Chapter 5: The Professor's Private Tutorial
(all characters are above the age of 18)
The stillness afterwards was profound, a shared silence where their breathing slowly synced and the world dripped back in. The cluttered bedroom, the slatted light from the bathroom, the feel of Bea’s damp skin stuck to his chest. Chris lay pinned beneath her, the impossible weight of her relaxation pressing him into the mattress.
Slowly, carefully, he slipped out of her. The sensation was a twin release, a soft, wet parting. Bea made a small, wordless sound of loss, then nuzzled deeper into the crook of his neck. Her cat ear dug into his cheek.
“So,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. “That’s what the middle ground feels like.”
He ran a hand down her spine, over the smooth skin where the tail had been attached. “Are you… alright?”
She snorted, a puff of warm air against his skin. “I feel like I’ve been turned inside out and licked clean. In the best possible way.” She shifted, wincing slightly as she moved off him. “We have to write this down. The parameters. The… results.”
He watched her, a limp, glorious mess of purple hair and smeared makeup, pad naked to the small writing desk in the corner. She grabbed their dedicated notebook—a simple, black Moleskine they’d bought for this purpose alone. Her handwriting was usually neat, teacherly. Now it was a sprawling, urgent script.
Iteration_04_Bedroom_Transgressive_Domestic, she wrote at the top. Intent: To explore 'naughty' atmosphere within safety of home. To incorporate 'found' or 'clinical' props (nurse, honey, oil) to generate transgressive context. Candy intake: Three (2-Bea pre-scene, 1-Chris mid-act). Result: Targeted somatic amplification (dual genitalia) in direct response to verbalized fantasy mid-coitus. Amplification was localized, temporary (reverted post-orgasm). Notable psychological effect: shift from worship/possession dynamic to a 'corruption' narrative. Subject (C) reported heightened vulnerability from clinical detachment preceding intimate act. Subject (B) reported...
She paused, tapping the pen against her lips. “How would you describe what you felt? When I was the ‘nurse’ but before the… main event?”
Chris stared at the ceiling, the plaster swirls now familiar landmarks. “Exposed,” he said finally. “Not in a bad way. But like I was a specimen. It was dehumanizing, but in a way that felt… liberating. Because you were doing it. I’d given you permission to turn me into a thing for your use. The magic just made it literal.”
Liberation through voluntary dehumanization within negotiated dynamic, she scribbled. Magic appears to literalize psychological framework.
They spent the next twenty minutes parsing it, voices low and analytical in the post-coital gloom. It was their ritual. The reclamation through data. The candy’s effects were not random; they were responsive, almost conversational. They took a fantasy, a vibe, a spoken desire, and sculpted flesh to match it. The control wasn’t over the transformation itself, but over the atmosphere that triggered it.
“It’s like we’re composing a song,” Chris said, sitting up against the headboard. “And the candy is the instrument. We set the key, the tempo, the mood. The instrument plays the notes.”
“But the instrument has a mind of its own,” Bea added, closing the notebook. “It improvises. It gave you two cocks because I asked for it in the heat of the moment. It didn’t ask for a schematic. It just… did it.” She turned to him, her gold eyes serious. “What if we ask for something we can’t handle?”
The question hung between them. It was the fear that had been curdling underneath the thrill since the car. The lack of an off-switch. The uncertainty of scale.
“We need more information,” Chris said, the teacher in him taking over. “We’re operating on anecdote. We need the source.”
Bea looked at the velvet pouch, nearly empty now. “The professor.”
“She said to come back if we had questions. I’d say we have questions.”
The shop, Curiosities & Confections, looked smaller in the brittle afternoon light. The bell above the door jangled the same lonely note. The familiar scent of burnt sugar and aged paper washed over them, but underneath it was a new, sharper odor—ozone, like after a lightning strike.
The main room was empty. The glass cases gleamed, their strange contents seemingly untouched. The giant gummy bear leered from its jar.
“Professor Blackwood?” Chris called, his voice too loud in the quiet.
A sound came from the back—a shuffle, then a low, melodic hum. The false bookshelf behind the counter was slightly ajar. A sliver of ochre light spilled out.
They exchanged a glance and approached. Chris pushed the shelf. It swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.
The back office was as they remembered, yet utterly transformed. It was still a cluttered cave of alchemical detritus, but now it was also a seraglio. Thick, crimson velvet drapes were tacked over the high, grimy windows, pooling on the floor. Dozens of candles in wrought-iron holders burned with a steady, unnatural flame, casting dancing shadows over the piles of journals and the shimmering vials. The air hummed with a deeper, more potent version of the shop’s scent—caramel, metal, and now, unmistakably, sex. A musky, sweet perfume hung in the warm air.
Professor Blackwood stood with her back to them, bent over a large, ancient ledger on a standing desk. But she was not the faded, cardigan-clad eccentric they remembered.
She was encased in head-to-toe black latex. It sheathed her form like a second skin, glistening in the candlelight, highlighting a figure that was both familiar and impossibly altered. She was taller, her posture rod-straight. Her hips flared dramatically, her waist cinched tight. The latex cupped a rear that was full and high, and as she turned, they saw the bust was similarly amplified, the glossy material stretched over deep, formidable cleavage. Her hair, once a frizzy grey bob, was a sleek, jet-black fall to her shoulders, stark against the pallor of her face. Her features were sharper, her lips painted a violent red.
But her eyes were the same: a bright, intelligent, and now intensely amused blue.
“Christopher. Beatrice,” she said, her voice a smoky, warm alto. It was her voice, but poured over new cords. “I wondered when you’d return. The sweets… they have a way of prompting follow-up inquiries.” She gestured to two mismatched, overly plush armchairs that Chris was certain hadn’t been there before. “Sit. Please.”
They sat, feeling like children in a headmaster’s office. Bea recovered first. “Professor. You’ve… changed.”
“A side effect of prolonged exposure to the volatilized essences in here,” the professor said, waving a gloved hand languidly at the shelves of glowing syrups. “The molecules seep into the pores. They have opinions on one’s presentation. Today, they felt… assertive.” She smiled, and it was not unkind. It was the smile of a master artisan appreciating her own work. “You, my dears, look thoroughly used. In the best possible way. The oil, I presume? And the… dual immersion?”
Chris felt a blush burn his cheeks. Bea, however, leaned forward, her curiosity overriding any shock. “How did you know?”
“The residue around your third eye is different. A distinctive… pulsing aura. Very singular. Quite a feat for a first attempt with the supplementary materials.” She leaned back against her desk, the latex creaking softly. “You’ve come for understanding. Not merely more toys.”
“We need to know the rules,” Chris said, finding his voice. “We need to know how to control it.”
“Control is an illusion,” Professor Blackwood said, her tone gentle but firm. “Influence is your currency. The sweets are a dialogue between desire and reality. You don’t command them; you propose a scenario. Their execution is their own. The more vividly you propose, the more… literal the response.” She pushed off from the desk and moved to a shelf, her movements liquid and powerful in the latex. She selected a vial filled with a substance that swirled like liquid mercury. “You two are unusually adept. Most people’s desires are muddled, pedestrian. The candy gives them a backache or makes them slightly more charismatic at a party. You… you have narrative flair. You understand mise-en-scène.”
She turned, holding the vial up to the candlelight. “You used the oil as a conduit. Good. It lowers the psychic barrier, makes the flesh more… suggestible. But you’re playing with a system that learns. That adapts. Each iteration informs the next. The candy remembers.”
Bea’s eyes widened. “Remembers?”
“In a manner of speaking. The molecular structures resonate with your unique… conjugal energy. They build a profile. Your last experiment,” she said, looking pointedly at Chris, “involved a fantasy of multiplicity. The system logged that. It may reuse it, or build upon it, in future interactions. Unexpectedly. You must be prepared for that.”
A cold trickle of anxiety ran down Chris’s spine. The lack of control was one thing. The idea of the candy developing a habit, referencing its own earlier work, was another.
“You said ‘supplementary materials,’” Bea said, her gaze drifting to a high shelf behind the professor. There, resting on a bed of black velvet, were several glass objects. Among them was the spiraled, frost-like plug they had seen before. Next to it were others: a thicker, ridged piece; a long, tapered wand; a complex knot of glass loops. They glowed with a faint, internal light.
“Ah, yes,” Professor Blackwood said, following her gaze. A slow, possessive smile spread across her red lips. “The vitreous amplifiers. They are not mere toys. They are tuning forks.” She walked over and lifted the spiraled plug with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. “This one, for example, resonates with the ‘clinical transgression’ theme you so enjoyed. It doesn’t just… occupy. It broadcasts. It reinforces the intended atmosphere.”
She placed it back and picked up the knotted loop. “This one is for intricate, prolonged bindings. A patience-testing piece.” Her eyes, bright and knowing, settled on them. “You wish to understand the full capabilities. Theoretical discussion only takes one so far.”
Chris felt a jolt of understanding. This was the next step. Not just talking about it, but a demonstration. From the source herself.
The professor’s gaze softened, becoming almost maternal. “It’s perfectly alright to be nervous. This is a curated environment. A safe space for extreme inquiry. I propose a simple exercise in mirrored energy. You seek control? Understanding? Watch how the energy flows. How one action can be reflected, amplified, through the right medium.”
She held the spiraled plug in one gloved hand. With the other, she gestured to Bea. “Beatrice, if you’d be so kind. The desk is quite stable.”
Bea looked at Chris. Her face was a mask of tense excitement. This was what they came for. The deep end. She gave a single, sharp nod and stood. She walked to the heavy, scarred oak desk and, without prompting, bent over it, resting her forearms on the aged wood.
Professor Blackwood made an appreciative sound. “Lovely.” She stepped behind Bea. “Christopher, you will watch. You will not touch her. Do you understand? Your interaction is with me. What you do to me, I will mirror onto her. Through the glass. Through the connection it fosters. This is the lesson: energy is transferable. Desire is a current.”
Chris could only nod, his throat dry. He watched as the professor, with a practiced, gentle touch, guided the tip of the frosty glass plug to Bea’s entrance. Bea gasped, her fingers curling against the wood. The professor applied steady, insistent pressure. The glass seemed to shimmer, its internal light pulsing softly. It disappeared into Bea, inch by inexorable inch, until the ornate base sat flush against her skin.
A shudder wracked Bea’s body. Her head dropped between her shoulders. “Oh, god,” she breathed.
“It’s quite cold at first,” Professor Blackwood said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. “Then it adjusts. It finds your core temperature and matches it. Then it begins its work.” She turned to Chris, her blue eyes blazing. “Now, Christopher. Come here. Touch me.”
His legs moved stiffly. He approached the professor, this towering, latex-clad vision of authoritative sensuality. The smell of her—leather, ozone, her own sharp perfume—was overwhelming.
“Where would you like to touch me?” she asked, her voice a low challenge.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and placed it on the curve of her latex-clad hip. The material was shockingly smooth, cool at first, then warming instantly under his touch.
“Good,” she purred. In the same moment, her gloved hand came down in a firm, stinging slap on Bea’s left buttock.
Bea jerked and cried out, not in pain, but in shocked pleasure.
“The connection is direct,” Professor Blackwood explained, her breath coming a little faster. “A tactile echo. What you feel, she feels. Through the glass. Through me.” She took Chris’s other hand and placed it on her latex-covered breast. The fullness was astounding, the nipple hard and prominent beneath the slick material. “Squeeze.”
He did, gently at first, then with more pressure. As he kneaded, the professor’s hand mirrored the motion on Bea’s breast, groping and squeezing with the same rhythm. Bea moaned, pushing her chest into the hand, her back arching.
“See?” the professor whispered. “A circuit. Now… more.”
Her command unlocked something in him. The academic distance crumbled. This was the experiment now. He was part of the apparatus. He slid his hand from her hip around to the full swell of her latex-clad ass, gripping it fiercely. Simultaneously, the professor’s hand gripped Bea’s ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling her cheek aside to reveal the glass plug, gleaming and slick, buried deep.
“Yes,” Professor Blackwood hissed. She turned her head, capturing Chris’s mouth in a sudden, fierce kiss. Her lips were soft and demanding, her tongue sliding against his. It was not a kiss of passion, but of transmission. As they kissed, she reached between Bea’s legs, her fingers finding her wetness, stroking with a relentless, knowing precision.
Bea’s moans became constant, a low, desperate stream against the old wood of the desk. Chris broke the kiss, panting, and buried his face in the professor’s neck, biting the tough latex over her collarbone. She gasped, and her fingers thrust inside Bea, crooking to find a spot that made Bea scream, the sound echoing off the vial-filled shelves.
The professor’s other hand fumbled with the fastening at the front of her latex bodysuit. She peeled the material down just enough to
The professor’s other hand fumbled with the fastening at the front of her latex bodysuit. She peeled the material down just enough to expose the pale, soft swell of one breast, the nipple a tight, dark peak. “Here,” she gasped, her composed demeanor cracking. Her voice was no longer a smoky lecture but a raw, needful command. “Use your mouth.”
Chris obeyed, leaning in to take the offered flesh into his mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue circling the stiff nipple. The professor let out a sharp cry, and her hand between Bea’s legs became a frantic, slapping rhythm against Bea’s clit. Bea’s answering shriek was muffled by the desk, her body trembling violently.
“Harder,” the professor demanded, arching her back, shoving her breast deeper into Chris’s mouth. Her other hand clutched at his hair, holding him tight. She was no longer a distant conductor of the experiment. She was a live wire in the circuit, her breath coming in ragged, open-mouthed pants. “God, yes, just like that. Now your hand—put your fingers in me.”
Chris pulled back, a string of saliva connecting his lips to her glistening skin. He looked from her desperate face to Bea, who was watching them over her shoulder, eyes glazed and wild. The professor grabbed his wrist, her grip viselike in its urgency, and guided his hand between her own legs. The latex there was a separate panel, a tight shorts-like garment. She shoved his fingers past the tight band at her thigh, and he found her wet and utterly slick, her heat a shocking contrast to the cool latex.
He pushed two fingers inside her. She was incredibly tight, pulsing around him. “Fuck,” she groaned, her head falling back. Her hips began to piston against his hand, a desperate, grinding rhythm. As she fucked herself on his fingers, her own hand on Bea became a blur, the sounds wet and obscenely loud in the candlelit room.
The connection was no longer a clinical demonstration. It was a feedback loop of pure need. Chris hooked his fingers inside the professor, finding a rough spot that made her legs buckle. She screamed, and her other hand simultaneously twisted the glass plug buried in Bea a quarter-turn.
Bea came instantly, a seismic, whole-body convulsion that rattled the desk. Her climax triggered the professor’s, a violent, shouting release that made her clamp down on Chris’s hand like a vice. Chris watched, hypnotized, as the two women were torn apart by mirrored pleasure, one over the desk, one clinging to him.
For a moment, the only sounds were their heaving breaths and the soft drip of wax. The professor sagged against Chris, her latex slick with sweat. She slowly withdrew her hand from between Bea’s legs, her fingers glistening. She brought them to Chris’s lips. “Taste,” she murmured, her voice shredded. “Taste the circuit.”
He did. The flavor was complex—Bea’s familiar musk layered with the professor’s distinct, ozone-tanged sweetness. The professor then turned her head and kissed Bea deeply, sharing the taste, completing the loop. When she broke away, her eyes were dark pools of spent triumph. “You see?” she whispered, her body still trembling against Chris’s. “The energy… it has to go somewhere. It demands participation. It makes one… hungry.”
She pushed herself upright, a new, unsteady authority in her movement. She gently helped Bea stand. Bea’s legs were shaky, her face flushed and stunned. The glass plug remained in place, a mysterious anchor. “The amplification is continuous,” the professor said, running a gloved hand over Bea’s flank with a possessiveness that felt earned. “It learns the pathways of pleasure. It remembers.” She looked at Chris, her gaze heavy-lidded and direct. “Your turn. I’ve shown you the reflection. Now feel the source.”
She guided him back until his knees hit the arm of one plush chair. She pushed him down into it. The worn velvet was coarse against his skin. She didn’t undress him, just unzipped his trousers and freed his cock, which was hard and aching. She looked at it, then up at him, and something in her expression shifted. The polished dominatrix was gone, replaced by something rawer, needier.
“I want to feel it from the other side,” she said, almost to herself. She gestured to Bea, who stumbled forward, understanding. Bea knelt before Chris, her hands on his thighs. She took him into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head.
The professor watched for a moment, a flicker of pure envy on her face. Then she climbed onto Chris’s lap, straddling him, her back to his chest. She reached behind herself, guiding him into her. She was still wet, still pulsing from her own climax, and she sank onto him with a deep, guttural groan of relief. “Finally,” she breathed, as if she’d been waiting for this specific pressure for years.
She began to move, not with the instructional rhythm from before, but with a greedy, plunging need. She rode him with a focused intensity, her head resting back against his shoulder, her eyes on Bea’s bobbing head in his lap. “Watch her,” the professor commanded in a throaty murmur near his ear. “Watch her suck your cock while I fuck you. Feel both. Know both.”
Chris was split, mesmerized. The wet, warm pull of Bea’s mouth. The tight, clutching heat of the professor around him. The professor’s hands clawed at his knees, her hips a relentless machine. “You like that, don’t you?” she grunted, her voice losing all its polished edges. “Being the center? Being our shared project?”
She reached forward, tangling her hand in Bea’s purple hair, not guiding, just claiming. “Take him deep, girl. Make him come in your mouth while he’s buried inside me.” The need in her voice was terrifying and magnificent. She was no longer teaching. She was taking.
The dual sensations, the raw filth of the command, the sight of the professor coming apart in his lap—it coiled the tension in Chris’s gut to a breaking point. The professor felt it, felt his balls tightening against her. “Now,” she snarled, slamming down onto him one final time, her body clamping hard. “Give it to her. I want to feel you pump through her.”
The climax ripped through Chris, a blinding surge. He came in violent pulses down Bea’s throat as the professor shuddered around him, her own second orgasm triggered by the convulsions of his. Bea swallowed greedily, milking him until he was spent and oversensitive.
The professor collapsed against him, a dead weight of sweat-slick latex and trembling flesh. The only sound was their ragged breathing. After a long moment, she shifted, lifting herself off him with a soft, wet sound. She turned, looking down at him with an expression of drained, sated wonder. Her carefully constructed persona was in tatters. She was just a woman, amazed and a little scared by her own hunger.
“There,” she whispered, touching his cheek with a tenderness that felt more intimate than anything prior. “Now you understand the true variable. It’s not the candy. It’s the human heart. It’s the need. The candy just gives it a shape.”
She stood, her legs unsteady, and helped Bea to her feet. She carefully, gently, removed the glass plug from Bea. It came out with a soft, crystalline sigh. Bea gasped, her body seeming to sigh in relief. The professor placed the plug on the desk, where it gleamed, innocuous once more.
“The need,” she repeated, looking at the plug, then at them. “It builds. The more you feed the system, the hungrier it gets. Your profile is now… robust. The next time you use the sweets, the suggestions will be stronger. The manifestations, more vivid.” She met Chris’s eyes, a genuine concern flickering in her tired blue gaze. “You wanted control. There is none. There is only appetite, and the willingness to be consumed by it.”
Bea leaned into Chris, her body warm and soft against his side. They were all three of them laid bare, not just physically. The cluttered back room, with its candles and its secrets, felt suddenly colder. The professor wrapped her latex-clad arms around herself, a gesture that looked strangely vulnerable.
“Go home,” she said softly, turning away to gaze at her shelves of shimmering vials. “Be careful with what you hunger for.”