Chapter 4

"Justice with change of interest learns to bow,
And what was merit once is murder now:
Actions receive their tincture from the times,
And as they change, are virtues made or crimes."
-Daniel Defoe, A Hymn to the Pillory

Each section of the patchwork school building that constituted Darkbitch Academy started classes at a different time. The area where Miss Rhea was rather roughly dragging her student Amy to the nurses' office would soon be filled with a bustle of happy, shapely, slightly glass-eyed uniformed girls, heading to lunch, their dorms, the gym or a private make-out spot in the vast gardens. Now, though, the well-lighted halls were empty. No sounds leaked out from elsewhere in the complex, or from the soundproofed classrooms; the only noises were the semi-regular clicks of Amy's five-inch stiletto heels and Rhea's much louder, eight-inch-heeled boots, echoing past rows of white lockers, their futuristic retinal scan machines flashing idly with soft green light.

At the intersection of two hallways, the teacher abruptly stopped, looked around, seemed to debate with herself about something, and tugged on Amy's arm to go left. They rushed through a series of sharp turns, the fluorescent lighting gradually going dimmer with each new hall. There were no windows in the cold metal doors, which were only adorned with numbers, and seemingly no way to tell whether there was anyone in a room. Nevertheless, Rhea confidently opened a seemingly random door, labeled 09067, and rudely shoved Amy inside the dark, empty classroom to which it led. Amy, staggering backwards at the blow, opened her mouth as if to object, but quickly thought better of it -- something like this isn't the nurses' office, as if she knew where that was or anything about it. She stood opposite Rhea, who was still in the doorway. Fearful, storm-tossed but excited, her waist-length blond mane, newly teased this morning into a highly combat-inappropriate cascade of ringlets, blowing dramatically in the strong breeze of an air-conditioning unit behind her.

Rhea almost effortlessly slammed the huge metal door behind her, her massive arms flexing under the tight scarlet blouse. She took one huge stride towards the blonde hottie, leaned down and rammed her tongue into Amy's bright-red mouth. For perhaps half a second, Amy stiffened with reflexive resistance to the teacher's predatory kiss. Even at that moment, there was no thought of fighting back or even of running away. Such ideas would have been abhorrent to the girl. The most she could conceive of was a failure to actively participate in her domination. But even that, she knew, wasn't right -- was just a momentary lapse into pointless rebellion. It was much better to cooperate, Amy thought as she inhaled her teacher's dark, powerful scent at close range, her nostrils flaring in a new anticipatory hunger. Within a few seconds she was participating eagerly, straining to coax an extra inch or two of height out of her frame so she could be more thoroughly scoured by her teacher's aggressive tongue.

"Lose the top," growled Miss Rhea after she abruptly broke the osculation, and the blonde nymphet hastened to obey. The diaphanous white fabric passed with difficulty over Amy's massive mammaries: although the fabric had expanded to account for her recent growth spurt, it retained, like everything else in her closet, the same obscenely tight fit. The budding slave slid without thought into an offertory stance, hands clasped behind her back, tits thrust out invitingly, eyes in dreamy submission. The teacher just stood for a few seconds in admiration, her excitement betrayed by hardening nipples under the blouse, a lecherous grin and the huge dark girlmeat that snaked out from under her skirt. Then, unable to hold out any longer, she grabbed the back of Amy's head and shoved the girl's glossy pink lips onto her angry cock, forcing Amy to her knees.

"Suck me off, and be fast," Rhea demanded. "I don't want Sydney to find out you were late. Shouldn't even be taking you, Akiko says, but -- nggh! Oh yes! -- I had to have you now. May not get another chance..."

There was still some part of Amy left that vaguely wondered what Rhea was talking about, and how Lady Akiko was involved. But those concerns were deeply submerged, minuscule in an ocean of more pleasurable, more important thoughts: I hope I'm pleasing Miss Rhea. I'm so glad she chose to take my throat with her beautiful cock. Up and down the shaft she energetically moved, but in perfectly timed rhythm to Rhea's thrusts, eagerly submerging herself to her teacher's strength. I wonder how her sperm tastes? Maybe it's sweet, like Julia's pussy. Maybe a bit tangy, like her shaft tastes and smells. Either way, I'm sure it's amazing. I wish I could stay like this forever, in perfect harmony and submission and rightness, knees bare against the cold tile but I don't care; her cock is warm and snug in my throat and that's all the comfort I need, forever, forever...

Amy's teacher let out a low, frustrated moan as her thrusts crescendoed in pace and intensity. Rhea's massive, powerful thighs strained to piston faster as her already-enormous girlmeat continued to expand in her blonde student's throat, causing no small amount of pain. Amy hoped, as she obediently faced the onslaught, that her transformation was far enough along that she wouldn't be damaged, but there was no way of knowing, as the pain — what Lady Akiko called the sacrifice of obedience — remained the same. She didn't hope for the sake of herself, but for an infinitely more important purpose: the ability to serve her superiors well. Amy's eyes glowed with beatific pleasure, as if receiving a blessing, as Miss Rhea screamed in delight, sending spasms of hot cum far down her throat. She only just maintained the composure not to make a mess all over Amy's face and huge, bouncing boobs with their delicate pink nipples — that would have ruined the secret. Sighing wistfully at the thought, watching her nymphet charge lick her lips in satisfaction, Rhea adjusted her short skirt, tossed Amy's nearly-sheer blouse back to her, and led her back into the hallway.

Soft, warm, wet, snug, dark, just above the water, swanlike neck resting across the mountainous curves of Aki's tits, the camouflage-patterned bra that had encased them earlier now floating somewhere to the side, forgotten. The Darkbitch's eyes were still closed, and she no longer bothered to use second sight; the world was in the soft focus of her fading, half-asleep senses as it began to dissolve, opening the doors to to daydream and daymare. Having already emptied out visually, the world first gradually divested itself of its sounds, fading as if slowly mixed out at the end of a DJ set. Then only touch remained; a calm, comforting contact with her companion, one last anchor to the world. But Kennedy was drifting further away into the misty ocean, and the anchor began dragging over the seabed, carrying rocks, weeds and human detritus scraping along the bottom until it finally sprung free as the seafloor dropped out and Kennedy found herself drifting over the open ocean of unmoored hazy chaotic memory.

Harsh light from above. Big windows, clouds — nimbus — outside. An oppressive air. People filtering in. Sitting in the third row; used to sit in the front but moved to see Marisa. The captain of the volleyball team, she towered over me. She filed in now, eased her lanky frame into the seat, stretching her toned muscles, undoing her ponytail and letting her unnaturally silky corn-blonde hair fall free. She turned to another girl and whispered something, eyelashes flickering over her cornflower-blue eyes, cute nose and mischievous smile outlined in profile, ignorant of my stare. I scribble in a small notebook I'm holding open under my desk: "Marisa, I love you. Hold me in your arms and guide me until the end of time!" I see my face dimly reflected in the desk, my memory supplying the unfortunate details that I can't quite make out: short, messy, dark brown hair of the most generic shade that rejected dye when I tried and only made a mess in the sink; too-large nose, thin lips, hints of acne and oil. I can't see it here, but I'm also short, weak and need to lose weight. My mind careens from my physical to my emotional faults as I wonder: why can't I shake off this crush, this love that I know is hopeless and a phantasm? Why does it seem so real as to be the only thing in the world?

Harsh light from above. The crush of the anonymous crowds of a megalopolis high school, ninety percent of the faces unknown, ninety-nine percent unacknowledging. Walking fast, a bit uncoordinated and narrowly avoiding collision from time to time, but with a purpose, to get to my locker, grab stuff and get out before the bus left. Off in the distance I see the beginning of the blue set of lockers, which is mine; everything here is color-coordinated for the convenience of those easily lost. I'm almost there when I notice that everyone around me is staring in the direction of the blue lockers. I get closer and see a gaggle of girls huddled around my locker, excitedly talking over each other. Some of the most popular and beautiful girls in the school are there: Saraswati Sherawat-Jones the cell phone heiress; Olivia Dunadais the model; Flora Carver, the one who was "really sweet" but only to about thirty people, most of them rich. At the center of attention, a head taller than the rest, there she was: Marisa Frost, the muscular goddess, Athena of the volleyball court. Her hair was in a French braid this time, beautifully done. I took in every particle of her half-turned face in one ravenous glance: her periwinkle-fading-to-violet glittery eye shadow, which reinforced the beauty of her blue (wide, deep and oceanic) eyes; her coral-pink makeup suggesting innocent insouciance; the very light dusting of freckles across her slightly upturned nose. My heart stumbles and slips off its gears, as always, when I see her face.