Chapter 12

Professor Stevenson made Minerva’s heart flutter as she stood on the opposite side of the room. Back straight, chin up, her body clad in naught but a tight black top and sleek, form fitting leggings that reminded Minerva of the kind of clothing a stage hand might wear to avoid drawing attention in a play. She looked as if she had full mobility in the costume - and she looked as if she reveled in it. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she regarded Minerva cooly, before at last speaking.

“Your first lesson,” she said. “Strike me.”

Minerva looked at her wand, then back up at Stevenson.

“With a spell,” Stevenson said, her tail twitching and her ears flicking with cattish annoyance.

“Right,” Minerva said. She squared her shoulders. She lifted her wand, then aimed. “Cidak Slan Wif!”

A bolt of light exploded from her wandtip and shot towards Stevenson. It struck the wall behind her as she stepped to the side, hands still behind her back.

“Again,” Stevenson said.

Minerva frowned. She flicked her wand and spoke the words again. “Cidak Slan Wif!” And again, the bolt struck the wall behind Stevenson, who had not even moved her hands from behind her back. As smoke rose from the stonework behind her, she stepped forward.

“Again!”

“Cidak-”

Stevenson stepped into her arm, clasped her wrist, twisted her so, and the wand came flying free from Minerva’s hand as Stevenson lifted her arm and pushed her down with one hand. Minerva wobbled, her shoulder aching and sweat beading and dripping down her chin as she was forced to look down at the ground. Stevenson’s voice was a quiet, dangerous purr that excited every atom in Minerva’s body. She was painfully aware that it would just take a tiny twist and Stevenson could have her on the floor. On her back. On her knees.

“As you can see ... there is a certain disadvantage when it comes to attacking with spells.”

“I bloody well can!” Minerva exclaimed, her voice tight.

“Ahem.”

The pressure on her arm heightened ever so slightly. It didn’t hurt. But it threatened too. The pressure made Minerva’s knees go weak and her cheeks heated. “I-I bloody well can ... P-Professor,” she said.

Stevenson released her with a grin. “Very good,” she said. “A spell travels through the medium it is released into. We are in the material realm - the propagation of magic is decidedly slower than a human’s reflexes, or their muscles. This means...”

“S-Spells can be dodged,” Minerva said, nodding.

“Very good,” Stevenson said, her fingers tousling Minerva’s head. Minerva’s cheeks heated even more and she tried to not drop to her knees right then and there. This woman just does things to my brain, she thought. Or tried to think. The actual thought came out more as: Pet oh my brain that ... er, uh, head ... girl...

Stevenson turned around, her tail swishing. Which, of course, drew Minerva’s eyes down that long, sinuous tail to that taut, tight, firm-

“And thus, once the astral plane was discovered, duelists chose to fight there rather than in the material world,” Stevenson said. She picked her wand from her hanging robes, flicking her wrist to extend it from the curved pistol-like hilt it had. Her fingers gripped the wand firmly as she turned back to face Minerva. “In that plane, it is a direct battle of magic against magic. Quite fair.” She chuckled. “But that’s not an option for us anymore. Now is it?”

“No, Professor,” Minerva said, shaking her head.

Part of her had played, like one might play with a knife, the idea of leaving out professor on purpose. And as she looked into Stevenson’s slitted, catlike eyes, Minerva could see the smug knowledge that the older woman had seen it. Minerva ... was beginning to realize she was just an open book for this older woman. The memory of her vision in the Trial Temporalius tickled through her brain and her cheeks heated even more.

“Now,” Stevenson said. “Magic is swiftest when it acts. Thus. If I were to fling a spell here.” She tapped the ground before her feet. “That created a wall, the wall would be up before your spell reached me. Understood?”

Minerva nodded.

“When I ask a question, I expect a response, witchling,” Stevenson crooned.

Minerva’s knees trembled. “U-Understood, Professor.”

“Good,” Stevenson said. “Now that you know the basics, we shall practice your defenses. We shall begin with your dodging. Ready?”

Minerva gulped. “Y-Yes, Profess-”

“Cidak Slan Wif,” Stevenson said, her wand whipping in a sword-slash of an arc. At the midsection, a bolt of crackling magic burst forth and whistled at Minerva. She flung herself to the side, stumbling. The bolt struck the wall with a spray of sparks, some of which stung against her back. Stevenson’s voice cracked out - authoritarian. Domineering. Sensual. “I said dodge, not stumble. Minimum necessary movements! Cidak Slan Wif!” Her wand, which had been held up by her ear, slashed down in another arc. Again, a bolt flew out. Minerva jerked herself aside and the bolt struck the wall with another spray of sparks and smoke.

Stevenson arched a single eyebrow in approval. “Better,” she said. Her wand slashed and her voice barked out the words again. Another bolt - but this time, there was no pause. WIthout missing a beat, Stevenson slashed upwards again, her voice ringing out as she cast again, then again and again and again. She timed her wand movement such that each time she said Wif, it was whipped down at the exact right angle. Minerva had never imagined there could be such ... precision and talent in flicking a wand.

Bolt after bolt struck the wall as Minerva found her rhythm. But it took her focus. She dodged, dodged, dodged ... and then on the last, she dodged and Stevenson stepped forward, reached out with her left hand, grabbed onto her throat, then wheeled her about and pinned her to the wall. She brought her knee up, pinning Minreva’s arm down by the wrist. The wand dropped from Minerva’s nerveless fingers as, catlike, Stevenson remained poised on the ball of one of her feet.

“You got too close to me, witchling,” Stevenson crooned, softly. Her clawed fingertips pricked against Minerva’s skin and Minerva couldn’t breathe. That had very little to do with the pressure or lack thereof on her throat. “You must always maintain distance. Many duels end on the floor.”

Her fingers tightened more, choking off some of Minerva’s air.

Minerva moaned.around her grip.

Stevenson’s grin was predatory.

“You are a little mouse of a thing, aren’t you?” Stevenson asked. The older woman leaned in, moment by moment. “You did quite well, for a beginner, at getting out of the way. Minerva’s head was swimming and her heart thudded in her ears as Stevenson slid in closer, then closer ... and then she crooned. “Not quite good enough for this, witchling.”

She released. Minerva almost dropped to her knees as Stevenson stepped away. Her back was turned. “We practice again. I want you to survive long enough to use any other lessons I give you.”

Stevenson swung around, flicked her wand, and Minerva was too cross-eyed with the proximity, with the pressure, with the scent of her professor, the intoxicating, forbidden scent of her in her nose that she didn’t even step aside. The bolt struck her chest and she felt the nerves go out in her body. She sprawled onto the ground, crashing there with a groan. Stevenson sighed.

Minerva couldn’t roll over. She couldn’t even blink. It was like her every muscle was slack. Limp. And she was still conscious. SHe hadn’t realized that being struck down by a spell was so ... alienating. She’d almost have preferred to be unconscious.

Crunch.

The sound of a single foot setting down sent a thrill along Minerva’s spine.

“What will I do with you,” Stevenson said. “It’s almost like you wanted me to hit you.”

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The foot came down beside her head - and Minerva could see the elegant arch of foot, the sleek curve of ankle. For the first time in her life, she understood those old stories of Victorians thinking that showing a girl’s ankles was just utterly scandalous. That foot shifted and pressed to her shoulder, then rolled her onto her back, so she looked up at Stevenson. Stevenson’s hands were on her hips and her lips were pursed. She slowly knelt down - her feet coming up onto their balls, her thighs spreading as she came down to remain poised right above Minerva’s head. Her finger brushed along Minerva’s throat.

Her claw was out. Minerva could feel the point.

“In a war, this is when you’d be having your throat slit,” Stevenson said.

Minerva wanted to gulp. She couldn’t.

“Fortunately, duels aren’t war,” Stevenson said. Her hand paused. Her fingertip slipped down - bit by bit. “But learning to shake off a stun is a vital skill. It takes focus. Dedication. Your will, against the spell that holds you down.” Her finger brushed underneath the edge of Minerva’s collar. She tugged and the first of her buttons came popping free. Then the second. Then the third. Then the fourth. Minerva wanted, quite badly, to move. Instead, she remained laying there as her top spread open. Her pale skin prickled with goosebumps as her bra remained the only thing keeping her top concealed from the older woman.

“If I get this off before you move,” Stevenson said, her clawtip teasing along her skin. “Then I shall have to punish you, witchling.”

Oh god, she’s touching me, Minerva thought.

Stevenson’s claw-tip dragged inch by inch along the circumference of her bra’s cup. Minerva felt the tingling pressure and a traitor part of her mind asked: Would being punished be so bad? She squirmed within the prison on her flesh. Then she felt Stevenson’s hand gripping the middle of her bra, the thick buttress between the two cups. Fingers curling, Stevenson took hold and started to tug back. Fabric stretched, and hooks clicked and creaked against one another as the small of Minerva’s back started to lift off the ground. The feeling of her bra biting into her back excited her beyond almost all reason.

But...

It won’t ... be ... Minerva focused. That...

Her bra felt as if it was about to give way. Stevenson’s grin was pure feline, her eyes gleaming.

Easy!

Minerva’s hand wrenched up and she caught her professor’s wrist. Stevenson grinned, wickedly, then released her bra with a grunt. Minerva sat up, her cheeks flushed. She still felt ... cool and clammy, her skin tingling and buzzing. It was like her whole body had gone to sleep and was only just now beginning to waken.

“Well enough,” Stevenson crooned, quietly. “Now...” She stood, and then jerked her chin. “To your feet. We have to continue honing your dodge. I want you to be passable before it’s time to get to your rooms.”

Minerva buttoned herself closed. Her cheeks burned. Her head ducked forward and she managed only a soft mumble.

“Y-Yes Professor.”

Stevenson didn’t touch her once for the entire rest of the dueling - Minerva remained focused on her dodging, kept her distance, and by the time she was done, she ached physically, and she ached in her soul, ached to be touched. Stevenson nodded as the chime rang out, announcing the late hour. “Very good, witchling,” she said, her voice quiet, as Minerva panted and ducked her head forward. Minerva nodded, her eyes closed as she tried to bring in the air she needed for her burning, fatigued body.

Stevenson’s fingers slipped through her hair. She brushed her hair backwards, and Minerva bit her lip to keep from moaning as the other woman caressed her. Her finger slid back along her ear, then slid along the side of her cheek, to her jaw. She gripped her, lifting her head, tilting her head backwards so that Minerva looked up into her eyes. Stevenson purred softly.

“You’re a good girl,” she said. Minerva almost melted. “Tomorrow night, we shall practice attacking.”

“Yes, Professor,” Minerva said, quietly. Stevenson’s thumb caressed along her lips, then pressed against her. Minerva resisted, ever so slightly, her brain a confused jumble of adrenaline, excitement, and ... knowing it was wrong. Very wrong. The pressure of Stevenson’s thumb against her tongue set Minerva’s knees quivering. Her hand reached up, grabbing onto Stevenson’s wrist, but Stevenson’s other hand grabbed onto Minerva’s left, pinning it above her head, pressing her into the wall.

“I’ve seen the defiance in your eyes when I call you witchling,” Stevenson’s voice was so husky. It tasted like whisky, rough and intoxicating. “And yet, you follow my every order. Almost like you know what you are.” Her thumb slid free.

“And what’s that?” Minerva spat out.

The hand on her wrist tightened more. Stevenson did not say a single thing. She simply caught Minerva’s eyes with her own and narrowed them ever so slightly.

“ ... Professor,” she whispered.

“Obedient. You know your proper place, as a student.”

“Do I?” Minerva asked.

“I could show you...” Stevenson growled.

Minerva’s eyes flashed. Her tongue spoke before her brain could stop herself. “Can you?”

“Can you what?” Stevenson’s hand slid from Minerva’s jaw to her throat. She squeezed ever so slightly, leaning forward, her voice warm against Minerva’s ear. “Speak up little witchling, I can’t hear you.” Her hand tightened more.

Minerva moaned out. “Professor!”

Stevenson chuckled, then grabbed onto her shoulders and shoved her down. Minerva pressed to the ground and watched, panting, as Stevenson took hold of her leggings, then pushed them down. The thick bush of her pubic hair came free first, then the folds of her sex, dripping with eagerness. Minerva had a few seconds to watch, eyes wide, before clawed fingers pressed against the nape of her neck, palm to the back of her head, and Stevenson shoved her forward, mashing her face between her thighs. The heady scent of feminine arousal almost sent Minerva fainting, but she knew ... well, she knew vaguely what to do. The last woman she had been with ... well ... her tongue darted out and she found that a woman born as a woman tasted of peaches and spices, tingling along her tongue. Her eyes fluttered half shut as she looked up into Stevenson’s fiercely pleased features.

“There we go, witchling...” Stevenson purred. “Show your professor what you learned in your dirty little dyke circles back in London. Don’t try and pretend this is your first time eating pussy.” She said, grinning wickedly. Minerva wanted to draw back - confusion on her face. She’d never heard it described that way. Of course, the lesbians she had met was...

Well.

Her eyes closed fully as she drew her tongue slowly along the sex offered her. She reached up, cupping Stevenson’s taut ass, feeling her through her silks. She leaned in, her tongue sliding back down, then back up, and as she crooked her tongue against her professor’s sex, she heard a husky moan escaping the other woman’s lips. Her hips bucked ... and Minerva realized something that shocked her.

This was remarkably similar to taking Kat in her mouth.

Kat’s penis, for all that it was ... well ... a penis, felt rather like Stevenson’s sex - the same parts, the same warmth, the same delight in bringing pleasure to another. The real change was not the parts ... it was entirely the person. For Kat had placed her palms to either side of the wall, had gripped that rather than her. At least at first.

Stevenson?

“Oh good student, yes, very good, eat your teacher out,” Stevenson groaned softly, grabbing onto her hair with one hand, the back of her head with another, holding and angling her as she ground her hips against Minerva’s face, adding to the pressure of Minerva’s tongue as she rolled her head backwards. “Oh yes, witchling, you do know how to eat pussy, yes you do...” She moaned then as Minerva found her clit, sucking it between her lips. Her hand slid forward. She added two fingers, thrusting up into her teacher.

Stevenson bit her lip. Her tail twitched behind her. Her orgasm was quiet - buried under her own control as she arched her back and sighed, but Minerva felt it where it counted. Warmth, enfolding her fingers. Tightening. The flowering of her juices tingled along Minerva’s tongue. Her eyes closed tighter still as she focused on the raw tactility of the moment. Her past. Her future. Both of it felt so very distant. Then...

Then she was released. Stevenson stepped back, her hand tugging her leggings back up around her hips. Her voice was ragged. “Acceptable.” She caressed Minerva’s head once more - a gentle pet.

Minerva almost came from that alone.

Stevenson turned. She walked away. Her hips rolled as she spoke over her shoulder.

“Remember,” she said, fiercely. “Not a word of this outside of this room. You can keep a little secret. Yes?”

Minerva nodded, hurriedly. “Yes, professor,” she said. She licked her fingers, subtly. She wanted to taste more of her. She needed more of her. Her head was still spinning. Her body still ached for the older woman to just hold her. She wanted to say more. Instead, she kept her tongue as the door opened, as robes swished, as the door closed, leaving her in the chambers. Minerva lapped at her palm, slowly, tasting every last drop she could.

Finally, she whispered.

“That ... was a mistake...”

It was. She thought. Then, firmly. It was!

What did you do when you made mistakes?

You didn’t make them again.

The door to the dueling chamber opened.

Stevenson stepped inside, her robes already in her hand. She hung it on the hook, then turned and smirked as she eyed Minerva, who stood before her, her eyes downcast.

“Ready for another lesson?” she asked.

“Yeah...” Minerva said, quietly.

Stevenson arched an eyebrow. Rather than demanding she be called a professor, rather than speaking sharply, rather than stepping forward and grabbing her, she instead simply arched an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

Minerva opened her mouth, then closed it. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Stevenson said. She walked forward, slowly. “You are my student. Not of my house? Yes. But you are my student. And I am risking a great deal for you, little witchling. I do want to see you flowering after the duel.” She reached up, brushing a lock of Minerva’s hair behind her head. Minerva’s cheeks heated as she ducked her chin forward.