Risk Versus Reward is a prequel to Girl Friday and focuses on the story of Karin, the ‘H.R. Lady’ who provided Charlotte’s rather unique interview experience when she was hired. You do not need to read Girl Friday to understand what’s going on in Risk Versus Reward. But if you enjoy this story, Girl Friday should most definitely be on your reading list.
In the last chapter of Karin’s story we got to see the softer side of Mistress Nguyen as she declared her love for her girl Desi. We also learned of Mistress Nguyen’s love of the game squash and her interesting way of keeping score. And in the end we found a rather confused Karin wondering just where she stood in the whole relationship.
Will Karin and Desi remain together? Or will our favorite P.E. teacher tear them asunder in more ways than one?
I hope you enjoy Karin’s continuing story.
* * * *
Chapter 14: Why So Glum, Old Sport?
“What do you wanna do this afternoon, Baby?” I asked Desi, who at this very moment looked like she was ready to lay her head down on the pillowy softness of the brioche roll sitting next to her empty soup bowl and take a nap.
“Don’t care,” she said.
Thanks Des, your enthusiasm is duly noted and a commendation will be recorded on your Academy transcript.
I guess I couldn’t lay the blame entirely on her, nor on Mistress Nguyen for the trauma she had dealt to Desi’s back entrance that caused her to fidget all through an entire bowl of soup and halfway through a salad, seemingly unable to ever find a comfortable position in which to sit. No, the glum expression and ho-hum attitude was painted on nearly every face in the Lesbian Hogwarts refectory that noon, because shortly after Desi and I had awakened from our mid-morning snooze the sky had decided to open up in a torrential downpour.
This was a far cry from some gentle lake-effect shower that had decided to roll on over The Academy, but rather was a full-on cloudburst full of lightning and thunder and a deluge of heavy drops thumping against the windows and rooftops. My thoughts turned to poor Venus out there valiantly standing watch over the garden while getting her big stone bobbies pelted with rain. I thought about the Sushi on the lawn with Elena writhing under my tongue that wasn’t going to get a repeat performance. I thought about all the things we couldn’t do this afternoon because of the weather and suddenly I was as morose as Desi.
“We could ask Miss Smith to bring out the body paints again,” I suggested.
“I hear Miss Chowdury is doing a class on lava cakes. Care to feel what it’s like to have molten chocolate running all over your naked body while the faculty chases it down with their spoons and tongues?”
“Really?” Actually, I thought it sounded like fun. As crazy as Miss Chowdhury was, I thought she might even soak the cake in booze and then light ‘er up like an actual volcano. Kind of brings new meaning to the term girl on fire. Almost like science lab and home economics all rolled into one. Scary, but fun. “You sure, Des? You’re not exactly offering a lot of suggestions here.”
“Contemporary American Literature?” Her expression actually changed a bit from a blank melancholy to a mild-to-moderate intrigue.
How could I say no to that face? That cute little Desi-face. I couldn’t. But I still pinched her cheek and wiggled it around a little for good measure before responding, just to let her know I thought she was being a stick in the mud. “OK, fine,” I said.
* * *
I wandered down the academic hallway with Desi in tow looking this way and that for the flat-panel monitor that advertised Contemporary American Literature. I laced my fingers in with hers and held her hand while we walked like she was my best girl and all — which felt good and it’s how I liked to think of her, except as far as I could tell she was already wearing some other girl’s pin. And that token of affection happened to be in the shape of a silver ring that had been stabbed right through her tender flesh, perpendicular to the axis of symmetry of her left nipple, by the steady hand of none other than our favorite leetle lab-coat girl Elena. Add in my mysterious Doctor Tina Moreau and it was enough to make a girl’s head spin. This wasn’t a love triangle, it was a love polygon.
But after about an hour of Contemporary American Literature I learned that my troubles were nothing compared to old Jay Gatsby, old sport. Poor Jay, he was desperately in love with this girl Daisy, except she was in love with Tom, or was she? They were married and all, but he was cheating on her with some other gal he kept in town — and when I say kept I mean like he paid for an apartment and all so that he could just show up there and fuck her when ever the urge came over him — right under her husband’s nose. Why he couldn’t just fuck Daisy and be happy I don’t know, she sounded ataşehir escort like she was quite a looker — a little loose in the head though, because she kept going on about Gatsby’s shirts and how lovely they were and how she cried when she saw them because they were so lovely. So OK, yeah, she was a flake. In fact, the whole bunch of them were downright dysfunctional when you actually take the time to examine them.
But it got me thinking, you know? Thinking about my relationship with Doctor Moreau, if you could even go so far as to call it a relationship. She just kind of showed up and fucked me whenever she felt like it, but instead of an apartment in town I got a harem bed here at The Academy. And it wasn’t so much just straight-up fucking as it was her experimenting on me, and I’m not exactly sure how I felt about that. Desi and Mistress Nguyen — now that was straight up fucking. Except the she-devil had uttered the L-word over Desi earlier this morning and that seriously confused things for me. Well, she hadn’t exactly framed it as I love Desi, it was more of a me too kind of a thing preceded by I love a nice heart-shaped ass, which is something Desi had in spades and Mistress Nguyen sure seemed to be fond of plundering at any chance she got — even while Desi had her face in my pussy. That was weird. Sexy as hell, but weird. Still not as socially impaired as old Gatsby and the gang though. No, they took the cake alright.
But that was only when I compared them to the relationship between Desi and me and satan’s P.E. teacher. Doctor Moreau added a whole other dimension to the situation, and she was quite possibly the very definition of dysfunctional. Like you pick any old dictionary off the shelf and open it up to the end of the Ds and staring you right in the face there’s a picture of Miss Spiced Latte in her lab coat with the pockets that aren’t really pockets, holding up a glowing electrical device. She’s got a devious grin and one of those little thought bubbles over her head that has chutzpah written inside of it, and another one a little lower that reads transcend. And below the whole illustration is a single word — and that word is dysfunctional.
Oh, why did I let Desi talk me into Contemporary American Literature? I could have been so much happier with a thoroughly snookered Miss Chowdhury setting fire to a volcano cake that was busy spewing bits of chocolaty pyroclast all over my heaving chest. That was my idea of fun. Not thinking about Jay Gatsby and his merry gang of social misfits. Not having to compare them to my relationship with Doctor Moreau as I thought about her sadistic experiments.
That stuff all went right into the not-fun category. The column on the left side of the paper that everyone looked at with disdain. The antithesis of fun. That’s where I would write things like glowing wand of pain, having my nipples nearly pulled off on more than one occasion while she made comments about my bells, and the bullshit fifties housewife routine of fetching wine and slippers and sleeping in separate beds. These were all things I had just accepted prior to having time to think — time to examine them too closely. Damn you Contemporary American Literature, making me think like that.
“What’s got you so uptight, Karin?” I was apparently bad enough that even Desi noticed. Little miss I’m so glum because it’s raining outside and I don’t have a P.E. teacher impaling me and carving her initials in my tuchas right now — she noticed my mood. I must be a real basket case.
“Nothing, Baby. Just thinking too much.”
“Hmm,” was all she offered.
“What do you think we’ll end up doing when all of this is over and we graduate?”
“Get fucked a lot.” Desi tossed her hair back and grinned.
“I’m serious, Des. I’m starting to have some doubts.”
“I know what you need, Honey. You need to get laid.” She ran her tongue over her lips in what I figured was supposed to be an exaggerated invitation to spread my legs for her.
I could tell this conversation wasn’t going anywhere other than the bedroom, so I picked up my last California roll and popped it in my mouth. Desi had gone from miss drab hum-drum existence to miss cheeky little over-sexed monkey in the span of a single Contemporary American Literature class. Normally that was my favorite kind of Desi, the irreverent adventure seeking, fist me in the outdoor shower Desi. And what had I done? I decided I’d rather seek solace in a bit of nori-wrapped sticky rice and vegetables than to talk to the girl who was probably my best friend. The girl I had fallen in love with. The girl who was already hopelessly in love with someone else.
Damn you satan’s P.E. teacher.
* * *
I had managed to thoroughly bum myself out over the course of the rainy afternoon and if I were at home I’d probably head off to my room, shut the door and block out the world with a pair earbuds. But I wasn’t at home, I was at Lesbian Hogwarts where privacy and kadıköy escort solitude were pretty well non-existent. And that was particularly true of dinnertime.
Tonight’s gourmet meal was paneer tikka masla served up with basmati rice and naan bread with some kind of salad involving tomatoes cucumbers and onions, but I was really just in it for the naan bread. I love that stuff. So when the friendly little cartoon girl on the flat-panel display informed me that I’d have to be tied up to get it, I didn’t really even bat an eye. Just another dinner at Lesbian Hogwarts. Though apparently the theme for the evening was cooperation, because cartoon girl was tied up with another girl and they had to work together in order to ensure that they each got a chance to get some food to their mouths. I smiled for the first time since Contemporary American Literature, because to me it looked like a pretty good time.
Each girl on the flat-panel animation was wearing what I had come to know as a chest harness — a wrapping of rope above, below and between the breasts that I could see had a couple of obvious dinner-enhancing features. The first and most apparent was the way the ropes squeezed and accentuated the breasts, making even the cartoon girls look quite delicious in their bound state, not that I’m into cartoon girls. OK, maybe a little, but I think only because of the way they were tied with a rope shared between them and passed through both of their chest harnesses before being tied around their wrists. This is going to take a lot of help from the lab-coat brigade.
And if on command, a beautiful bespectacled lab-coat girl with flowing raven hair and twinkling brown eyes who introduced herself as Julieta — which she pronounced as Hoo-lee-ET-ah in a voice as smooth as warm chocolate pudding, fresh off the stovetop — appeared to ask me if I would be interested in the gourmet menu this evening and if I had chosen a dinner partner. I said yes and yes, but we’re not currently on speaking terms, tilting my head toward Desi.
That little comment earned my a rather rude showing of Desi’s tongue and I think she would have flipped me the bird too, but Julieta had already placed Desi’s hands together and started binding her at the wrists. I watched her take a doubled piece of red rope and make three passes around Desi’s wrists before running it once between and tying it off. I snickered at Desi’s sudden loss of the ability to casually cast any more rude gestures my way, but my reverie was cut short as Julieta deftly and quickly secured my wrists in a similar manner.
“Julieta?” I said. “Not trying to be rude, but I thought we were supposed to be tied together.”
“Not to worry, Kitten. Someone will get you two cinched up after you sit down. But for now I need your arms up so I can get this around your lovely chest, please.” She tapped my elbow to illustrate and I raised my bound hands over my head for her. She did say please after all.
I wondered briefly if Julieta called everyone kitten or if somehow a girl I’d never met before, and who had quite possibly only recently started at The Academy had learned of Doctor Moreau’s nickname for me. Is my face on the flat-panel displays at the entrance now? Is there a picture of me with a label of kitten on it, there to show the incoming girls what it means to transcend?
That was a pretty arrogant thought, but still I wondered how it was that she knew Doctor Moreau’s pet name for me. I quickly decided I didn’t want to divert any more thought to it though, because it was proving too distracting to my enjoyment of having my chest bound by the lovely and apparently very skilled young rope artist, Julieta. She could call me whatever she wanted to as long as she promised to keep touching me like this. I shivered a little as I felt the gentle caress of her fingertips running back and forth between the rope and my skin, presumably making sure it wasn’t so tight as to be uncomfortable.
“How does it feel?” Julieta asked as she snugged up another pass.
“Mmm, like a warm hug.” I must have been smiling like a horny idiot, because Julieta looked extremely pleased with herself. I wondered briefly if the lab-coat brigade drew straws to see who got to tie up Kitten. Oh, stop it, I told myself. Stop being so sure that all of this revolves around you.
As I stood silently trying to determine just how fucking special I was in the overall Academy hierarchy, Julieta had been diligently continuing in her work. She snapped me right out of my self-indulgent daydream by giving a sharp tug on the end of the rope that bound to my wrists together. I stumbled a bit, not being quite prepared, but most of my surprise came from the way my hands were pulled up to my chest and landed with a smack right between my tits.
“It runs through your chest harness,” Julieta explained in that silky warm chocolate pudding voice, with her lips perched ever so dangerously close to my ear. “So a tug on the rope relieves bostancı escort bayan you of the ability to do anything useful with your hands for a while.”
I felt a shudder run the length of me as I struggled to keep my eyes on the flat-panel monitors instead of having them roll back up into my head like they were threatening to do. The sexy cartoon girls had just sat down to eat and I was getting a demonstration of how it was all going to go down at dinner. And yes, I did refer to the cartoon girls as sexy. You probably would too if you saw the way the ropes were hugging their tender skin, squeezing their breasts in a way that accentuated their curves quite nicely, making them appear firmer and plumper.
Oh my goodness, I thought, Desi was right. I do need to get laid. And rather urgently since the sight of a couple of animated girls having dinner got me worked up enough to want to start rubbing myself right here. Or maybe that was due to Julieta’s tongue encircling my ear while her soft whispering breath caressed my neck.
“Enjoy your dinner … Kitten.” Julieta clamped down hard on my earlobe with her teeth and held me squirming for a second before sending me on my way to the dining room with a playful slap on my ass.
I began to think that I was probably right about that picture of me in the lobby, the one with the kitten label underneath it, that showed every girl who passed through these hallowed halls an example of the aspirations Doctor Moreau had planed for them. The kitten who transcended, that was me.
As I was making my way into the dining hall, Desi was ushered over to my side by another fresh-faced member of the lab-coat brigade who showed us to our table. Desi and I were seated on benches at opposite ends of the table while our young maitre d’ knelt down and quickly fastened the ends of our wrist ropes together underneath the table.
“Dinner will be served shortly,” she said and left.
I suspected I knew what the evenings dinner arrangement was all about even before I stretched my hands to rest them on the table. Sure enough when I did that, the pull of my hands on the rope caused Desi’s hands to be jerked toward her chest and land with a slap right between her boobs. I smiled a little bit at the look of shock on Desi’s face. Serves her right, I thought to myself.
“I think this evening is supposed to be about cooperation,” Desi said as she thrust her hands forward, taking any slack out of the rope passed under the table and causing my hands to now land squarely between my tits.
“Not talking to you,” I said and pushed my hands out as hard as I could. I heard the slap of skin and watched Desi’s flesh jiggling from the impact as I felt a wicked little grin beginning to cross my lips.
“You just did,” Desi hissed and yanked.
I pursed my lips and raised my nose in the air for the next thrust — the one that looked like it nearly knocked Desi off her seat. Serves her right, I thought again.
“What is your fucking problem, Karin?” Desi hissed as she tugged the rope so that most of the length was on her side again.
“You want to know what my problem is?” I spat. “You really want to know?”
I was ready to give it to her right there — all of it — lay out all of the jealously I had been keeping tucked away inside, pushed down into my gut where it fermented and turned to anger, anger over Mistress Nguyen’s roundabout confession of love for Desi. My Desi. Desi who had been with me since our very first dinner here at The Academy, tied together at the wrists, while she ran gentle circles over my thigh with her fingertips under the table causing my skin to erupt in goose pimples and making me want to kiss her when it was all done.
I was just about ready to lay that all on her when I saw the look of horror on her reddened face. At first I thought she was angry with me too, which I really felt she had no reason to be, but then I realized it was embarrassment painted all over her face. Apparently fucking in public wasn’t enough to shame her, but having a tiff over dinner was. And that was probably because everyone was looking at us — and I mean everybody. The lab-coat brigade had stopped mid-stride, trays of gourmet food seemingly suspended in air while they watched Desi and me arguing.
OK, so I may have quite possibly magnified the reaction to our little disagreement into something it was not, because as soon as I blinked the bespectacled hostesses were unfrozen and continuing on their way to the various tables. And I momentarily forgot the reason for my anger as the comforting aroma of curried yogurt sauce filled my nostrils and the sight of warm naan bread gave me pause to wonder what could possibly be so monumental that it would cause me to hurl harsh words at my best friend, my kinky bed buddy, my Desi.
And then I remembered. My anger had a face — an Asian-looking face with a lips that seemed to be always stretched into an amused smirk — and a name, and that name was Mistress Nguyen, or Betty as Desi so lovingly called her. The woman who had arranged to have that shining silver ring stabbed through the left nipple of my lover, my friend — my Desi. The more I thought about the she-devil the more I was back to being pissed.