Back to Bennet!

The ink sloshes soundlessly in its glass barrel, following the tilt of the fountain pen as you roll it between your fingers. Lying on your bed, the circular bedside lamp beside you casting your room in an orangish tungsten light, you find yourself lost in thought.

The level of the ink in its translucent capsule has not decreased since first filling it. You’re sure of that, now. You’ve spent a good amount of time tonight scribbling your own name into notebooks, checking the level every so often, and the scientific impossibility of this self-sustaining resource has all but proven itself. The ink is endless.

Which at this point feels like an afterthought. A distraction. This ink — mind control in a tube, essentially — It’s already proven to be beyond the realm of reality, more inhabiting some genre of perverse science fiction. You own a person now. You could probably own a lot of people. Maybe the whole planet. The endless liquid potential is glinting at you like the chrome barrel of a pistol, and it’s a lot more overwhelming than the revelation that the ink self-replicates.

Still, there might’ve been some sort of comfort knowing that the ink at least follows the laws of physics. That, as powerful as it is, it has a conceivable limit. No such luck, apparently.

Crickets chirp quietly outside. You’ve been obsessing over this for a while.

The other thing is that writing your name felt really good. Using the ink feels really good. Writing in the notebook was not as powerful a hit as claiming a person, but you can definitely notice it now. Like a little scratch to an itch. Like parts of yourself were melting across the pages, subsuming it, spreading your influence. The power the ink represents is addicting in and of itself but this feels like something more. Something, strangely, tied to your libido.

It’s very hard to get Spruce out of your mind; her kneeling form, having taken you in her mouth. Her pitiful attempts at some kind of resistance as her traitorous tongue worked your shaft, her hands mauling her tits. It’s a dark sexiness, equally amoral and amorous. Seeing that image of Spruce, usually in such blistering control, washed up on the floor of the detention hall, creaming herself to your command. Grinning, blissful, because you ordered her to orgasm. The thought that this could just be the beginning is a thrill in itself.

Were you like this before? You can’t remember. This part of yourself feels new, exciting. These fantasies dancing through your mind are twisted in a way that previously would have felt unbecoming, but now feel very right.

Of course, you can’t deny the possibility that the ink only unearthed whatever latent sexual deviancy you feel yourself enjoying right now. That it's something that’s existed in you for longer than you know.

Maybe. That thought is somehow better than the alternative.

You’re distracted when a peculiar noise emits from your bedroom window — a hollow clink that’s shortly followed by another. Cautiously walking to the window and peeking past the curtains, you gaze outside.

A ghostly silhouette, backlit by the streetlights outside. Speak of the devil and she appears. It’s Ms. Spruce, looking a caustic combination of determined and impatient as she squints upwards, a fistful of garden pebbles in one hand. With a marksman’s stance, the other hand winds up and—

You jerk back as a pebble strikes the window right in front of your face, bouncing off with a resonant ting. You hear a faint crackling as the window shudders from the attack. She seems to notice you now, as you pull open the curtains and glare at her with a shrug like what the fuck? She waves, before meekly tossing the pebbles back into the garden and wiping her hands on her jeans. She looks back up and says something. You can’t hear her, but the look on her face is loud and clear. I need to talk to you.

So many questions. Why is she here? How does she even know where you live? Not that you’re complaining — with this whole business with the stamp, you do actually need her. Regardless, it’s still more than a little creepy to see her appear this late at night, tossing rocks at your window to get your attention like an apologetic ex. All she’s missing is a boombox and Peter Gabriel.

With a huff you step outside your bedroom, carefully tiptoeing past your mother’s room. You silently approach the stairs and sneak down until you reach the foyer.

You can see her silhouette, a pale blur through the decorative glass, as you open the door.

There’s a sour look on Spruce’s face. A simmering… anger, maybe? Frustration? She looks a tad underdressed for this late at night, and her arms are balls at her sides. The sleeve on her left arm has been pulled back, and you can see your own name winking back at you.

It’s quiet, for a moment, like nobody wants to make the first move.

You break the silence first. “Okay, what are you doing h—"

You’re cut off as she hugs you. Her arms, wrapped in soft yellow turtleneck, reach around your back as she buries her head in your chest. Her nose digs dully into your shoulder. You nearly stumble back from the surprise, one arm flailing for balance until it meets the solid wood of the doorway. The hug lasts an eternity as you stand frozen, and you hear her release a sob, before gently, slowly, she pulls back. There’s a few teartrails running down her cheek.

She wipes her face, and then her gaze is down at her shoes. You can see it in her expression. She hates that she just hugged you.

“What — the fuck was that?” You’re still trying to come back down to earth. “Have you gone mental?”

Ms. Spruce rubs her arm, cheeks flushed. "I don’t know. I’m sorry. I just needed to.”

Her gaze is still burning onto her uptight pair of black moccasins. She totters awkwardly on her feet. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you here?” You ask.

Her eyes flick off to the side, then to you. “I’m not quite sure. I just needed to find you. To come back to you. I couldn’t resist.” She shivers. “Everything’s on record, you know. That’s how I found you. You’d be surprised at the files we teachers are allowed to access.”

“You looked me up?” You lean further against the doorway, arms folded. “Jesus, that’s kind of creepy. Seems like a system ripe for ****.”

She tsks. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry, okay? I just… I needed to get back to you.” Her tone is frustrated, but drips with desperation. “I couldn’t control it. It’s like a pull. But it doesn’t matter. You needed me too, right?”

“Yeah, but I think it could have waited until tomorrow… didn’t I tell you to just go back to your place?”

“I did go home, hot stuff! But then I started getting this horrible feeling like I was away from you too long. Like you needed me, some kind of gut instinct… thing. I tried to hold it together as long as I could, but I just had to get out of here… oh god, and who knows what Audrey is thinking..."

You raise your eyebrow. “Audrey?”

“My roommate.”

“You have a roommate?”

Spruce sighs, a miserable look on her face. “Of course, Bennet. Do you know how little we teachers get paid?”

Whoof, honest response. You grin. “Gotcha. I’ll try to remember to stick a sock on the door if we bone at your place.”

You reach around and give her a quick swat on the ass. She grunts and turns a bright red and tries to scowl, but you can tell by the way her eyes crossed that she appreciated the spank.

She averts her eyes. “Ahem. As I was saying. Now that I’m your property, I need you to take care of me. I’m your responsibility now. You’ve got to tell me where to go, what to do. I would have explained that if you hadn’t left detention so quickly. You need to give me purpose.”

You click your tongue. “What, so I’m responsible for your… everything? Jesus…” You ponder for a moment. “So, do I have to tell you when to eat and stuff? What about breathing? You’re breathing right now…”

She looks at you like you’re a moron. “I’ll keep myself alive, but for all intents and purposes it’s best if I stay with you from now on, so you can best… I don’t know. Utilize me.”

Back the fuck up. “Woah, you wanna live with me? What’re you, nuts?”

Her lips purse. “I’m sorry Bennet, but you did choose to claim me. I’m property. I can’t just be left to my own devices anymore. I’m not an…” her voice trails off, as she looks to the side. “I’m not an independent person anymore, get it? Not even a person at all, really…” Her hands are clasped against her lap. Her posture is recessed, submissive. Even at half a foot shorter than you, when she was her old, fiery, classroom self she felt like the largest presence in the room.

Now she just looks scared.

“Y’know, I live with my mom. It’s not exactly gonna be easy explaining why my math teacher has to move in with the two of us.”

“I… have a theory, about that.” She stares down at the name on her arm. Her eyes go a bit fuzzy. “When, um, you signed your name onto that homework… it made me believe, to my core, that it belonged to you. Your ownership was irrefutable. It still is.” As if to accentuate her point, she pulls out the paper, covered in checkmarks and of course, your name. “I didn’t question it once. Couldn’t question it.”

You remember Charlotte and the book, as well as mom and the letter. The memory of seeing their eyes blank and their minds turn shoots a little thrill up your spine. Even now, Spruce seems lost looking at your name on the paper as she explains it, her eyes lidding, as if perfectly drowsy.

You frown. “Yeah but… that’s just a piece of paper. Waaay different than a whole ass person. You’re saying that people’ll just… believe I own you? And they’ll be fine with it?”

It takes Spruce a moment of hesitation before she shrugs, folds the paper up and hands it to you. “I’m not sure. But if this ink of yours has been able to twist me into your property as easily as it has… I imagine it has that kind of power.”

You stare at the paper before pocketing it. “So my mom’ll be chill with it?”

Spruce looks back up at you. “Yes Bennet," she says, "Your mom will be ‘chill with it’.”

You sigh in relief, and are greeted by your own breath, visible in the cold. You notice that Spruce, faintly, appears to be shivering. Her turtleneck is very thin. She really shouldn’t be out in the cold like this.

You feel a pang, of something weirdly like guilt.

“Okay, listen… let’s talk about this inside.”

You open the door and pull her into the warmth of your house.

Ms. Spruce takes in your room as you quietly lock the door. You have to admit, it’s a bit of a mess. Dirty laundry spills from the hamper in the corner, and loose papers and charging cables litter the floor. The trashcan by your bed is filled to the brim with chip bags and used Kleenex. She wrinkles her nose and mutters something about boy’s rooms being just as filthy as she remembered.

Ignoring her comment, you tell her to take a seat on your bed as you pull out your desk chair and sit on it reverse, facing towards the back of the chair. Your arms rest over the top. The bed squeaks as Ms. Spruce sits down, facing you. You watch her as her eyes drift nervously between you and the pen on your bedside table. Your eyes focus on her wrist, which is rested on her lap.

You tap your finger idly on the headrest of the chair. “So. What to do with you.”

She shrugs. “That’s for you to decide.” She says it with such disdain, like it’s the most exhausting concept in the world.

You rock idly. “Well, I definitely still want you teaching. After all, If you’re going to be living with us you have to pay rent and stuff. Food, you know.”

“I agree. I think ordering me to continue going into work will quell some of this… anxiety, or whatever it is that’s plaguing me. It would at least give me a consistent purpose.”

“Sure. That’s easy enough," you say, before grinning. "Besides that, though, I also want you on my beck and call. Anything I ask for, I want you to come running. Sex, refreshments… driving me places in your car.”

Spruce cringes. “There it is,” she says weakly. “God, somehow I forgot you’re still in high school. Do you really not know how to drive?”

“Transit is convenient enough. And what’s the fun in having a **** if you’re not making them do shit? Besides, you like it when you follow my commands. You’re getting something out of this as well.”

She glowers. “It’s just so typically… male. And just because I gain arousal from it doesn’t mean I actually like getting treated like some kowtowing sex pet. It’s humiliating.”

You shrug. “Yeah, I mean I guess that’s kind of half of the fun?”

Spruce lowers her head in tired resignation. She picks at her tattoo with her nail.

“Okay, that’s settled. Now, onto the living situation. We don’t have a spare bedroom or anything, so you’ll have to sleep in here with me.”

She glances around, surveying the size of the bed. “You do have a couch downstairs, you know. I could certainly sleep there —“

“Nuh uh. No bueno,” You grin. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a girl in my bed.”

“Of her own volition, no doubt…” Spruce mutters. You shoot her a glare. “Don’t try weaselling out of this,” you say.

“I couldn’t if I wanted to,” Spruce shivers. “Though if I am to sleep here, I uh… have some rules. I do require a lot of blankets to sleep. It can’t be too cold. And two pillows preferably, my neck needs proper suppor—"

“Sleep,” you say.

Spruce sighs, her eyes rolling into her head as her lids close, and then she slumps right over there onto the bed, landing softly on top of her left arm, the movement accompanied by the muffled squeak of bed springs. Her breathing instantly deepens, and you can see the subtle rise and fall of her heavy chest.

You chuckle to yourself, half-surprised that your command worked as effectively as it did.

“Sorry, I couldn't help it.”

You walk over and prod her with a finger, first on the shoulder and then a couple times on her most accessible boob. She doesn’t stir, her eyelids melted together in contentment. She’s out like a light. Her position doesn’t even look that comfortable, her legs still draped over the bed, her spine resting at an awkward angle.

“Wow, you’re really gone. C’mon, Spruce. Can you hear me?” You pinch her tit a little bit harder.

“Yes,” she intones, her eyes not opening.

You blink, taken aback. “Huh? Wait, are you awake?”

“No,” she mumbles dreamily, as if sleeptalking. “But I am listening.”

“Oh, freaky…!” You say, standing over her. When she’s not speaking, her mouth rests in a very peaceful expression. “Um, okay, sit up for me.”

Slowly, stiffly, as if being pulled by strings, she rises from the bed. Settling back into her previous position, she almost seems to click into place as her chin rises to face you, hands on her lap, eyes still closed in that dreamy expression. It’s almost as if she’s in a very, very deep trance.

It suddenly feels strangely claustrophobic in the room. “Uh, wave to me,” you say.

Spruce’s right arm raises lethargically, dipping and bobbing almost drunkenly, before it starts jerking back and forth, wrist and fingers loose, giving an impression like someone badly puppeting a corpse. After a moment, it drops back into her lap with a soft thud.

Okay, this is freaking you out. “Wake up,” you say, and with a sudden inhale, Spruce is back, her eyes open, staring at you in shock. “Whahappen??” she gasps, eyes flicking around the room like she’s seeing it for the first time.

Your expression is incredulous. “You don’t remember? I had you sit up? And wave at me?”

Spruce looks at you, completely flummoxed.

“Do you really not remember?”

“No…?” Spruce clenches her eyes. “I mean, I think I remember… something. But it’s distant, and blurry.”

“Oh… Okay?” you raise an eyebrow. “Wait, let me try… Sleep.”

Down she goes, slumping over once again. She really does look peaceful when she sleeps; it’s a strange sight for such an angry person.

This is new. Before, when you gave Spruce a command, she’d follow it, but clearly against her will, accompanied by her typical stubbornness.

But when she’s asleep… this other consciousness (subconscious?) that speaks through her doesn’t seem to communicate with Spruce herself. At the very least, they don’t seem to share memories. Does that mean it’s possible to give her commands in this state that Spruce herself would be oblivious to?

If so… that opens up a whole other avenue of tomfuckery for your math teacher.

“Rise,” you say, and she does.

“Okay, Spruce. Here’s an idea. Whenever I say your name, you’re going to…” you think for a moment, “pinch your nipples. Hard. And it’s going to feel completely natural, and you’re not even gonna notice that you’re doing it, alright?”

“Yes,” Spruce intones, face blank.

“Spruce,” you say, and in one fluid motion, her hands fly to her chest and raise her sweater until it rests atop her cleavage. Deftly lowering her bra, her fingers find her nipples and compress, squeezing with fierce determination. She grimaces slightly, but her expression remains chiefly stolid.

"Now stop," and she does.

“Good,” you say, noticing and liking how Spruce’s mouth quirks into a small smile at the praise. Clearly she’s not conscious enough to fight the smile, her **** self just letting the pleasure settle over her.

“Okay,” you snap your fingers. “Wake up.”

“Haah,” the smile disappears as she jolts, her eyes fluttering open. She seems to recognize that she’s sitting up, but not that her hands are both positioned right at her exposed tits, and not that her tits are, indeed, exposed. Blinking, she glowers at you. “Would you please stop whatever the fuck you’re doing?”

“Sorry, Spruce. My bad.” You grin as her fingers immediately find her nipples and begin to squeeze. She tsks, but seemingly not from pain.

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, Bennet,” Spruce says dangerously, fingers rolling and squeezing her nipples like mad. “My name is Ms. Spruce.”

“Sorry, then, MISS Spruce,” you say, and her fingers clench even harder, jiggling her nipples around and causing her breathing to strain. Despite the intensity of the sensations, she still seems none the wiser.

“What, see something you like?” She says sarcastically, obviously reacting to your intense stare at her chest, but somehow still not registering her own hands. You simply nod. “Oh yeah, Ms. Spruce, you know it.”

“Ahn,” is her response, a cry of pain as her fingers begin to completely crush her tits. Regardless, her expression is still one of mild annoyance. “L-let’s just get this over with. What else do you, ah, want?” She’s playing with her tits like a masochist, just pinching and crushing all over. You realize she’s possibly liable to hurt herself if you go any longer.

“Okay, okay, sleep!”

Ding. Her lights go out. Her hands cease their ****, dropping as she drops, and this time her body pitches backwards into a comfortable rest.

Phew, okay. She stopped. Her nipples look really red and probably hurt like hell, though. Assuming she still feels pain in that area.

Approaching from the side, you carefully sit down on the bed next to her. She doesn’t stir.

You trace a finger idly around her breast. So it’s possible to control her without her even knowing. Theoretically, in this subliminal state, you could change any part of her – give her triggers to do or believe anything you want – and she’d not be able to tell that anything about her had changed. Perfectly oblivious.

That’s the theory anyway.

So why not test that theory out a little bit?

You lean down to whisper in her ear. “Listen to my words. Here’s how things are going to happen…”