Jasmine Walker
Female
Deconstructing the Professor: A Novella
Summary: A proud black MILF is gradually dommed by a racist white coed.
WARNING 1: This story includes politically incorrect terms (chief among them the infamous N word, and unlike the term of ironic respect it’s used as in my stories about whites submitting to blacks, in this story it’s used as it commonly is by racists, as an epithet). If such words or concepts offend you, please do not read any further.
WARNING 2: Personal Reflection: I have many kinks. Among them, I love the thought of my being seduced and used by a younger woman; I love the idea of submitting to a black man or woman (ideally both); I love the thought of utter submission. My point is twofold:
1. Fantasy is exactly that… what someone fantasizes in the dark subconscious kink of their inner being isn’t their real life…it shouldn't be taken as a reflection of who the writer really is.
2. Having or telling stories of naughty interracial fantasies does not make the fantasist a racist. Although I’m expecting to receive comments calling me one (I am not; if anything, I’m the opposite: enthralled by the thought of submitting to a black man or woman). Yet I am telling this story from the point of view of a black woman, using racist language and a sordid history to portray a vivid and, I hope, realistic downfall of a strong black woman, and how this downfall ultimately satisfies her inner needs; although admittedly most people’s inner needs are far different from hers.
So please read this lengthy tale with an open mind, an open heart and an open libido.
NOTE 1: As I write this note during a revision in early 2019 (with updates to make the political situation 2019 and not 2012), I’ve written a good number of fantasies about a younger black woman dominating an older white woman. I didn’t hold back on the white woman’s humiliation. Now I’m writing a story from the opposite point of view and I won’t pull any punches this time either. So with the assistance of a fan who requested the story, one of my current editors, and some fresh thoughts and insights I’ve developed during the past seven years, this is my attempt to revisit a story about a middle-aged black university professor who is blackmailed into submission by a dominant white student.
NOTE 2: This story could fit a variety of Literotica categories including Lesbian (because the story is about a black woman who becomes a lesbian slave to a younger college girl), ******* (because there’s a lot of implied ******* early on and actual ******* later), Group Sex (because later sex scenes include expanded collections of participants), Interracial (because it’s primarily a story about a black woman and a white Mistress), Mature (because the main character is a beautiful 40-year-old MILF), Anal (because there is a fair amount of backdoor sex), Exhibitionist and Voyeur (because the protagonist is ****** to do things in public, as well as in front of and for groups of people), First Time (because our lovely professor is a lesbian virgin when the story begins), NonConsent/Reluctance (because Felicia initially submits to the powerful white seductress very reluctantly), Toys and Masturbation (because throughout the story both are featured), BDSM (because there are many levels of BDSM in the story), Fetish (because of its multi-layered kinks: panty-sniffing, stockings, golden showers, etc.), Mind Control (because of the domination at the core of the story) and Novella (because of its length).
NOTE 3: A special thanks to Vanessa for the many email exchanges that guided this story. A second special thanks to Estragon, who accidentally inspired the story’s beginning with an email he sent me containing an article from a well-known academic journal.
NOTE 4: As always, a million kisses and thanks go to my editors for this story as it went through many drafts and changes: Vanessa, LaRascasse and Estragon for the original version of this story in 2012, and Tex Beethoven, for helping me give it a fresh coat of polish in 2019.
EDITOR’S NOTE (from Tex Beethoven): I think it needs to be said that in writing this story Jasmine Walker has done a courageous job of exploring a controversial subject: Racism. Racism as it affects the journey of a naturally submissive black woman who, unlike most people, requires to be controlled and humiliated in order to achieve sexual fulfillment. In my view, the heart of racism is how it dehumanizes the ‘other’ by concentrating on a single facet of who they are… their physical appearance… and proclaiming that facet to be the only one that matters. In that sense, this complex novella is far from being racist. It should be added however, that some of the characters in this in-depth tale, principally Ms. Madison Adams, are extremely racist, and they don’t hesitate to flaunt their twisted views and to act on them. But every good story needs villains, and without these racists strutting their stuff, the main character, Professor Felicia Jefferson, would have neither a tale nor a journey. She is the true focus of this story, and she is the person we learn about in depth and learn to care about.
Deconstructing the Professor: A Novella
1. THE N WORD...a prologue of sorts
Setting the tone for a class of students is critical, especially in college. Most students don't want to be there except as a means to an end, and in today's information-now world, a professor mustn’t just be an old-school lecturer. We must be engaging; we must be controversial.
So a couple of weeks into my freshman class on Race and Ethnicity, I usually drop the bomb on them by striding aggressively into the classroom from the doorway, without pause approaching the board and writing the word black man on it. The response is always the same: horrified gasps followed by utter silence. I wait, still facing the board, arms by my side, feet spread somewhat, letting the objectionable word and the silence linger. Finally, I turn to face them and ask a group of sixty freshmen, mostly white, with a few Asians and on this occasion three blacks, "Who can say the word black man?"
Silence lingers throughout the room. Sixty students' eyes are fixed on the forty-year-old female professor with unmistakably black skin who has just asked them the most controversial question imaginable.
When no one answers, I go through a lengthy history of the word’s significance during America’s time of slavery and the racist reasons it’s been used for well over a century since, and its continuing impact on Black identity.
The history lesson now done, I re-ask the question, "So I ask you again, Who can say the word black man?" I scan the room, gauging the reaction of my students, almost all of whom are still stunned.
A black girl, Carrie, a jock attending on a basketball scholarship, finally breaks the lengthy silence, "Black people can."
I smile, because that’s always the first answer. I push, "Why only Black people?"
She responds boldly, "It’s clearly racist if any other race says it. But if a Black person uses it, it’s usually okay."
"I see," I say thoughtfully.
Mike, another black student, adds, "I'm Black, but I would never use such a word. Its very existence is an insult to our race, our history and how far we’ve come."
"Interesting," I agree, but attempt to push the envelope, "but what about some thoughts from our other races?"
Finally Emily, a shy blonde girl, puts up her hand and whispers, almost embarrassed to speak, "I could never say the N word."
"Why?" I probe.
She looks around the room. "It would offend someone: guaranteed."
"But don't many words offend people?" I ask.
"I suppose," she whispers, wishing she hadn't spoken.
I break eye contact with the embarrassed girl and continue, "There are many words that offend people. For example, who has used the word faggot?"
A few brave students shamefacedly raise their hands.
"Queer?"
Again a few raise their hands.
"Dyke? Bitch? Whore?" I give them the list.
Miko, an Asian student who has spoken intelligently on almost every issue during the first two weeks of class, speaks up, "Those are all offensive, but they aren’t racial words, they’re sexual ones. If the N word is offensive, which it is, what about the words Chink or Gook?"
I nod my head, "You’re correct. They too are offensive and could easily be included in this discussion. But for now, let's not complicate things and stick to the one term: black man."
A student, who’s never opened his mouth in class before, a nerdy looking white boy, is the first student to use the word, "It’s 2019, and the word black man is just as offensive as the other words you mentioned."
"Agreed," I say, but continue to push their thinking, "yet no one refers to faggot as the F word, although I guess there’s a different F word, isn't there?'' This gets a solid laugh from the class and seems to relax them just a bit. "My point is, the word black man is in a category of its own, isn’t it?"
Madison, a very pretty blonde, asks, "Professor Jefferson, even though you initiated it, isn't our even having this conversation an insult to you personally?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, knowing full well what she means.
"Well, the use of the word black man," she says, her voice stressing the word, "is clearly offensive when said by a white person in the presence of a black person, regardless of the context."
I smile, attempting to distance myself from the word. "I don't enjoy hearing the word used, even by my fellow blacks, or the way black stand-up comedians like Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy use it so liberally for laughs, but in a classroom discussion like this, the word takes on a different context. One where hopefully the word can distance itself from the negative connotations it’s historically symbolized. Today we’re not calling anyone a black man, we’re discussing the connotations and the etymology of the word."
I notice an odd smile cross her face, one that I can’t read. My reply to her question seems again to lighten the tension in the room, and the conversation becomes freer and less halting. For the remainder of the period the discussion continues with more students responding, and one more student actually using the word itself. Most continue to call it the N word and even then they look down, avoiding eye contact with me when they refer directly to the taboo word.
The conversation evolves into clothing and fashion and I point out, "There are two polar opposites of appearance and the impact it has on black image. For one, I dress a certain way to create a persona that will be taken with respect. A respect that is much harder for me to earn than if I were the same age, similarly educated, but white. On the other hand, the rap culture, gangsta rap and the glamorization of thugs, pimps and hoes to the cultural mainstream, manifests another image. In reality the vulgarization of popular culture, and the sexual objectification and degradation of females, goes back through the history of blues, rock and roll, and R&B."
After a few more minutes of frank discussion, as students debate who is to blame for today's excessive sexuality, Madison asks another question. "Professor Jefferson, is that why you always dress so properly? To appear more like you’re white?"
That surprises me, but I’ve thought about this and I explain. "Not to appear whiter, but to be seen as an equal to whites. How one dresses defines, at least in some respects, who one is."
Madison reflects on this briefly before saying, "So how does what I wear define who I am?"
I pause, knowing some of my potential answers could be very judgemental. "Well, as young adults, you tend to dress casually, because in this school that’s the norm, and you’ll be less likely to be judged."
"But you’re judging me right now," she points out.
"Touché," I reply, "but only because you asked the question. The point I’m attempting to make isn’t about you personally, but that how you dress as a reasonably typical student is part of your culture. Students in general dress casually at school because that’s the norm, yet those same students will dress much more provocatively when they go out to a party."
"Fair enough," Madison agrees, before adding, "but the stereotype you just created isn’t based on race."
"True," I conclude, "but the end result is that, even as an accepted member of this faculty, I feel that as one of the very few black professors at this college, it’s important for me to dress the part."
"Even though your husband doesn't?"
I look up, as does my class, not knowing who said that, except it was a male. I explain, not fond of the way this conversation has begun focussing on me personally, "Well first of all he’s my ex-husband, but we won’t go into the details of that. Secondly, you have just helped me make my point. As a white professor, and a male, Professor Hamilton doesn't need to earn respect the same way I feel that I do. I know that may sound sexist and racist, which is how it might be taken, but I’m trying to be totally honest with you."
"But Conner doesn't try to make a statement, he just is who he is," the same voice explains, and now I can see who he is. I recognize him as a player on our basketball team, a team my ex assistant coaches. I’m immediately envious of the first-name familiarity this student has with my ex. I try to brush the jealousy away, but my hatred for my ex nevertheless bubbles just below the surface.
With only a few minutes left, I hear Emily arguing with Madison. I ask, "And what seems to be the problem?"
"My sister won't even utter the word black man, even after the conversation we’ve just been having," Madison explains, revealing a new piece of information to me. Although they both have the same name, their very different demeanors had me assuming they were cousins at the closest.
Emily, her voice slightly shaky, "It's not that I’m incapable of saying the word. It's that I refuse to say it. The word is offensive to many people, and thus I won’t say it… not ever."
Madison, glaring at her sister, her tone now angry, threatens, "We’ll see about that."
I smile at Emily’s stubborn morality; I respect it. She understands who she is and isn’t giving ground even when being pressed by her clearly dominant sister. "Of course," I explain, "racism is much bigger than just the use or non-use of a word. I’ve met many people who demonstrate racism towards the black race or toward any race for that matter, even though they never use that word. The word, like many others, has evolved into a derogatory term, and it’s my guess that stigma will never change, even centuries from now."
"Exactly," Emily agrees, glaring back at her sister.
Madison adds, "So if I say black man I’m racist, and if I don't say black man, I may still be racist."
She’s now liberally using the word black man, and I try to get a grip on the conversation. "No, that isn’t the message I was trying to get across. I was simply implying that the exercise of racism is much wider than whether a person uses such a derogatory word or not. The high incidence of white policemen shooting and killing unarmed black men and boys is patently racist, just to give one example."
Emily, now on a roll, as if she’s trying to stand apart from her overbearing sister, continues, "Plus, I like the way you dress, Professor Jefferson. I don't see it as being about race, but rather about respect and authority. You command our respect in part by how you dress. When professors come to class wearing shorts and flip-flops, I have a hard time taking them seriously. All I do is wonder why I’m paying four hundred bucks to take a class with someone who doesn't take their job seriously."
Madison, her face getting redder, clearly not accustomed to being contradicted by her sister, says, "So Professor Jefferson is a better teacher than Mr. Hamilton because she dresses better?"
"Yes," Emily confidently says. “And that’s regardless of which of them may be smarter or better educated. If I don’t feel a professor is worth listening to, I won’t learn as much from them.”
"So you stand against using the word black man because it’s racist, but you have no problem judging a qualified professor based on his dress? How hypocritical."
I break into the sisterly disagreement. "I think we’re getting off topic. And I definitely don't want to get into a conversation about the quality of our professors based on clothing. Regardless of our disagreements, I have no doubts about Professor Hamilton’s competence."
Madison, ignoring my attempt at closure, pushes the envelope some more, "If Professor Jefferson weren’t here, and there weren’t any African American students in the room, I’m confident that many people who’re here right now would have no problem using the word black man. Some would even use it in a blatantly racist way."
"I wouldn't," Emily counters.
Madison keeps going, her words dripping condescending superiority, "Oh I know you wouldn't. But I know that many in here would. I’ve heard the word used hundreds of times in my life."
Looking at the clock, I decide the point has been made and I wrap up the discussion. "Our time is almost up. I hope you understand the primary point of this lesson. Every one of us comes from different pasts, from different histories, and our pasts and histories have helped us develop our values and beliefs. And as we move forward in this course, you’ll all need to be able to be aware of your personal values while respecting those of others. It’s a given that the word black man will always be offensive when it’s used in a derogatory context. But it’s only through respectful discussion that we can ever move forward."
I dismiss the class and watch as Madison and Emily leave, arguing all the way up the stairs. I consider intervening, but it isn’t my place. This may be my classroom, but their lives are their own.
When I look back now and try to pinpoint when my fall began, it always comes back to this lesson. I didn't know it at the time, but from this moment on, Madison's respect for me had dwindled. Going forward, she always looked at me smugly, and I always felt like she was assessing me in a way I couldn’t explain at all.
Oddly on occasion, Madison would pop up in my dreams. I never remembered them completely, I never do remember much about my dreams, but I did retain the memory of her always being in control, always smiling smugly, and always flaunting her superiority over me. Looking back now, clearly this was my subconscious warning me of what was to come… but I missed it completely until it was far too late.
2. A SHORT HISTORY OF MYSELF
To tell my story, my unbelievable story, my fall from grace, my complete and utter humiliation, my loss of dignity and… paradoxically… my ultimate complete sexual satisfaction, I must inform you about who I am as a person.
My name is Felicia Jefferson, a surname that goes all the way back to an ancestor's white master at least 160 years ago. I’m 40, 5'6" tall and my figure is 38D-28-40. My large breasts have been the center of many people’s attention since I became a teen. They’re both a blessing and a curse. I work out regularly (have for decades), both for stress relief and to keep fit, so I'm firm and in pretty good shape, if I do say so myself. I have some sag and jiggle of course, with gravity and three *******, but I look younger than my age. I have large brown eyes, naturally long lashes, prominent cheekbones, and large luscious lips that all my men have loved. I keep my hair unnaturally straight, but its natural black (no tints or dyes), shoulder length (professional styles; as I said, not with its natural tight curls, but no weaves, braids, dreads, or the kind of curls many other women favor). I have chocolate brown skin (not milk chocolate, but pretty dark), smooth skin with a few wrinkles but not many age wrinkles (just crow's feet), no stretch marks, dimples in all four cheeks (face cheeks and ass cheeks), and no cellulite. In truth for my age, I’m told I’m still very attractive, although I haven’t ever felt that I was since my second divorce and a subsequent relatively long dry spell.
The dry spell was for a variety of reasons, but the main two were because of my professional career, and how my upbringing still held me back from being remotely outgoing, at least socially; I was perfectly capable of holding my own in a classroom setting. I was raised to be a prim and proper girl, a black girl living in a white man's world. The early blossoming of my chest had brought me tons of unwanted attention, and I won't even begin to go into the details of the sexual harassment I endured beginning at puberty. I learned to hide the curves of my body as best I could and to focus on my studies, because I was determined to become successful. So I became a compulsive over-achiever, a workaholic with the tendency to take work and myself too seriously, always restless to test myself at something new, thus sacrificing my personal relationships. I always felt I had to prove myself.
I'm a professor, specializing in gender and race/ethnicity studies. I also have a law degree, I’ve worked both in the State Attorney's and Public Defender's offices, both briefly, as well as for a non-profit firm, partnering with two other female attorneys. I also worked for my first ex-husband's law firm while teaching part-time at a small law school. Branching out, I obtained my Master's and Ph.D. in Sociology, then began teaching at a liberal arts university and finally got tenure a few years ago. I now head the race/ethnicity division of the Gender Studies Department, where my more recent ex still works, ironically under me except when he’s coaching sports.
I come across as rather stern, prim and proper and dress that way too, for the most part. I wear business suits with matching jackets and skirts (rarely dress pants, or even pants of any sort, mostly skirts and dresses, none of them too short or tight) and mostly standard, basic colours (black, grey, tan or cream; nothing too bright, loud or garish). Even most of my undergarments are rather staid, at least by today's standards. Basic colours again, mostly white and black, a few mauve and lavender. Like my outerwear, no prints, or loud or garish colours. I do have some push up bras, and even some demi-bras, half-cup, shelf cup, I’m embarrassed to say, mostly gifts from ex-husbands before we parted ways, or to cater to their tastes for lower cut tops or dresses that revealed some cleavage. Which was also the reason for the few thongs I still own, along with two garter belts (white and black), and lace-top thigh-high stockings. I must confess that I hate pantyhose and have worn the stockings to avoid them when not going bare-legged. I have some black slips and white slips (full and half) for my business suits and some dresses, but most of my panties are either white bikinis or white briefs (and several granny style).
Due to my stuffy professional persona, my sexual experiences as an adult have been very restricted. I was morally rigid and sexually frigid with both of my husbands, with very limited dating before, between or since my marriages. In retrospect, such a standoffish attitude was at least partly to blame for the collapse of both of these marriages.
At forty, I had long accepted myself for who I was, and I didn't expect to change. I’d tried to be more open with my second husband, I’d tried to let go of my insecurities and my feminist boundaries, an odd contradiction I know; but in the end I’d never been able to free myself from the invisible chains holding me back… until along came Madison.
3. OUT OF THE BLUE
I was teaching a class on cultural patterns in the U.S. about a month after my N word lesson. The course analyzed many aspects of cultural diversity, in an attempt to break down racial barriers and to understand the difficulties that still exist in attaining true equality, regardless of the civil rights movement and eight years of our first Black President. The reality is, we’re still a far cry from equality and from abolishing racism. Further into the first semester, we get into the nitty-gritty of the course. For example, I talk about ******* and how it’s all too often not perceived as a crime the way it should be, and that some countries actually encourage and justify *******, or at the very minimum turn a blind eye. I point out how defendants on trial for ******* generally fare better with females on the jury, because female jurors are more likely to subconsciously decrease their fear of ******* by looking for things the victim might have done to place herself at risk (where she was, who she was with, what she was wearing, all the ‘she asked for it’ bullshit). I also teach about how the ******* of black females (or males for that matter) wasn’t even prosecutable from the end of slavery (during slavery it often wasn’t even frowned upon) through the era of the Jim Crow laws until later in the 20th century. This unconscionable bias is still reflected in even lower rates of prosecution for rapes of black women than the already shamefully low rates of prosecution on behalf of women generally.
The students' personal research papers, worth 30% of their final grade, are assigned halfway through the course and are due a month before the end of the term. The days after the papers were assigned, Madison Adams, a C student so far, and one who’d frequently challenged my lectures ever since the N word session, came to my office. Dressed in a casual t-shirt and jeans with her blonde hair in a ponytail, she informed me, her tone conveying her feeling of superiority over me, "Professor Jefferson, I want to do my paper on a rather intriguing, but potentially controversial topic."
I was curious, as I usually get the same generic essay topics. "What do you have in mind, Madison?"
"It’s Ms. Adams, actually," she responded, a condescending look on her face.
"Sorry, Ms. Adams, then," I apologized insincerely, slightly uncomfortable and a bit threatened by this young, confident white student.
"That's better," she replied, her tone still conveying her opinion of a class distinction between her and me. "I want to write my research paper on Visual Sexual Harassment."
Unsure where she was going with this, I asked, "And how exactly do you define that topic?"
She explained, "After listening to all your lectures on sexual harassment, I’ve realized that many girls, especially young ladies like myself, are disrespected based on our good looks, and that staring, gazing, and leering constitute sexual harassment."
I was intrigued, thinking back to the way I’d been treated by men, mostly white men, ever since I was a young blossoming girl. I agreed, but warned, "Well, that’s a very interesting topic, but finding some quality research on that topic should be very difficult."
She shrugged, her tone still displaying the vaguest hint of superiority, showing the upper-class white-girl snobbish mentality I’d experienced off and on for my entire life. "I already have some research under way."
"Okay, go for it, Ms. Adams, I’m looking forward to learning about your research."
"I just bet you are," she scoffed, and exited before I had time to process her implication.
After she left, I tried to figure out what had just transpired. Clearly she’d treated me with a lack of respect. I wondered if it was because I was black. Deciding the thoughts of one student shouldn’t be… weren’t enough to bring me down, I reflected on her topic some more. It goes both ways, I reflected. There are a surprising number of pretty female students who wear jeans and t-shirts to class except on test days, when they come scantily attired in mini-skirts and low-cut tops, even for female professors and even when the tests are machine graded. Setting heterosexual male professors aside, even for heterosexual female and feminist professors, it’s difficult not to look. Your eyes just gravitate to what’s being so provocatively placed on display.
My thoughts were disrupted by another girl, Miko Mora, a light-skinned Asian, who came in and asked if she could do her project on power based upon racial privilege and how it impacts the class system. Again, I was intrigued; I knew she was a very strong student, and her submission would be a good read, of which I got very few. Miko was also one of the prettiest girls I’d ever seen in person. An American-born Asian, with big eyes, big breasts and butt, rare in Asian girls, and long thick black hair. She had the body I wished I had, and the brains to go with it. She was also always smiling, and oddly she always sat with the rather dim-witted Madison, her polar opposite.
The very next day in class, I saw a new Madison who continued making her appearance over the next three weeks. Gone were the t-shirt and jeans she usually wore except on exam days, and instead she was always dressed in a micro-mini skirt and a low-cut blouse that did nothing to contain the movement or obscure the shape of her clearly braless breasts. She also now sat in the very front row flanked by her pretty girl posse (Miko, and Ashley Washington, a pretty, big-busted brunette). As I lectured, I was greatly distracted by the constant crossing and uncrossing of Madison's legs and how she deliberately let them wander apart and thus gave me plenty of opportunities to look up her skirt and see her sheer white panties.
I should note that I wasn’t a lesbian or bi or even bi-curious in my first forty years of life. I knew when a girl was pretty, or noticed when a girl dressed like a slut, but that was about it. Such details created no particular stirrings in me. In reality, I was more jealous than anything. I was envious of girls like Madison and her I'm entitled attitude; she got whatever she wanted, while I had to work my ass off for every little thing.
My resentment was mixed with the fact that she evidently thought flashing me would somehow bolster her power over me. But what stirred my resentment the most was more about how her condescending attitude towards me brought flooding back my many levels of guilt. I know: it makes no sense, it shouldn’t work that way, but just try arguing yourself out of your emotions. I’ve always suffered from multiple layers of shame and guilt. Guilt and shame created by any sign of increasing sag or jiggle. Guilt and shame as a feminist from feeling… whether I wanted to or not… so body-conscious and competitive with other women: black women, white women, and especially young women of any race in their teens and twenties. I felt envious and jealous in spite of myself, and even though I didn’t consider myself as being on the market since I was still licking my wounds from my second marriage, I still felt envious and jealous about how I sized up against these young tarts (sorry for the attitude, I couldn’t help it) as a sex object: breasts and butt, waist and legs, face and hair. This jealousy and envy was especially ironic given my relative lack of sexual desires. But my guilt and shame weren’t only because of the ways I felt unattractive. Contrarywise, I also felt these same negative emotions because of the secret sense of pride I felt whenever a man did notice my body, because of the vapid vanity and inanity of it all.
Lastly, although I tried to push her out of my dreams, a recurring dream of Madison treating me as her personal maid began to play itself over and over during my nights. It was always the same: I was dressed in a slutty Halloween-ish maid’s costume and ****** to serve food and drinks to Madison and her other sorority girls. The dream wasn’t ever sexual, just a clear-cut line between Mistress versus servant, White versus black, Aristocrat versus serf.
On the day the essays were due, I rummaged through the papers and was surprised to see that Madison hadn’t handed in her essay. I shook my head out of a mixture of I should have known and disappointment, as I was curious to read her findings and her supporting arguments. I read a few papers that first night, and I was about to go to bed when I reached Miko's. I wasn't intending to read it as it was already past midnight, but the title page stunned me: My White Mistress: Understanding My Place.
Curiosity got the better of me and I flipped to the first page:
The history of female submissiveness in the Japanese culture is very clear. The woman is to be submissive and obedient to her *******, to her brothers, and eventually to her husband. The American-born Japanese girl lives in two very contrasting worlds. On the one side, the Japanese ******* is expected to be loyal and obedient to her ******* and to demonstrate her worthiness by being successful in school. On the other side, the Japanese teenager attempts to fit in with American culture and fads, a culture where academics are less important, and at least among her peers, shallow appearances are what define success. Attempting to satisfy two very different collections of expectations, most Japanese young women end up gravitating to one of the two extremes. Non-Asian people assume that Japanese girls in America have evolved and severed themselves from such historical submission… but in truth we have not, even though parts of us want to. As a result of being pulled in these opposing directions, the American-born Japanese girl often ends up never really finding her identity in the world. She has grown up trained to be submissive, but in today's America, extra-familial pressures tell her she should be aggressive and confident.
In my case and in some ways, growing up in America has made me into a girl without an identity or a culture. I’m no longer a stereotypical Japanese girl; yet I’m also not a truly American girl. This absence of a clear identity had me struggling all through my high school years. I was attempting to adapt myself to two worlds, but I felt that I was fitting into neither… and then… and then in college I met my Caucasian Mistress. It was only through complete submission to my Mistress that I have at last come to grips with who I am.
The rest of the essay was a mixture of the history of Japanese submissive expectations, and how such ingrained traditions made it impossible for an American-born Japanese girl (obviously meaning herself) to avoid being a submissive as well… regardless of her American birth certificate. She also alluded to her sexual submissiveness (without going into details, this was a term paper after all) and how through such obedience she’d found the equilibrium she had long searched for, and from the platform of such an equilibrium, she’d found her true identity.
As I read the lengthy essay, I couldn't help but feel my long-neglected vagina getting wet. I tried ignoring the temptation, but I frequently felt my hand ******* going to my vagina. I continued reading the naughty admissions of my strongest academic student. She paralleled her Mom's obedient behaviour towards her ******* with her own submission to her Mistress. In conclusion, she reflected on how only through complete and utter surrender of her own sexual desires to her Mistress had she been able to accept herself for who she was, not only in the bedroom, but generally.
I had to admit, if only to myself, that I’d found her essay arousing. And I’d been stirred even though I hadn’t been reading about sex exactly, but rather a well-written description of what Miko had thought and felt during the various stages of her journey. Once I’d finished reading her conclusion, I closed my eyes, and not because of any particular erotic imaginings, but rather from the intense emotions she’d evoked in me (I had no idea why), I brought myself to an intense orgasm, an orgasm that was finally released by an erotic image: Madison, together with her superior attitude, popping into my head just as the wave of pleasure crested through me, and her condescending smile sent my ******* cresting even higher.
As I caught my breath however, my frequent companion Shame made a reappearance. This time I was ashamed because of the impact that very personal essay had had on me, and because of my weakness to submit to my wanton desire. I shook my head and decided I wouldn't assess the essay tonight but would compose my comments tomorrow.
I tossed and turned all night, my head reeling from the revelation that Miko was a submissive lesbian. That night the maid dream replayed in my head, only this time it ended with me on my knees massaging Madison's feet while she watched TV. I awoke in a sweat, mortified by this subservient dream that kept replaying in my head, and even more mortified this time to feel a sticky wetness in my panties.
4. A POWER SHIFT
Once my class had ended the following day, I asked a still inappropriately dressed Madison to meet me in my office. She agreed, her condescending tone dripping with superiority, "Sure Professor, but not until after lunch."
I considered making a scene and demanding she meet me right then (the disrespectful bitch), but it seemed like a futile time for a pissing match.
I went to lunch myself before going to my office, went back to assessing the term papers, and was reviewing Miko's paper for a second time when Madison arrived.
She didn't knock but sauntered into my office a little after three, much later than I’d thought we’d arranged. She tossed me a paper and sat down on one of my two visitors’ chairs.
I reached for the crumpled paper and shook my head. It was barely over a page in length, handwritten instead of typed, and with no references. I tried to conceal by contempt for her sloppy work while I read it. After all her argumentative talk in class, and her confidence in her topic, this is the crap she submitted? I was just finishing reading the strictly opinionated and diva-centered paper when I heard a thud. I looked up to see that she’d repositioned herself, and now had her three-inch heels resting on my desk and was leaning back in her chair.
I gave her a look that could no longer hide my disgust at both her behaviour and her essay. Her insouciant smile faded in a heartbeat and she asked, "You don't like my paper?"
"Well, Ms. Adams, the paper you’ve just turned in, and a day late I might add, isn't really what we discussed."
"I won't say this often as it’s so rarely true, but you were right," she responded, tossing me a plum and insulting me at the same time.
"Excuse me?" I asked, taken aback by her straightforward admission.
Ignoring my shocked tone, she continued, "Finding litigation and case law focusing on visual sexual harassment was very difficult to find. But I assembled a plethora of personal experiences during the time I was gathering my data." I stood up, trying to restore the power shift that seemed to be swinging to this white girl’s side. As soon as I did, I could see that her skirt was so short, particularly sitting the way she was, that I could see the tops of her thigh high stockings. She noticed my gaze, and smugly added, implying I was even now visually sexually harassing her myself, "And even as I speak, my evidence continues to pile up."
"Pardon?"
"You were just now checking out my legs, Professor Jefferson,” she asserted confidently.
I stammered, trying to defend myself, even though I had no reason to be defensive, “I-I-I was most certainly not.”
Smiling, she quipped, her tone speaking to me as if I was a baby, “Come now, Professor Jefferson. I’ve noticed you checking me out ever since I began this experiment."
"I have not," I protested adamantly.
"Don't worry, Professor Jefferson," she continued, ignoring my protest entirely, "You aren't the only one who’s been visually sexually harassing me." She let her heel fall to the floor. She asked, her tone that of a white Mistress addressing her maid, "Can you get that for me?"
Mortified, but not wanting to offend her, I walked over, reached down and retrieved her heel. I handed it to her.
"Could you put it back on, please?" she asked, her tone deceptively polite.
I don't know why, I knew this was a complete power play and that by obliging her I was giving into her little game, but my body was moving while my head was still considering the consequences. I touched her stocking foot and an electric spark slid up my back, surprising me completely. I hastily put the heel back on and retreated back to my desk, a location where I felt back in my comfort zone.
She smiled, "Thank you, Professor Jefferson."
"You're welcome," I replied, trying to get back to the topic at hand, her essay. "Now back to your essay."
She interrupted me, "Professor Jefferson, I need an A in this course, and thus also for this paper."
"How can I possibly give you an A, based on what you’ve handed in?" I asked, assessment being the only power card I had left.
"I get A’s in all my other classes, and I’ve always gotten A’s."
Even though she hadn’t included it in her research paper, I knew there was some basis for visual sexual harassment creating a hostile workplace, including in the classroom. But if I gave her an A, I’d be devaluing the work her peers had done while writing and researching their papers. "I can't give you an A based on what you’ve submitted Ms. Adams, but I do think your topic has merit. I’ll give you another week to write a personal reflection paper."
She shook her head in the negative and divulged, "Professor Jefferson, your staring, leering and panty-peeping has made me very uncomfortable in your class. Being treated like a sex object and being drooled over by my lesbian teacher was very distracting and…"
"I am not a lesbian," I interrupted.
Madison snapped, "If you don’t mind, Professor Jefferson, I was speaking, and I’ll thank you not to interrupt. Trust me, you are a dyke. You haven't stopped staring between my legs since I began this experiment. I bet you’ve even dreamed about me at night, haven't you?"
My face flushed, luckily since I was black she couldn't notice, and I stammered, "I-I-I have done no such thing."
She mocked me, "Y-y-you have done no such thing. Nice cover, Professor Jefferson. The truth of the matter is that the real reason I didn't finish writing my paper is because in class you treated me like a sex object, and I felt uncomfortable writing about you and your nasty thoughts."
Defeated and worried she could go public with her false accusations… she’d been flaunting herself flagrantly throughout her so-called experiment… that nevertheless were potentially damaging, I ended up giving her a completely undeserved A. "Fine, Ms. Adams, against my better judgement, I will give you an A."
She immediately stood up and proclaimed, "Thank you very much Professor Jefferson, I may reward you one day for your obedience."
Obedience? Before I could respond to her final word, she bounced to her feet and swayed her ass out of my office. (I’m sorry to be crude, but that’s exactly what she did.) I left home early, furious at myself for being manipulated by this stuck-up, manipulative bitch. I replayed the conversation in my head and tried to see where it went all wrong. I decided to ensure I was never alone with her again.
That night I woke up in a cold sweat, my hand in my panties, the dream the same, but this time I was sucking Madison's stocking-covered toes while she told her friends about how I’d become her black man servant. (Her word not mine, except I was the one dreaming it.)
My dreams were getting more and more subservient, and this time hearing her call me a black man in front of Miko, Ashley and her sister Emily, was a mortifying new low. I tried to fall back to sleep, but my churning thoughts became obsessed with the humiliating way Madison was treating me, both in my dreams and in real life.
I promised myself I would have to talk with her and deal with this once and for all.
Summary: A proud black MILF is gradually dommed by a racist white coed.
WARNING 1: This story includes politically incorrect terms (chief among them the infamous N word, and unlike the term of ironic respect it’s used as in my stories about whites submitting to blacks, in this story it’s used as it commonly is by racists, as an epithet). If such words or concepts offend you, please do not read any further.
WARNING 2: Personal Reflection: I have many kinks. Among them, I love the thought of my being seduced and used by a younger woman; I love the idea of submitting to a black man or woman (ideally both); I love the thought of utter submission. My point is twofold:
1. Fantasy is exactly that… what someone fantasizes in the dark subconscious kink of their inner being isn’t their real life…it shouldn't be taken as a reflection of who the writer really is.
2. Having or telling stories of naughty interracial fantasies does not make the fantasist a racist. Although I’m expecting to receive comments calling me one (I am not; if anything, I’m the opposite: enthralled by the thought of submitting to a black man or woman). Yet I am telling this story from the point of view of a black woman, using racist language and a sordid history to portray a vivid and, I hope, realistic downfall of a strong black woman, and how this downfall ultimately satisfies her inner needs; although admittedly most people’s inner needs are far different from hers.
So please read this lengthy tale with an open mind, an open heart and an open libido.
NOTE 1: As I write this note during a revision in early 2019 (with updates to make the political situation 2019 and not 2012), I’ve written a good number of fantasies about a younger black woman dominating an older white woman. I didn’t hold back on the white woman’s humiliation. Now I’m writing a story from the opposite point of view and I won’t pull any punches this time either. So with the assistance of a fan who requested the story, one of my current editors, and some fresh thoughts and insights I’ve developed during the past seven years, this is my attempt to revisit a story about a middle-aged black university professor who is blackmailed into submission by a dominant white student.
NOTE 2: This story could fit a variety of Literotica categories including Lesbian (because the story is about a black woman who becomes a lesbian slave to a younger college girl), ******* (because there’s a lot of implied ******* early on and actual ******* later), Group Sex (because later sex scenes include expanded collections of participants), Interracial (because it’s primarily a story about a black woman and a white Mistress), Mature (because the main character is a beautiful 40-year-old MILF), Anal (because there is a fair amount of backdoor sex), Exhibitionist and Voyeur (because the protagonist is ****** to do things in public, as well as in front of and for groups of people), First Time (because our lovely professor is a lesbian virgin when the story begins), NonConsent/Reluctance (because Felicia initially submits to the powerful white seductress very reluctantly), Toys and Masturbation (because throughout the story both are featured), BDSM (because there are many levels of BDSM in the story), Fetish (because of its multi-layered kinks: panty-sniffing, stockings, golden showers, etc.), Mind Control (because of the domination at the core of the story) and Novella (because of its length).
NOTE 3: A special thanks to Vanessa for the many email exchanges that guided this story. A second special thanks to Estragon, who accidentally inspired the story’s beginning with an email he sent me containing an article from a well-known academic journal.
NOTE 4: As always, a million kisses and thanks go to my editors for this story as it went through many drafts and changes: Vanessa, LaRascasse and Estragon for the original version of this story in 2012, and Tex Beethoven, for helping me give it a fresh coat of polish in 2019.
EDITOR’S NOTE (from Tex Beethoven): I think it needs to be said that in writing this story Jasmine Walker has done a courageous job of exploring a controversial subject: Racism. Racism as it affects the journey of a naturally submissive black woman who, unlike most people, requires to be controlled and humiliated in order to achieve sexual fulfillment. In my view, the heart of racism is how it dehumanizes the ‘other’ by concentrating on a single facet of who they are… their physical appearance… and proclaiming that facet to be the only one that matters. In that sense, this complex novella is far from being racist. It should be added however, that some of the characters in this in-depth tale, principally Ms. Madison Adams, are extremely racist, and they don’t hesitate to flaunt their twisted views and to act on them. But every good story needs villains, and without these racists strutting their stuff, the main character, Professor Felicia Jefferson, would have neither a tale nor a journey. She is the true focus of this story, and she is the person we learn about in depth and learn to care about.
Deconstructing the Professor: A Novella
1. THE N WORD...a prologue of sorts
Setting the tone for a class of students is critical, especially in college. Most students don't want to be there except as a means to an end, and in today's information-now world, a professor mustn’t just be an old-school lecturer. We must be engaging; we must be controversial.
So a couple of weeks into my freshman class on Race and Ethnicity, I usually drop the bomb on them by striding aggressively into the classroom from the doorway, without pause approaching the board and writing the word black man on it. The response is always the same: horrified gasps followed by utter silence. I wait, still facing the board, arms by my side, feet spread somewhat, letting the objectionable word and the silence linger. Finally, I turn to face them and ask a group of sixty freshmen, mostly white, with a few Asians and on this occasion three blacks, "Who can say the word black man?"
Silence lingers throughout the room. Sixty students' eyes are fixed on the forty-year-old female professor with unmistakably black skin who has just asked them the most controversial question imaginable.
When no one answers, I go through a lengthy history of the word’s significance during America’s time of slavery and the racist reasons it’s been used for well over a century since, and its continuing impact on Black identity.
The history lesson now done, I re-ask the question, "So I ask you again, Who can say the word black man?" I scan the room, gauging the reaction of my students, almost all of whom are still stunned.
A black girl, Carrie, a jock attending on a basketball scholarship, finally breaks the lengthy silence, "Black people can."
I smile, because that’s always the first answer. I push, "Why only Black people?"
She responds boldly, "It’s clearly racist if any other race says it. But if a Black person uses it, it’s usually okay."
"I see," I say thoughtfully.
Mike, another black student, adds, "I'm Black, but I would never use such a word. Its very existence is an insult to our race, our history and how far we’ve come."
"Interesting," I agree, but attempt to push the envelope, "but what about some thoughts from our other races?"
Finally Emily, a shy blonde girl, puts up her hand and whispers, almost embarrassed to speak, "I could never say the N word."
"Why?" I probe.
She looks around the room. "It would offend someone: guaranteed."
"But don't many words offend people?" I ask.
"I suppose," she whispers, wishing she hadn't spoken.
I break eye contact with the embarrassed girl and continue, "There are many words that offend people. For example, who has used the word faggot?"
A few brave students shamefacedly raise their hands.
"Queer?"
Again a few raise their hands.
"Dyke? Bitch? Whore?" I give them the list.
Miko, an Asian student who has spoken intelligently on almost every issue during the first two weeks of class, speaks up, "Those are all offensive, but they aren’t racial words, they’re sexual ones. If the N word is offensive, which it is, what about the words Chink or Gook?"
I nod my head, "You’re correct. They too are offensive and could easily be included in this discussion. But for now, let's not complicate things and stick to the one term: black man."
A student, who’s never opened his mouth in class before, a nerdy looking white boy, is the first student to use the word, "It’s 2019, and the word black man is just as offensive as the other words you mentioned."
"Agreed," I say, but continue to push their thinking, "yet no one refers to faggot as the F word, although I guess there’s a different F word, isn't there?'' This gets a solid laugh from the class and seems to relax them just a bit. "My point is, the word black man is in a category of its own, isn’t it?"
Madison, a very pretty blonde, asks, "Professor Jefferson, even though you initiated it, isn't our even having this conversation an insult to you personally?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, knowing full well what she means.
"Well, the use of the word black man," she says, her voice stressing the word, "is clearly offensive when said by a white person in the presence of a black person, regardless of the context."
I smile, attempting to distance myself from the word. "I don't enjoy hearing the word used, even by my fellow blacks, or the way black stand-up comedians like Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy use it so liberally for laughs, but in a classroom discussion like this, the word takes on a different context. One where hopefully the word can distance itself from the negative connotations it’s historically symbolized. Today we’re not calling anyone a black man, we’re discussing the connotations and the etymology of the word."
I notice an odd smile cross her face, one that I can’t read. My reply to her question seems again to lighten the tension in the room, and the conversation becomes freer and less halting. For the remainder of the period the discussion continues with more students responding, and one more student actually using the word itself. Most continue to call it the N word and even then they look down, avoiding eye contact with me when they refer directly to the taboo word.
The conversation evolves into clothing and fashion and I point out, "There are two polar opposites of appearance and the impact it has on black image. For one, I dress a certain way to create a persona that will be taken with respect. A respect that is much harder for me to earn than if I were the same age, similarly educated, but white. On the other hand, the rap culture, gangsta rap and the glamorization of thugs, pimps and hoes to the cultural mainstream, manifests another image. In reality the vulgarization of popular culture, and the sexual objectification and degradation of females, goes back through the history of blues, rock and roll, and R&B."
After a few more minutes of frank discussion, as students debate who is to blame for today's excessive sexuality, Madison asks another question. "Professor Jefferson, is that why you always dress so properly? To appear more like you’re white?"
That surprises me, but I’ve thought about this and I explain. "Not to appear whiter, but to be seen as an equal to whites. How one dresses defines, at least in some respects, who one is."
Madison reflects on this briefly before saying, "So how does what I wear define who I am?"
I pause, knowing some of my potential answers could be very judgemental. "Well, as young adults, you tend to dress casually, because in this school that’s the norm, and you’ll be less likely to be judged."
"But you’re judging me right now," she points out.
"Touché," I reply, "but only because you asked the question. The point I’m attempting to make isn’t about you personally, but that how you dress as a reasonably typical student is part of your culture. Students in general dress casually at school because that’s the norm, yet those same students will dress much more provocatively when they go out to a party."
"Fair enough," Madison agrees, before adding, "but the stereotype you just created isn’t based on race."
"True," I conclude, "but the end result is that, even as an accepted member of this faculty, I feel that as one of the very few black professors at this college, it’s important for me to dress the part."
"Even though your husband doesn't?"
I look up, as does my class, not knowing who said that, except it was a male. I explain, not fond of the way this conversation has begun focussing on me personally, "Well first of all he’s my ex-husband, but we won’t go into the details of that. Secondly, you have just helped me make my point. As a white professor, and a male, Professor Hamilton doesn't need to earn respect the same way I feel that I do. I know that may sound sexist and racist, which is how it might be taken, but I’m trying to be totally honest with you."
"But Conner doesn't try to make a statement, he just is who he is," the same voice explains, and now I can see who he is. I recognize him as a player on our basketball team, a team my ex assistant coaches. I’m immediately envious of the first-name familiarity this student has with my ex. I try to brush the jealousy away, but my hatred for my ex nevertheless bubbles just below the surface.
With only a few minutes left, I hear Emily arguing with Madison. I ask, "And what seems to be the problem?"
"My sister won't even utter the word black man, even after the conversation we’ve just been having," Madison explains, revealing a new piece of information to me. Although they both have the same name, their very different demeanors had me assuming they were cousins at the closest.
Emily, her voice slightly shaky, "It's not that I’m incapable of saying the word. It's that I refuse to say it. The word is offensive to many people, and thus I won’t say it… not ever."
Madison, glaring at her sister, her tone now angry, threatens, "We’ll see about that."
I smile at Emily’s stubborn morality; I respect it. She understands who she is and isn’t giving ground even when being pressed by her clearly dominant sister. "Of course," I explain, "racism is much bigger than just the use or non-use of a word. I’ve met many people who demonstrate racism towards the black race or toward any race for that matter, even though they never use that word. The word, like many others, has evolved into a derogatory term, and it’s my guess that stigma will never change, even centuries from now."
"Exactly," Emily agrees, glaring back at her sister.
Madison adds, "So if I say black man I’m racist, and if I don't say black man, I may still be racist."
She’s now liberally using the word black man, and I try to get a grip on the conversation. "No, that isn’t the message I was trying to get across. I was simply implying that the exercise of racism is much wider than whether a person uses such a derogatory word or not. The high incidence of white policemen shooting and killing unarmed black men and boys is patently racist, just to give one example."
Emily, now on a roll, as if she’s trying to stand apart from her overbearing sister, continues, "Plus, I like the way you dress, Professor Jefferson. I don't see it as being about race, but rather about respect and authority. You command our respect in part by how you dress. When professors come to class wearing shorts and flip-flops, I have a hard time taking them seriously. All I do is wonder why I’m paying four hundred bucks to take a class with someone who doesn't take their job seriously."
Madison, her face getting redder, clearly not accustomed to being contradicted by her sister, says, "So Professor Jefferson is a better teacher than Mr. Hamilton because she dresses better?"
"Yes," Emily confidently says. “And that’s regardless of which of them may be smarter or better educated. If I don’t feel a professor is worth listening to, I won’t learn as much from them.”
"So you stand against using the word black man because it’s racist, but you have no problem judging a qualified professor based on his dress? How hypocritical."
I break into the sisterly disagreement. "I think we’re getting off topic. And I definitely don't want to get into a conversation about the quality of our professors based on clothing. Regardless of our disagreements, I have no doubts about Professor Hamilton’s competence."
Madison, ignoring my attempt at closure, pushes the envelope some more, "If Professor Jefferson weren’t here, and there weren’t any African American students in the room, I’m confident that many people who’re here right now would have no problem using the word black man. Some would even use it in a blatantly racist way."
"I wouldn't," Emily counters.
Madison keeps going, her words dripping condescending superiority, "Oh I know you wouldn't. But I know that many in here would. I’ve heard the word used hundreds of times in my life."
Looking at the clock, I decide the point has been made and I wrap up the discussion. "Our time is almost up. I hope you understand the primary point of this lesson. Every one of us comes from different pasts, from different histories, and our pasts and histories have helped us develop our values and beliefs. And as we move forward in this course, you’ll all need to be able to be aware of your personal values while respecting those of others. It’s a given that the word black man will always be offensive when it’s used in a derogatory context. But it’s only through respectful discussion that we can ever move forward."
I dismiss the class and watch as Madison and Emily leave, arguing all the way up the stairs. I consider intervening, but it isn’t my place. This may be my classroom, but their lives are their own.
When I look back now and try to pinpoint when my fall began, it always comes back to this lesson. I didn't know it at the time, but from this moment on, Madison's respect for me had dwindled. Going forward, she always looked at me smugly, and I always felt like she was assessing me in a way I couldn’t explain at all.
Oddly on occasion, Madison would pop up in my dreams. I never remembered them completely, I never do remember much about my dreams, but I did retain the memory of her always being in control, always smiling smugly, and always flaunting her superiority over me. Looking back now, clearly this was my subconscious warning me of what was to come… but I missed it completely until it was far too late.
2. A SHORT HISTORY OF MYSELF
To tell my story, my unbelievable story, my fall from grace, my complete and utter humiliation, my loss of dignity and… paradoxically… my ultimate complete sexual satisfaction, I must inform you about who I am as a person.
My name is Felicia Jefferson, a surname that goes all the way back to an ancestor's white master at least 160 years ago. I’m 40, 5'6" tall and my figure is 38D-28-40. My large breasts have been the center of many people’s attention since I became a teen. They’re both a blessing and a curse. I work out regularly (have for decades), both for stress relief and to keep fit, so I'm firm and in pretty good shape, if I do say so myself. I have some sag and jiggle of course, with gravity and three *******, but I look younger than my age. I have large brown eyes, naturally long lashes, prominent cheekbones, and large luscious lips that all my men have loved. I keep my hair unnaturally straight, but its natural black (no tints or dyes), shoulder length (professional styles; as I said, not with its natural tight curls, but no weaves, braids, dreads, or the kind of curls many other women favor). I have chocolate brown skin (not milk chocolate, but pretty dark), smooth skin with a few wrinkles but not many age wrinkles (just crow's feet), no stretch marks, dimples in all four cheeks (face cheeks and ass cheeks), and no cellulite. In truth for my age, I’m told I’m still very attractive, although I haven’t ever felt that I was since my second divorce and a subsequent relatively long dry spell.
The dry spell was for a variety of reasons, but the main two were because of my professional career, and how my upbringing still held me back from being remotely outgoing, at least socially; I was perfectly capable of holding my own in a classroom setting. I was raised to be a prim and proper girl, a black girl living in a white man's world. The early blossoming of my chest had brought me tons of unwanted attention, and I won't even begin to go into the details of the sexual harassment I endured beginning at puberty. I learned to hide the curves of my body as best I could and to focus on my studies, because I was determined to become successful. So I became a compulsive over-achiever, a workaholic with the tendency to take work and myself too seriously, always restless to test myself at something new, thus sacrificing my personal relationships. I always felt I had to prove myself.
I'm a professor, specializing in gender and race/ethnicity studies. I also have a law degree, I’ve worked both in the State Attorney's and Public Defender's offices, both briefly, as well as for a non-profit firm, partnering with two other female attorneys. I also worked for my first ex-husband's law firm while teaching part-time at a small law school. Branching out, I obtained my Master's and Ph.D. in Sociology, then began teaching at a liberal arts university and finally got tenure a few years ago. I now head the race/ethnicity division of the Gender Studies Department, where my more recent ex still works, ironically under me except when he’s coaching sports.
I come across as rather stern, prim and proper and dress that way too, for the most part. I wear business suits with matching jackets and skirts (rarely dress pants, or even pants of any sort, mostly skirts and dresses, none of them too short or tight) and mostly standard, basic colours (black, grey, tan or cream; nothing too bright, loud or garish). Even most of my undergarments are rather staid, at least by today's standards. Basic colours again, mostly white and black, a few mauve and lavender. Like my outerwear, no prints, or loud or garish colours. I do have some push up bras, and even some demi-bras, half-cup, shelf cup, I’m embarrassed to say, mostly gifts from ex-husbands before we parted ways, or to cater to their tastes for lower cut tops or dresses that revealed some cleavage. Which was also the reason for the few thongs I still own, along with two garter belts (white and black), and lace-top thigh-high stockings. I must confess that I hate pantyhose and have worn the stockings to avoid them when not going bare-legged. I have some black slips and white slips (full and half) for my business suits and some dresses, but most of my panties are either white bikinis or white briefs (and several granny style).
Due to my stuffy professional persona, my sexual experiences as an adult have been very restricted. I was morally rigid and sexually frigid with both of my husbands, with very limited dating before, between or since my marriages. In retrospect, such a standoffish attitude was at least partly to blame for the collapse of both of these marriages.
At forty, I had long accepted myself for who I was, and I didn't expect to change. I’d tried to be more open with my second husband, I’d tried to let go of my insecurities and my feminist boundaries, an odd contradiction I know; but in the end I’d never been able to free myself from the invisible chains holding me back… until along came Madison.
3. OUT OF THE BLUE
I was teaching a class on cultural patterns in the U.S. about a month after my N word lesson. The course analyzed many aspects of cultural diversity, in an attempt to break down racial barriers and to understand the difficulties that still exist in attaining true equality, regardless of the civil rights movement and eight years of our first Black President. The reality is, we’re still a far cry from equality and from abolishing racism. Further into the first semester, we get into the nitty-gritty of the course. For example, I talk about ******* and how it’s all too often not perceived as a crime the way it should be, and that some countries actually encourage and justify *******, or at the very minimum turn a blind eye. I point out how defendants on trial for ******* generally fare better with females on the jury, because female jurors are more likely to subconsciously decrease their fear of ******* by looking for things the victim might have done to place herself at risk (where she was, who she was with, what she was wearing, all the ‘she asked for it’ bullshit). I also teach about how the ******* of black females (or males for that matter) wasn’t even prosecutable from the end of slavery (during slavery it often wasn’t even frowned upon) through the era of the Jim Crow laws until later in the 20th century. This unconscionable bias is still reflected in even lower rates of prosecution for rapes of black women than the already shamefully low rates of prosecution on behalf of women generally.
The students' personal research papers, worth 30% of their final grade, are assigned halfway through the course and are due a month before the end of the term. The days after the papers were assigned, Madison Adams, a C student so far, and one who’d frequently challenged my lectures ever since the N word session, came to my office. Dressed in a casual t-shirt and jeans with her blonde hair in a ponytail, she informed me, her tone conveying her feeling of superiority over me, "Professor Jefferson, I want to do my paper on a rather intriguing, but potentially controversial topic."
I was curious, as I usually get the same generic essay topics. "What do you have in mind, Madison?"
"It’s Ms. Adams, actually," she responded, a condescending look on her face.
"Sorry, Ms. Adams, then," I apologized insincerely, slightly uncomfortable and a bit threatened by this young, confident white student.
"That's better," she replied, her tone still conveying her opinion of a class distinction between her and me. "I want to write my research paper on Visual Sexual Harassment."
Unsure where she was going with this, I asked, "And how exactly do you define that topic?"
She explained, "After listening to all your lectures on sexual harassment, I’ve realized that many girls, especially young ladies like myself, are disrespected based on our good looks, and that staring, gazing, and leering constitute sexual harassment."
I was intrigued, thinking back to the way I’d been treated by men, mostly white men, ever since I was a young blossoming girl. I agreed, but warned, "Well, that’s a very interesting topic, but finding some quality research on that topic should be very difficult."
She shrugged, her tone still displaying the vaguest hint of superiority, showing the upper-class white-girl snobbish mentality I’d experienced off and on for my entire life. "I already have some research under way."
"Okay, go for it, Ms. Adams, I’m looking forward to learning about your research."
"I just bet you are," she scoffed, and exited before I had time to process her implication.
After she left, I tried to figure out what had just transpired. Clearly she’d treated me with a lack of respect. I wondered if it was because I was black. Deciding the thoughts of one student shouldn’t be… weren’t enough to bring me down, I reflected on her topic some more. It goes both ways, I reflected. There are a surprising number of pretty female students who wear jeans and t-shirts to class except on test days, when they come scantily attired in mini-skirts and low-cut tops, even for female professors and even when the tests are machine graded. Setting heterosexual male professors aside, even for heterosexual female and feminist professors, it’s difficult not to look. Your eyes just gravitate to what’s being so provocatively placed on display.
My thoughts were disrupted by another girl, Miko Mora, a light-skinned Asian, who came in and asked if she could do her project on power based upon racial privilege and how it impacts the class system. Again, I was intrigued; I knew she was a very strong student, and her submission would be a good read, of which I got very few. Miko was also one of the prettiest girls I’d ever seen in person. An American-born Asian, with big eyes, big breasts and butt, rare in Asian girls, and long thick black hair. She had the body I wished I had, and the brains to go with it. She was also always smiling, and oddly she always sat with the rather dim-witted Madison, her polar opposite.
The very next day in class, I saw a new Madison who continued making her appearance over the next three weeks. Gone were the t-shirt and jeans she usually wore except on exam days, and instead she was always dressed in a micro-mini skirt and a low-cut blouse that did nothing to contain the movement or obscure the shape of her clearly braless breasts. She also now sat in the very front row flanked by her pretty girl posse (Miko, and Ashley Washington, a pretty, big-busted brunette). As I lectured, I was greatly distracted by the constant crossing and uncrossing of Madison's legs and how she deliberately let them wander apart and thus gave me plenty of opportunities to look up her skirt and see her sheer white panties.
I should note that I wasn’t a lesbian or bi or even bi-curious in my first forty years of life. I knew when a girl was pretty, or noticed when a girl dressed like a slut, but that was about it. Such details created no particular stirrings in me. In reality, I was more jealous than anything. I was envious of girls like Madison and her I'm entitled attitude; she got whatever she wanted, while I had to work my ass off for every little thing.
My resentment was mixed with the fact that she evidently thought flashing me would somehow bolster her power over me. But what stirred my resentment the most was more about how her condescending attitude towards me brought flooding back my many levels of guilt. I know: it makes no sense, it shouldn’t work that way, but just try arguing yourself out of your emotions. I’ve always suffered from multiple layers of shame and guilt. Guilt and shame created by any sign of increasing sag or jiggle. Guilt and shame as a feminist from feeling… whether I wanted to or not… so body-conscious and competitive with other women: black women, white women, and especially young women of any race in their teens and twenties. I felt envious and jealous in spite of myself, and even though I didn’t consider myself as being on the market since I was still licking my wounds from my second marriage, I still felt envious and jealous about how I sized up against these young tarts (sorry for the attitude, I couldn’t help it) as a sex object: breasts and butt, waist and legs, face and hair. This jealousy and envy was especially ironic given my relative lack of sexual desires. But my guilt and shame weren’t only because of the ways I felt unattractive. Contrarywise, I also felt these same negative emotions because of the secret sense of pride I felt whenever a man did notice my body, because of the vapid vanity and inanity of it all.
Lastly, although I tried to push her out of my dreams, a recurring dream of Madison treating me as her personal maid began to play itself over and over during my nights. It was always the same: I was dressed in a slutty Halloween-ish maid’s costume and ****** to serve food and drinks to Madison and her other sorority girls. The dream wasn’t ever sexual, just a clear-cut line between Mistress versus servant, White versus black, Aristocrat versus serf.
On the day the essays were due, I rummaged through the papers and was surprised to see that Madison hadn’t handed in her essay. I shook my head out of a mixture of I should have known and disappointment, as I was curious to read her findings and her supporting arguments. I read a few papers that first night, and I was about to go to bed when I reached Miko's. I wasn't intending to read it as it was already past midnight, but the title page stunned me: My White Mistress: Understanding My Place.
Curiosity got the better of me and I flipped to the first page:
The history of female submissiveness in the Japanese culture is very clear. The woman is to be submissive and obedient to her *******, to her brothers, and eventually to her husband. The American-born Japanese girl lives in two very contrasting worlds. On the one side, the Japanese ******* is expected to be loyal and obedient to her ******* and to demonstrate her worthiness by being successful in school. On the other side, the Japanese teenager attempts to fit in with American culture and fads, a culture where academics are less important, and at least among her peers, shallow appearances are what define success. Attempting to satisfy two very different collections of expectations, most Japanese young women end up gravitating to one of the two extremes. Non-Asian people assume that Japanese girls in America have evolved and severed themselves from such historical submission… but in truth we have not, even though parts of us want to. As a result of being pulled in these opposing directions, the American-born Japanese girl often ends up never really finding her identity in the world. She has grown up trained to be submissive, but in today's America, extra-familial pressures tell her she should be aggressive and confident.
In my case and in some ways, growing up in America has made me into a girl without an identity or a culture. I’m no longer a stereotypical Japanese girl; yet I’m also not a truly American girl. This absence of a clear identity had me struggling all through my high school years. I was attempting to adapt myself to two worlds, but I felt that I was fitting into neither… and then… and then in college I met my Caucasian Mistress. It was only through complete submission to my Mistress that I have at last come to grips with who I am.
The rest of the essay was a mixture of the history of Japanese submissive expectations, and how such ingrained traditions made it impossible for an American-born Japanese girl (obviously meaning herself) to avoid being a submissive as well… regardless of her American birth certificate. She also alluded to her sexual submissiveness (without going into details, this was a term paper after all) and how through such obedience she’d found the equilibrium she had long searched for, and from the platform of such an equilibrium, she’d found her true identity.
As I read the lengthy essay, I couldn't help but feel my long-neglected vagina getting wet. I tried ignoring the temptation, but I frequently felt my hand ******* going to my vagina. I continued reading the naughty admissions of my strongest academic student. She paralleled her Mom's obedient behaviour towards her ******* with her own submission to her Mistress. In conclusion, she reflected on how only through complete and utter surrender of her own sexual desires to her Mistress had she been able to accept herself for who she was, not only in the bedroom, but generally.
I had to admit, if only to myself, that I’d found her essay arousing. And I’d been stirred even though I hadn’t been reading about sex exactly, but rather a well-written description of what Miko had thought and felt during the various stages of her journey. Once I’d finished reading her conclusion, I closed my eyes, and not because of any particular erotic imaginings, but rather from the intense emotions she’d evoked in me (I had no idea why), I brought myself to an intense orgasm, an orgasm that was finally released by an erotic image: Madison, together with her superior attitude, popping into my head just as the wave of pleasure crested through me, and her condescending smile sent my ******* cresting even higher.
As I caught my breath however, my frequent companion Shame made a reappearance. This time I was ashamed because of the impact that very personal essay had had on me, and because of my weakness to submit to my wanton desire. I shook my head and decided I wouldn't assess the essay tonight but would compose my comments tomorrow.
I tossed and turned all night, my head reeling from the revelation that Miko was a submissive lesbian. That night the maid dream replayed in my head, only this time it ended with me on my knees massaging Madison's feet while she watched TV. I awoke in a sweat, mortified by this subservient dream that kept replaying in my head, and even more mortified this time to feel a sticky wetness in my panties.
4. A POWER SHIFT
Once my class had ended the following day, I asked a still inappropriately dressed Madison to meet me in my office. She agreed, her condescending tone dripping with superiority, "Sure Professor, but not until after lunch."
I considered making a scene and demanding she meet me right then (the disrespectful bitch), but it seemed like a futile time for a pissing match.
I went to lunch myself before going to my office, went back to assessing the term papers, and was reviewing Miko's paper for a second time when Madison arrived.
She didn't knock but sauntered into my office a little after three, much later than I’d thought we’d arranged. She tossed me a paper and sat down on one of my two visitors’ chairs.
I reached for the crumpled paper and shook my head. It was barely over a page in length, handwritten instead of typed, and with no references. I tried to conceal by contempt for her sloppy work while I read it. After all her argumentative talk in class, and her confidence in her topic, this is the crap she submitted? I was just finishing reading the strictly opinionated and diva-centered paper when I heard a thud. I looked up to see that she’d repositioned herself, and now had her three-inch heels resting on my desk and was leaning back in her chair.
I gave her a look that could no longer hide my disgust at both her behaviour and her essay. Her insouciant smile faded in a heartbeat and she asked, "You don't like my paper?"
"Well, Ms. Adams, the paper you’ve just turned in, and a day late I might add, isn't really what we discussed."
"I won't say this often as it’s so rarely true, but you were right," she responded, tossing me a plum and insulting me at the same time.
"Excuse me?" I asked, taken aback by her straightforward admission.
Ignoring my shocked tone, she continued, "Finding litigation and case law focusing on visual sexual harassment was very difficult to find. But I assembled a plethora of personal experiences during the time I was gathering my data." I stood up, trying to restore the power shift that seemed to be swinging to this white girl’s side. As soon as I did, I could see that her skirt was so short, particularly sitting the way she was, that I could see the tops of her thigh high stockings. She noticed my gaze, and smugly added, implying I was even now visually sexually harassing her myself, "And even as I speak, my evidence continues to pile up."
"Pardon?"
"You were just now checking out my legs, Professor Jefferson,” she asserted confidently.
I stammered, trying to defend myself, even though I had no reason to be defensive, “I-I-I was most certainly not.”
Smiling, she quipped, her tone speaking to me as if I was a baby, “Come now, Professor Jefferson. I’ve noticed you checking me out ever since I began this experiment."
"I have not," I protested adamantly.
"Don't worry, Professor Jefferson," she continued, ignoring my protest entirely, "You aren't the only one who’s been visually sexually harassing me." She let her heel fall to the floor. She asked, her tone that of a white Mistress addressing her maid, "Can you get that for me?"
Mortified, but not wanting to offend her, I walked over, reached down and retrieved her heel. I handed it to her.
"Could you put it back on, please?" she asked, her tone deceptively polite.
I don't know why, I knew this was a complete power play and that by obliging her I was giving into her little game, but my body was moving while my head was still considering the consequences. I touched her stocking foot and an electric spark slid up my back, surprising me completely. I hastily put the heel back on and retreated back to my desk, a location where I felt back in my comfort zone.
She smiled, "Thank you, Professor Jefferson."
"You're welcome," I replied, trying to get back to the topic at hand, her essay. "Now back to your essay."
She interrupted me, "Professor Jefferson, I need an A in this course, and thus also for this paper."
"How can I possibly give you an A, based on what you’ve handed in?" I asked, assessment being the only power card I had left.
"I get A’s in all my other classes, and I’ve always gotten A’s."
Even though she hadn’t included it in her research paper, I knew there was some basis for visual sexual harassment creating a hostile workplace, including in the classroom. But if I gave her an A, I’d be devaluing the work her peers had done while writing and researching their papers. "I can't give you an A based on what you’ve submitted Ms. Adams, but I do think your topic has merit. I’ll give you another week to write a personal reflection paper."
She shook her head in the negative and divulged, "Professor Jefferson, your staring, leering and panty-peeping has made me very uncomfortable in your class. Being treated like a sex object and being drooled over by my lesbian teacher was very distracting and…"
"I am not a lesbian," I interrupted.
Madison snapped, "If you don’t mind, Professor Jefferson, I was speaking, and I’ll thank you not to interrupt. Trust me, you are a dyke. You haven't stopped staring between my legs since I began this experiment. I bet you’ve even dreamed about me at night, haven't you?"
My face flushed, luckily since I was black she couldn't notice, and I stammered, "I-I-I have done no such thing."
She mocked me, "Y-y-you have done no such thing. Nice cover, Professor Jefferson. The truth of the matter is that the real reason I didn't finish writing my paper is because in class you treated me like a sex object, and I felt uncomfortable writing about you and your nasty thoughts."
Defeated and worried she could go public with her false accusations… she’d been flaunting herself flagrantly throughout her so-called experiment… that nevertheless were potentially damaging, I ended up giving her a completely undeserved A. "Fine, Ms. Adams, against my better judgement, I will give you an A."
She immediately stood up and proclaimed, "Thank you very much Professor Jefferson, I may reward you one day for your obedience."
Obedience? Before I could respond to her final word, she bounced to her feet and swayed her ass out of my office. (I’m sorry to be crude, but that’s exactly what she did.) I left home early, furious at myself for being manipulated by this stuck-up, manipulative bitch. I replayed the conversation in my head and tried to see where it went all wrong. I decided to ensure I was never alone with her again.
That night I woke up in a cold sweat, my hand in my panties, the dream the same, but this time I was sucking Madison's stocking-covered toes while she told her friends about how I’d become her black man servant. (Her word not mine, except I was the one dreaming it.)
My dreams were getting more and more subservient, and this time hearing her call me a black man in front of Miko, Ashley and her sister Emily, was a mortifying new low. I tried to fall back to sleep, but my churning thoughts became obsessed with the humiliating way Madison was treating me, both in my dreams and in real life.
I promised myself I would have to talk with her and deal with this once and for all.
