Chapter 4: The Barthes Paper Deadline
The Barthes paper was flawless. Chris knew it as he pressed print, watching the pages slither out warm and precise. He’d woven the death of the author through a critique of modern fan theory, tied it with a bow of semiotic theory so elegant it made his own mind buzz. It was better than the Russian formalism essay. It was, he suspected, the best thing he’d ever written.
He approached Albion’s door not with trepidation, but with a quiet, buoyant certainty. He had the pellet. He knew the maze.
The knock was met with a terse “It’s open.”
The scene inside was different. The usual controlled chaos had tipped into genuine disarray. A textbook lay spine-up on the floor. An empty energy drink can was crushed beside the wastebasket, as if thrown. Albion sat at his desk, but he wasn’t gaming or browsing. He was staring at his laptop screen, his posture a rigid line of discontent. The air didn’t hum with electric tension; it crackled with a sour, spent static.
“Hey,” Chris said, holding out the neatly clipped pages.
Albion swiveled slowly. His blue eyes were flat, a winter lake. The charismatic glint was gone, replaced by something pared down and sharp. “Put it there.” He gestured to a precarious stack of magazines.
Chris did. He stood waiting, the silence swelling.
“Got a B-minus on the PoliSci midterm,” Albion said finally, his voice conversational in a way that felt dangerous. “A B-minus. Mullins said my analysis of the federalist papers was ‘superficial.’” He snorted. “Guy’s breath smells like egg salad and he’s calling me superficial.”
“That’s… that’s rough,” Chris offered, knowing it was insufficient.
“It’s unjust.” Albion’s gaze fixed on him. “The universe is out of balance. When the universe is out of balance, there needs to be a correction. A counter-weight.”
Chris felt the buoyancy in his chest deflate. “The paper is really good, Albion.”
“I’m sure it is.” Albion stood up. He stretched, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of taut abdomen. The gesture wasn’t seductive; it was weary. “But right now, I don’t care about Barthes. I care about equilibrium.” He took two steps and sank into the room’s sole armchair, a battered leather thing. He looked at Chris, then down at his own feet, clad in worn, grey cotton socks. “These are tired. They’ve been carrying around my disappointment all day. Kneel. Fix it.”
It wasn’t the playful, commanding tone from before. It was an order, stripped bare. A punishment for the universe’s crime, and Chris was the closest available proxy.
Chris’s mouth went dry. The shame that usually warred with arousal didn’t flare up; it just sat there, a cold lump. This was different. This wasn’t reward. This was recompense. He knelt on the rough industrial carpet.
“Socks off. Use your teeth.”
Chris leaned forward. The cotton smelled of salt and synthetic fiber. He took the cuff of one sock between his teeth, tugging it down over the heel, revealing Albion’s foot. The arch was high, the skin pale. He did the same with the other. Albion didn’t watch, his head resting against the chair back, eyes on the ceiling.
“Worship,” he said, the word dropping like a stone.
Chris began. He started with his hands, massaging the instep, the ball of the foot, his thumbs working circles. He bent and pressed his lips to the cool skin of the inner arch. He licked a slow, broad stripe from heel to toe. The taste was clean, slightly musky. He took toes into his mouth, one by one, sucking gently. He performed with mechanical precision, all technique, no passion. It was an atonement.
Albion remained silent for a long time. Then he sighed. “Better. A little. Your technique is good, but your heart’s not in it. That’s fine. I’m not feeling particularly heartfelt myself.” He shifted. “Up. Chair.”
Chris rose, his knees aching. Albion pointed to the desk chair, the one he’d vacated. “Strip from the waist down. Sit.”
Confusion swirled, but Chris obeyed. He undid his jeans, pushed them and his boxers down, stepped out. The air was cool. He sat in the leather chair, its surface cold against his bare thighs.
From his desk drawer, Albion produced a length of navy blue nylon rope and a small, black plastic device. A vibrator, bullet-shaped, with a single button. He moved behind Chris.
“Hands on the armrests.”
Chris gripped the cold metal. Albion’s hands were quick, tying each of his wrists securely to the chair’s arms. Another rope snaked around his chest, pinning him to the chair back. He was bound, exposed, facing the cluttered desk.
Albion picked up the Barthes essay. He leaned against the desk, perching right in front of Chris, so close their knees almost touched. He held up the vibrator.
“You said it’s good. We’ll see.” He reached down and pressed the little device against Chris’s inner thigh, not where he wanted it, just off to the side. A high, tinny buzz filled the silence. He turned it on.
The vibration was intense, a localized furious hum. Chris jolted. Albion moved it, tracing a slow, maddening path up his thigh, circling, never landing at the destination that was already thickening, straining upward.
Then Albion began to read the essay aloud.
His voice was calm, academic. “‘The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author.’ A foundational premise, clearly stated.” The vibrator circled the base of Chris’s cock. “However, the transition to fan theory as a case study here feels… hasty. The connective tissue is weak. ‘Thus’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting on page two.”
He read on, his critique a quiet, relentless counterpoint to the physical torment. Every minor flaw—a slightly repetitive phrase, an assumption that needed more justification—was highlighted. With each criticism, the vibrator would dip dangerously close, then skate away. Chris’s body was a live wire. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. His hips twitched, seeking friction, finding only air and the brief, teasing press of plastic.
“The conclusion is strong,” Albion conceded, flipping to the last page. The vibrator finally made contact, a firm, direct press right beneath the head. Chris cried out, his back arching against the ropes. “But the penultimate paragraph meanders. You lose momentum right before the finish line.” And with that, he lifted the vibrator away entirely, turning it off.
The sudden silence was louder than the buzz. Chris whimpered, his entire body screaming for completion.
Albion dropped the essay onto the desk. He crouched down, eye-level with Chris’s agonized expression. He wasn’t smiling. “It’s an A paper. Probably an A-plus. It’s brilliant, Chris.” He said it with finality, like stating the weather. “But my grade isn’t back yet. The universe is still unbalanced. My B-minus still exists.”
He stood up, walked to the bed, and lay down, putting his arms behind his head. He looked at the ceiling again. “You can stay like that for a while. Think about momentum. Think about premature conclusions.”
Chris swallowed, the ache a solid, throbbing presence. “How long?”
“Until I get my grade back. If it’s an A, you’ll get your release. If it’s another B-minus…” Albion finally turned his head, meeting Chris’s desperate gaze. The sharpness in his eyes had softened into something colder, more contemplative. “Well. Then we’ll have a much bigger imbalance to correct, won’t we?”
He rolled over, turning his back to the chair. “Don’t make noise. I’m taking a nap.”