Slave by Degrees, Chapter 1, Ep.1

This story is prompted by this remarkable image, posted by [ActSub](https://actsub.bdsmlr.com) on BDsmlr (click to reveal).

I would like to credit the originator (I’m guessing it’s an AI generated image, but, other than ActSub, I have no-one to credit. Thank you, whoever you are).

I’ve attempted a back story for the image, which will unfold over at least three chapters, each of which may have one or more episodes (I have a plan, but these things can take on a life of their own).

“You sent a photograph with your letter. Quite large, with you in a short skirt.”

Leesha's CV photo

It wasn’t a question,just a statement; but the question was there and she couldn’t answer it— not wouldn’t but couldn’t. Well, she could speculate, but … she was blushing, she knew, and hated herself. She had thought it was going so well, but now that they have started really talking, he has taken the gloves off.

Not that he is being mean, but that there is a coolness in his tone, his face has lost expression, and he’s looking at her steadily, full in the face; without intensity, but very clearly paying attention to everything he sees.

She feels naked.

This is what I came for, though.

And it’s true; although the conversation over lunch had been pleasant and interesting, she had been increasingly aware of a growing feeling of disappointment. Was this really the great intellect, the ruthless pursuer of sense, of coherence, of specificity?

And here he was; the man she was so certain she needed to work with, exactly as she had hoped he would be— except that it was her material he was being ruthless about; the package she’d sent him with her request that he consider her as a Research Assistant. To him, the man who famously never took on assistants, the man who famously never worked with women, the man who was often called a misogynist, the man whose work she had used as the basis for a proposed new understanding of what feminism must be ("If nothing else, my dear, it will be worth it for how pissed off it will make him" her old Professor had said, cackling through her Gauloise smoke). It was her he was dissecting.

“The … that’s a perfectly ordinary length of skirt. I … I’m a modern woman; I can wear what I like.”

‘The fatuous, foolish words of an irrelevant ninnyhammer…’ It was a notorious put-down of his, the total content of a formal review of a paper authored by her old Professor, but it applied perfectly to what she had just said.

Her blush deepened, and it was with great difficulty that she prevented herself from babbling some even more shaming retraction.

But it was enough, the damage was done; it was in the air between them now;

You, a supposedly serious thinker, a feminist apparently, sent an attractive picture of yourself, with a certain amount of flesh on show, to the crusty old professor you are hoping to work with, knowing that although he has never worked with a woman, he has, since fame was thrust upon him in his forties, dated a number of notable beauties, always much younger than him.

He moved on, though, without any change of expression or manner, without forcing an answer, and she was grateful, until he came in with another challenge;

“I was wondering about your claimed feminism, I suppose.”

This too was not a question, but was certainly an offer of a way in, even if he had undermined her before giving it.

“Well, yes,” why the silly hesitancy? I’m not normally like this " … of course my case is— assuming you’ve read the thesis— No change of expression, no hint at all; nothing to do but blunder on " … well, that the problem with feminism is the label, the collapse of half of humanity into a category, an ideology, which … which doesn’t apply to individual cases, although the statistical historical facts remain unquestionable."

She was conscious of a growing desperateness, and quoshed it, forcefully. I defended this PhD in front of a strong panel and an online audience, too, and even though it is controversial, I came through with flying colours!

“The blouse you are wearing today seems a little more open at the cleavage; the skirt to be even shorter. Is it a feminist skirt, or an individual skirt?”

Leesha, as she left home for the interview

She shifted in her seat, and hated herself for it, but managed an answer at least;

“It’s … it’s an individual skirt, of course.”

Only after saying it did she realise how obvious, how unnecessary a reply had been. He handled it with the faintest of smiles though, not condescending— as he rightfully could have been— but letting her off the hook, and a weak little surge of hope rose in her.

“And a very pretty individual skirt it is too— not to mention that it reveals a significant portion of your wonderful legs.”

“My question of you, Leesha— I can call you Leesha?” Her body makes some sort of awkward little shimmy of submission, as if she were a frightened schoolgirl — he can call her what he likes, it suggests; why am I being like this, like a little girl?

In any case he has not waited for her consent.

“— is this; have you come today intending to trap me into employing you by inferring the possibility of some harassment claim, or, alternatively, have you come here hoping to get fucked, or, a third possibility which seems perhaps most likely, have you come here offering sex as an inducement to me employing you?”

His directness was like a blow to the solar plexus; she was breathless, sucking for air, quickly finding her vision blurred, blinking rapidly to clear the little gush of moisture; she must not cry; not even let a drop form.

I should leave. I can’t be spoken to like that; can’t accept being spoken to like that. Outrageous!

And yet she was not leaving. Knew, deep inside her that she would not leave until this was decided, once and for all, until she had given all she had, to get him to say yes. This lunch appointment had taken four months of patient effort, hard thinking, use of favours; she had time and again suggested to herself that she drop it, that she was crazy. Bob, too, had challenged her (“He’s bad for you, this man. You got stuck on him and had all that trouble with your thesis, so now no-one wants to give you a job, the publisher dropped the offer, and what do you decide? To dive in deeper. Can’t you see what you’re doing? Stop, Alicia, Please!” Bob could never bring himself to call her Leesha).

Each time she was ready to quit though, she came back to the same point; if she could only get him to see that his own work supported her position— she could offer him a way back from the label of ‘old-fashioned male chauvinist pig’ which had dogged him for the past decade, and which she knew— knew with all her mind, all her heart, even, was not deserved— not in his work, at least (even though his behaviour had certainly been repeatedly questionable). And of course, there was the minor consideration that, if she could achieve such a thing, her own career too, might in some small way be rescued.

She blinks, hard, forces a long, slow in-breath, out-breath, in-breath, knowing that he is watching, that he can see just how hard his words hit, how much effort it is taking her to stay with him, feeling her breasts swell with each breath, knowing he can see that. It’s shaming; she has let him see how weak she is, how needy, too— to have accepted such words and not stormed out (his hope and intention, she is guessing).

“I … I need to reset, please. I … I am here because I want to work with you, Professor. I did not so much choose the subject of my thesis, but have it thrust on me by your brilliance, your persistence with difficult questions, even when your results were bound to be unpopular. When I was told that I must read you— all of it, despite your reputation— that if I wanted to be able to claim to be serious, your work was required reading, I faced a challenge; was I serious, or did I want to write something that would go down well?”

“And … and I made my choice; I did read it, and it was hard; you are ruthless and … frequently unkind, uncharitable, and … and that was hard to accept, but so, so valuable; that I had to submit to uncomfortable truths if I wanted to get anywhere; you cut away so many of the arguments I had grown used to relying on; so much of it exposed by you as half-baked, lazy, confused, flat-out wrong. And you didn’t do it by arguing, but by building again from first principles, and then savagely asserting that the work of others was thus revealed as trash. You didn’t even bother to show how they had got it wrong, just laid it all out so that anyone who could follow you would see. And I did; it was hard, it made me mad, it got me into fights with people who had influence over my future, but I did it, I discovered that I could, could think clearly, could follow you; and I saw. And I’m so grateful to you for that, whatever you decide about employing me.”

“Whether you like it or not, whether you even read it or not, my thesis is an attempt to explore what, if anything, can be salvaged of feminism— and by extension other social justice philosophies— if your critiques, your proofs, are taken seriously— as well as making the case that they must indeed be taken seriously.”

“Once it was written, once defended, I found myself alone. No-one wanted to know. I … Your work … your work needs to be rescued from the convenient lazy hole it has been consigned to, on the basis of ad hominem attacks. And … I want to help with that. It’s … it’s important.”

She had not been able to meet his eyes at the beginning of her little speech, but had gradually found herself so needful for any clues at all as to how he was taking all this that she had lifted her eyes to his.

She got nothing; she might as well have been reading the op-ed from the newspaper.

He was paying attention, certainly, interested, probably, but there was no discernible impact. None.

It was appallingly hard to take. To sit; simply sit and let him watch her; not to gabble, not to fill the terrible emptiness. She knew, though, with a certainty, that to speak now was to end her chances.

He didn’t speak; after a little while, he relaxed back into his chair, picked up his napkin and wiped his fingers, looking at those, then looked back at her; mild, expressionless; still probably interested, not looking away, but with no inkling at all that he was going to respond, no inkling of anything at all. They looked at each other for what might have been an eternity.

Why wouldn’t he speak?

Slowly, very slowly, she noticed a vague smile curving his lips— though there was nothing in his eyes.

She knew what it meant— thought she did at least; he was about to say something terribly polite and simple and regretful and that would be it; her chance with him would be gone. Over. She would have to walk away, defeated; lose her chance, her hope.

It went on and on, though, and still he did not speak, and still, she was certain that she must stay silent, must wait for him. She wished she could look away, look down, go to the restroom, something, anything but be here, skewered like this, knowing though that this, this was it; the time when it would be decided.

And so she suffered, let him impose suffering upon her. Then his eyes moved, went, very obviously, to her cleavage. He was looking at her breasts, staring at them, letting her know that he was doing that, making it obvious, and she? What would she do?

It turned out that she would sit. Sit and let him stare at her breasts, his smile growing a little stronger, her face flushing; she could feel the warmth at her cheeks. It was awful; she’d never been so directly demeaned by a man, and let it happen— not since she was twelve or thirteen at least.

Had he no sense of what he was doing, how it was affecting her? Of course he did! That was why he was doing it. Testing her, pushing her. Trying to drive her away, so that he would not have to reject her! Was he that weak, that cowardly?

It was terribly hard to control the jitters, to think; she must try something else, before he spoke. He looked up again, his fake smile kinder, more bland again, though his eyes were as sharp as ever.

The thought came to her; You could try being honest.

No! No, that would never do; it wouldn’t work, anyway, and also, she couldn’t! Couldn’t make herself say it. Didn’t even know what to say about … about that part of it.

It seemed impossible that nothing was happening to end this torment, until, all of a sudden, for no obvious reason, she became convinced that his patience had gone, that he was going to say something anodyne and walk away; that she had lost.

She must do something! Anything to push for a better outcome— a second chance at least— but she was frozen, paralysed by the importance of it, by her powerlessness, by his impervious, implacable calm.

And then, at last, he did speak; only to confound her again.

“You can tell me. I know already, of course; but you do need to tell me. And then you can go to the concierge and book a suite for the night. I’ll be paying, but it will be in your name. Then I will test you as to my sexual requirements of you. They are not extreme, but they are non-negotiable. You’ll strip for me, then I’ll spank your pretty butt, hard, make you cry real tears, and then you can show me your blowjob technique.”

“Because that’s what matters, now. First, you being honest— with yourself as well as with me, and second, me judging your body, your technique, your willingness to deliver on my requirements. Because I did read your thesis, and there is indeed evidence there of someone who has read widely and carefully, who is trying to think, trying to see, and some decent writing, too, in parts. But that’s not enough, as you seem to have guessed. Not for me to take my first ever female assistant. You’ll have to prove yourself.”

It was appalling; horrifying, impossible that he had said those things— that he was as calm as he was, that no-one else in the swanky hotel restaurant had noticed, that she, a modern women of the respectable class, in a respectable establishment, talking about an academic appointment, could be subjected to such language!

She was still frozen, but not numb anymore; rather, her whole body was alive with energy, fully present; fight or flight— the words came into her head. She should scream at him, call the management, hold him to account, challenge him; it would be her word against his, but if she confronted him now he might not be so damned cool, might say something incriminating.

Better, though … better to simply run away. Obsessing over him and his work had done enough harm already. Bob had been right all along.

She so wanted to run away, to hide, to cry for her loss.

Just get up and leave. Leave, NOW!

But in the end, she did nothing. She knew what the only right choices were, but there was something in her, something that had been propelling her all along, perhaps; in any case, pressured relentlessly by him, it had now revealed itself, or been revealed, and it was obdurate, remorseless in its demands of her.

It required of her that she would not fight, would not permit her to run away either. What it demanded of her was that she submit; that she allow herself to be defeated, rendered helpless, an accessory to her own diminishment.

She could feel it, like a hunger, like a taste, a foretaste of what it would feel like to have been defeated, for him to have his hands on her, hurting her, to have no choice but to serve him with her mouth, to try her best to please him that way (she had always refused to do this for Bob, had not done it at all since she was seventeen, not for anyone, not even the astonishing Raul that crazy spring break in Mexico).

And it had her.

And this time it was not just acceptance— letting him speak crudely to her, letting him stare at her breasts— it was submission; as she had had to submit to the force and brutal logic of his arguments, she now had to submit to the crude and shameful business of being used for sex by a powerful man, in order to get a job she wanted.

But it wasn’t for the job that she was submitting— not really; appalling as it was, she could not hide from the wanting inside her, and she was horribly certain that he knew this too. Whatever he had said, he must know that it would be terribly dangerous to actually impose such demands on a woman who was really unwilling. The test had been manifold, but this was it, really— he had wanted to be sure that there was that in her which wanted to submit.

All this was racing through her mind in an agonising tumbling of dominos, each successive realisation forcing the next, unstoppable, unarguable, demolishing her inside, and again he was watching; he could see, she was sure, somehow knew that he could see what was going on inside her, how she was losing things, certainties, assumptions, confidence about herself. She felt tears again, and again ruthlessly suppressed them. She must not be pathetic; she could not risk it; he had to see that she wanted this, that it was her body saying yes, not her ambition. that she was weak, not strong.

That she was grateful; horribly, frighteningly grateful that he had pushed her so hard, got her to this point, revealed herself to her.

Because this, this felt like herself, like what she had been looking for, and she was trembling.

She was submitting, and she was aware of just how terrible a thing to do this was, how much of a betrayal of herself, and yet it was sweet and soft and the most enormous relief to give herself, to accept defeat, to accept the obvious; that he was her superior in all respects, weak and pathetically grateful for his attention.

She must answer his question— let him have her secrets; they were his, now, not hers, in any case, since she had submitted;

“Honestly; yes. Yes I have had … ah … passing fantasies about … about sex with you. About … ah … becoming one … ah … one of your girls. Also; yes, also the thought that you might … ah … might like to have me around, nicely … ah … nicely dressed.”

She was breathing deeply, slowly, both fizzing with energy and tremulously calm; it was wonderful to have said those words, out loud, to him, that he had wanted her to say them, truly wonderful, the pauses in her shameful admission more the soft sighing moans of unlooked for, disturbingly welcome relief from unacknowledged buried strain than embarrassed hesitations (though there was that, too, of course; as she heard the words coming from her mouth she wondered if she might die of shame, so hard was her heart beating) — an overwhelming, unstoppable release of tensions— a release which felt like a dam breaking; a dam that should have held; should have been held back, should have been defended at all costs, the breaking of which, the tsunami of emotions and revelations from which seemed certain to overcome her, even as their release was met with a deep, bodily gratitude.

I have said yes to sexual abuse from a man old enough to be my grandfather, whom I only met half an hour ago, in return for a job where the sexual abuse will continue, will become part of my everyday life.

And I don’t regret it.

Read the next part of Slave by Degrees.