A Story of Student Love, or How I Became Anya's Slave
Copyright© 2026 by Asmodeus_de_Valle
Chapter 4: Crime and Punishment
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 4: Crime and Punishment - 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 4.1
Saturday morning began with a feeling of amazing lightness—my muscles didn’t ache, I was well-rested, and my mind was occupied with orderly thoughts about the tasks I needed to complete. Starting Monday, the workout quota would increase, but for now, I just had to do the number of squats and push-ups my body had already begun to adapt to.
I went to the bathroom and applied shaving foam to everywhere I had hair, after which I picked up a razor, shaved everything smooth, and washed up. After that, I returned to my room to do my morning workout. First, I wiggled my ass on camera so it was clear I had gotten rid of the hair, completed the exercises, and sent Anya the video report.
I spent a couple of hours studying. Just as I was finishing up, a message arrived from Sofia. I finished solving the problems first, and only then opened Telegram.
“Did you shave?” “I mean your whole body.”
Muttering a curse under my breath, I replied.
“Yeah.”
The next message came a minute later.
“Gonna show me yourself, or should I ask Anya?”
I sent the girl the morning video and went to prepare some food for myself. Just as I was sitting down to lunch, she sent her comments along with two self-destructing photos.
“You’ve got a nice ass, unlike other guys. Good luck on Sunday.”
In one photo was Sofia herself, fully clothed but barefoot, using a mirror to take a picture of her feet. In the other was Vika in just her underwear, with one leg extended toward the camera so that her foot took up half the shot, perfectly in focus, while her waist, covered by small panties, was blurred out.
After lunch, I pondered over tomorrow, specifically what I should cook for Anya. After brief consideration, I chose duck breast.
Spending an hour each on Duolingo, YouTube, and a physical and colloid chemistry textbook, I headed to the store for groceries. I decided to walk to the supermarket through the park.
Surprisingly, March of this year was warm; the flowers and grass that had awakened back in late February filled the air with a pleasant spring scent. The park was packed with people—mostly families and youth—as well as pets. I walked quickly to the shop, picked up the duck breast, some berries for the sauce, apples for the side dish, and various spices, including fresh sweet and hot peppers. I didn’t buy wine, though I had considered it—I don’t like alcohol myself, and Anya hadn’t said anything about it. Besides that, I grabbed a bag of chips for the evening and a bottle of milk for breakfast.
By the time I entered the park on my way back, dusk had already begun to fall. Walking along a wide path, I noticed two familiar figures on a bench ahead. Tanya and Marta noticed me too; they stood up and walked toward me. Judging by their gait, they were completely wasted.
“Here, kitty-kitty-kitty,” Marta whistled as she approached.
“Hey,” I replied when we met.
The girl glanced at my translucent plastic bag and clicked her tongue.
“Did our kitty buy himself some milk?”
Marta reached her hand out toward me and tried to pat my head, but I took a step to the side.
“Don’t run away, I’ll give you some fish.”
“God, what are you even rambling about?”
“I’m not God ... but if you wanna call me that, I don’t mind. So, you want some fish?”
“I don’t think,” Tanya chimed in, “he wants to be a kitty.”
“What then?”
“A doggy. He’d make a good doggy; I’d walk him on a leash every day.”
I facepalmed.
“Hey, where are you going?” “Tanya, he’s running away!”
Taking a few steps to the side, I looped around the girls in an arc and set off toward home at a brisk pace. A minute later, my phone started buzzing with messages, but I didn’t bother paying attention to them. I only picked up my phone after getting home and putting the groceries in the fridge. Besides the messages from the two drunks, which I didn’t even bother reading, there was a message from Anya with her address and time.
She lived in the suburbs and set the time for 10 AM, so I’d have to get up tomorrow like it was a weekday. Because of this, I ate a quick dinner, completed my workout, and went to bed.
Section 4.2
As I drifted off to sleep, I felt as if my consciousness left my body and floated into the distance. I saw a vast, sprawling sea, in the middle of which an archipelago emerged. On one of its islands lay a magnificent, opulent city; inside a citadel separated from the rest of the city by a white wall stood a palace. In one of its halls, several individuals—humanoid beings—sat discussing an urgent matter.
“All the omens align,” said a tall, young-looking girl, a pair of short horns peeking out from beneath her red hair.
“So, we have half a year to a year before it all begins,” a senior, shorter feline beast-person commented on her colleague’s words. Her tone was filled with anxiety and faint fear.
“Half a year to prepare for the strike...” a middle-aged human woman observed.
“And how much time before our lord descends upon the earth from the realm of twilight?”
The red-haired horned girl, who was apparently in charge here, rose from her chair and walked over to the window. Outside, dusk was settling; the streets, lively by day, were emptying out. Hundreds of thousands of city residents were preparing for sleep at home, and only a hundred of them understood that an event occurring once every four to five centuries was approaching. An event that hits villages and cities like a tsunami, bringing destruction in one current and prosperity in another.
The Arsean Republic would not remain an island of tranquility amidst a turbulent ocean as it felt right now—it would be among the first to take the hit. For that was how it always went: on this continent, the Catastrophe always began on the Arsean Islands, always awakened vast hordes of monsters, and brought along the one destined to protect the wretched populace from the relentless force of the wave.
The alarm rang unexpectedly, like thunder in the dead of winter, snatching me out of the strange dream. For the first half-minute, I lay in bed, unable to comprehend what was happening, before finally realizing I needed to turn off the alarm.
Reaching for my phone, I swiped blindly across the screen. Once the sound cut off, I closed my eyes and tried to remember what I’d been dreaming about, but the memories evaporated from my head as if someone were erasing them on the fly.
To say the dream was weird would be an understatement, but there was something even stranger about it: although I could no longer recall what the dream was about, I vividly remembered the odd sensation I had—as if that was reality, and everything else was the dream.
A second alarm—which I’d accidentally snoozed for 10 minutes instead of turning off—snapped me out of my peculiar daze. Coming to my senses, I quickly took care of my morning routine (washed up, had breakfast, did my workout), packed up, and headed to the bus stop. After a 10-minute wait, I caught the right minibus and took it out to the suburbs.
The residential area, with its wide paved road, was lined with beautiful two-story houses, and finding Anya’s among them wasn’t difficult. I walked up to the gate and texted Anya; a quarter of a minute later, she liked my message, and 20 seconds after that, the gate chimed as the soft click of an electronic lock sounded.
Stepping inside, I saw a beautiful yet somewhat neglected yard—the lawn grass was overgrown, and last year’s dead leaves were jammed here and there under the forged iron legs of the patio furniture. I walked up to the massive oak front door, which opened before I could even raise my hand to knock. Anya stood on the threshold. She was wearing a short silk robe that barely stayed on her shoulders and nylon pantyhose.
“Come in,” she said briefly, stepping aside to let me pass. “Outerwear goes here, kitchen’s over there. How long is cooking gonna take?”
“About an hour and a half,” I replied, taking off my coat. “Got an apron?”
“Look around, there should be one somewhere.”
Stepping into the kitchen, I gasped. It was as if Anya’s parents hoped their daughter would be more enthusiastic about cooking if they furnished the kitchen luxuriously—the sheer amount of built-in appliances, chrome surfaces, and kitchen utensils was even more impressive than the chemistry lab at our university.
Following me inside, she walked over to one of the cabinets, rummaged through it for a moment, found a drawer with aprons, and pulled one out.
“The kitchen is all yours; I’m gonna get a bit more sleep,” she said, letting out a yawn.
Anya walked out, leaving me alone, and I started opening drawers to find the necessary cookware, spices, oil, and utensils. Once I had everything sorted, I got down to cooking.
Placing the duck breast on the cutting board, I used precise knife cuts to score a crosshatch pattern into the skin, taking care not to slice into the meat itself—these cuts would allow the fat to render while protecting the breast from scorching. Next, I grated the peppers finely on a grater, dumped them into a deep bowl, added salt, ground pepper, and cloves, and mixed everything together. I coated the meat thoroughly with this spice rub.
Giving the spices a few minutes to absorb into the skin, I stepped away briefly before pulling out a skillet, pouring in a drop of oil, turning on the burner, and laying the meat down. At the same time, I preheated the oven. The duck would render its own fat as it heated, so there was no need to flood the pan with oil, though I had to keep a close eye on it to ensure the meat didn’t burn. Once the duck released its excess fat and got a light sear, I flipped the meat, took the pan off the heat, and slid it into the oven.
While the bird was roasting, I worked on the sauce. In a small saucepan, I melted a knob of butter, threw in the berries, added a pinch of sugar, and stirred constantly, whisking it into a smooth, ruby-colored sauce.
After finishing the sauce, I browsed my phone for half an hour. Ten minutes before the breast was done, I quickly made caramelized apples. When the duck finally finished roasting, I pulled the skillet out of the oven, letting the kitchen fill with the heavy, intoxicating aroma of roasted meat and spices. Giving the breast a few minutes to rest, I carefully sliced off a piece to test for doneness. Dipping the small slice into the sauce, I tasted it. Bellissimo.
I sliced the rest of the breast into pieces, arranged them on a large plate, and drizzled the sauce over top. Anya, dressed in the same robe and pantyhose as an hour ago, entered the room like a predator whose sleep had been disturbed by the scent of prey.
Without a word, she pulled a bottle of wine out of one of the drawers, poured a bit into two glasses, and tried the meat. A smile lit up her still somewhat sleepy face.
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