Vanessa Duries - The Classmate

We’re all from a subterranean time,—added the tall blonde.

—Yes, V*** said, —it’s true that we are not what we seem…She felt embarrassed by this banality and blushed—not exactly, she felt herself redden, all the while knowing that her half-Magrehbi skin wouldn’t let her show any redness. But Lauren wasn’t so naïve, she had spotted the brilliance of her brown eyes.

—So, you’re not simply a liberated young woman, right? You’re whose slave, your parents’? The suddenness of the question startled V*** and left her speechless.

—Why do you ask me that?”

—No reason, evaded Lauren.

She recovered by switching to English, talking about the class, her options, her future career. She saw herself as a translator, but being stumped by the first phrase she had been asked to translate irritated her deeply.

They would see each other again in class and each looked forward to their second meeting. Lauren invited V*** to dinner at her place that evening.

She had just arrived in Toulouse and didn’t know anyone. —No more than me, V*** lied, I just came from Pau.”

It was a strange evening, full of half-secrets, false laughter, stories from childhood. Their adolescence still stuck to their shoes. Lauren had just finished high school, V*** had taken a year off. They were the same age—

twenty years old—just within a few months of each other.

And just as V*** had thought, at least based on what was said that evening, Lauren was a virgin.

Just two unimportant, no future flirtations, she insisted.

V*** got home late. The wind was still blowing and made it difficult to think. It was only when she finally got to her little studio that she thought again of Lauren, or perhaps, that she realized that she had been thinking of how the young girl had accompanied her in her wanderings through the windy labyrinth of the Pink City.

She got undressed and into bed with the firm intention of sleeping. But the thought of those long legs, the bright glimpse of the little white panties just didn’t stop, and for the first time, she began to caress herself while thinking about the body of a woman. Then, quite consciously, as if she

wanted to correct a mistake, she started thinking about a story in which she seduced Lauren, just enough to lead her to her beloved Master, who would make her his second slave…

Beloved? She had better think again, she did not want to see Lauren turned over to the hands of that old sodomite. She visualized clearly her tall, vine-like body, whipped in every sense, but it was not her Master who held the whip—she did.

She stopped touching herself. She did not have the right.

She turned on the night light, then the ceiling light. She looked at the walls. On the left, the Master had made her install a wall of mirrors, so that she would always be able to see her body marked by the whip or the lash–

he knew that she had a terrible and strange feeling of pride upon seeing herself so slashed. On the wall in front of her, photographs, by the hundreds: to establish his hold on her, even when he wasn’t there, J.L had made her pin-up all of the hardcore shots in which she is the broken heroine. Overviews of her lacerated body, penetrated in every way, standing, hung on a St. Andrew’s Cross, on all-fours—and still her same plowed flesh, the same cocks that opened her, that were buried in her. V***

sitting, her hands tied behind the back of a chair, doing her best to swallow the large cock that smothered her. V*** on her back, irrigated by sperm or urine—depending on the circumstances…

When she first looked in the mirror, the traces of the whip remained, the blues turning yellow, the worst time for bruising. As she examined one of the photographs, she feasted her eyes on the humiliations, as if she wanted to convince herself that she was only that—flesh for cocks. Above it all the image of Lauren floated and what she had seen that afternoon–the long legs and the demure panty.

She stopped fighting it and her hand plunged between her thighs.

It didn’t take her long to cum.

Chapter Three

T hey kept seeing each other–in class, and elsewhere. For snacks, study sessions, sometimes in the late evenings. V*** profited fully from the absence of her master: she healed, and she came to think that her soul was also healing, and that Lauren was the agent of her recovery. She had hidden in the black notebook the photographs that made official her status as a submissive, and she had many times invited Lauren to her little shabby but discreet student apartment. Without making the ambiguous gesture that she never dared to do. Curiously, (wasn’t she curious, really?) she didn’t even dare touch her, she who had spontaneously dared the worst, and all the rest of it.

At the fourth or fifth meeting, after an afternoon spent working on a particularly arduous English version of Henry James, she realized simply that she loved her. That she wanted to take her in her arms, drown her face in her straw-colored hair, tell her tender things, kiss her full on the mouth…

That evening, the most she dared was a kiss on the cheek. Later, after Lauren left, she caressed herself while it was still light, her hand thrust inside and while caressing herself saying out loud everything she wanted to do to her friend, her lover, her; Lauren…

Towards the end of the second week of that standstill relationship, Lauren suggested that they get together in the evening at the swimming pool. V***

accepted enthusiastically, but once she got home she started to have second thoughts. She took off her clothes and examined herself thoroughly in the mirror There were a few traces of the bruises remaining, very pale, with only light discolorations. “In the water,” she thought, “they won’t be noticed.” Then she looked for a swimsuit. There was nothing except the one that she had used in high school for swimming class, a one-piece suit,

designed more to conceal than to reveal. She decided to go the next day and buy a sexy two-piece.

At last, just before sleeping, she took a tweezers and trimmed her bikini line (to “make the swimsuit” as they say). After her master left, she had let the hair grow back—a major infraction, according to their rules, but she figured that she would shave on the day of his return. Her hairs grew back, very dark. She hesitated: what if she were to shave completely, all at once?

She thought the little wire-like hairs that grew back would give even more volume to her Mons Venus.

She bent over between her thighs, catching each hair with precision in the tweezers. The contact of the cold steel on her skin make her shiver.

Suddenly it reminded her of the day when a mistress opened her with a speculum before inserting an inflatable cock in order to widen her, to widen her to the dimensions of all the cocks that would come that evening to fuck her. Was it the memory of that scene, or was it the image of Lauren as the mistress that wouldn’t let go? She felt overwhelmed and pushed a prying finger into her sex. She was on fire—and dripping. She lubricated abundantly—and undoubtedly had been for a while. Her body had reacted to her own secret thoughts even before she had brought them to the light.

She needed to finish what she had started, to surrender later to the masturbation session, the only moment of the day when tension was satisfied for a moment—though it would return, even stronger, a moment later.

Three days before, she had lunched at the university cafeteria with Lauren. They had run into each other, and the two young girls were sitting pressed next to each other with the trays holding their deplorable in-flight meals. V*** felt the warmth of her friend’s leg against her thigh, and towards the end of the meal, not being able to take it anymore, she went to