Dirty Hands

Justin Townsend awoke covered in sweat. He was panting. His pulse was racing. He threw back the covers and sat up, certain that he was about to vomit. And then the cool night air kissed his skin, and he began to catch his breath. His face was wet with tears. His stomach, and his bedclothes, were covered in his seed.

He sighed and got out of bed. Within the hour, he had showered and made coffee, and he was left with the disturbing feeling that the dream always gave him: that sense of hunger and frustration. He sat at his desk, thumbed through yesterday's mail, and let his eyes linger on an invitation from the Elm. He was missed, they said. He could return whenever he felt ready.

He wasn't ready. They had bound him and drugged him. They had made him choose between his own life and hers. She had made him choose. In so doing, they—and she—had taken from him the only thing he could ever want, and he couldn't even remember the act. Only in dreams did she return to him, his forever.

His cock was still hard.

Justin pulled up his email in search of a distraction. Most of it came from students and from other faculty, but one message stood out: it had come from the wrong university. He opened it at once.

"Mr Townsend," it began, "I've talked to the head librarian, and she's happy to drop all the fines if you just return the book. It's very rare! Please respond to me if you get this."

He blinked at the screen. Even though he was halfway through his morning coffee, it took a moment before he realized what book this message referred to. He frowned as he glanced at his shelf and saw it: the thick, green-bound volume entitled Sex and the Secret Society. The one with the missing pages in the middle.

He laughed. How exactly that book had wound up among his personal effects, he couldn't be sure. Perhaps, subconsciously, he'd wanted to keep it? He responded apologetically to the email before grabbing the book on his way out the door. He let the secretary send it for him when he got to the office; she was always happy to do him these little favors. That, he assumed, was the last he'd hear on the matter.

But it wasn't.

Four days later, he received another message from the same email address. It said, "I don't think you're hitting on me..." Attached, he found a scanned image of a handwritten letter.

Master,

I know you'll never forgive me, so I won't say that I'm sorry again. I only hope that, someday, you'll find this. I hope someday you'll understand. By now, you probably know what you were asking me for... By now you realize that I could never have refused you.

I had to leave you, because you had to hate me. You had to be able to let me go. I was just so terrified that you might love me too much. And maybe another slave would have volunteered, if I had asked. Some slaves are brave, and some have generous hearts—but I could never have lived with myself. Not knowing that someone else had given you that gift. Not when I could have given it myself.

It had to be me, Master. I had to die for you.

Enjoy my gift to you, Lord. Make the most of it.

Love, A.

Emotion came over him in crashing waves. The anguish of loss and regret; the red, boiling tide of anger; and after it all there came the cold chill of fear when he realized that someone at the university library had read this letter to him. Someone had scanned it. He looked again at the email and read the name. It was unfamiliar to him, but in his mind's eye he saw a freshman girl with bright, innocent eyes.

He began to compose a reply.