toward me, she tossed out:
“You know, I was thinking about your offer.”
“And what did you come up with?” My heart skipped a beat, and my mouth instantly went dry.
“My boyfriend has to be completely loyal and devoted to me. I can’t just trust someone right away—I have to test your readiness and ability to be my boyfriend.”
“And how are you going to test that?”
“Like I’d tell you now. We’re going back to the student council office after classes. You’ll do my homework for me there, and then we’ll talk.”
I spent the rest of the school day in a complete fog. Lectures on organic synthesis drifted right past my ears, while my mind raced through endless variations of what Anya meant by a “test.” She, meanwhile, behaved surprisingly naturally: laughing at our classmates’ jokes, typing animatedly on her phone, and only occasionally casting a quick, evaluating glance at me that sent goosebumps down my spine.
When the bell rang at the end of the last period, Anya casually packed her things and nodded toward the door.
“Ready to go?” she said sharply.
We walked through the building’s long corridors, where the smell of bleach and chemical reagents blended with the scent of her perfume. The sun was already starting to set, bathing the empty classrooms in a warm golden glow. Outside the student council room, it was quiet; most of the students had already scattered to their dorms or local cafés.
Anya pulled out a key, clicked the lock, and let me in first. A pleasant dusk filled the room, which was instantly dispelled when the group monitor turned on the lights and walked over with a confident stride to the desk, tossing her bag onto it.
“Sit,” she said, pointing to the chair next to hers. “My analytics notebook is in my backpack.”
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