October, 1986

1.

Once again I skipped dinner, dressed impeccably, and made the long walk to Professor Teasel’s palatial place. Heart pounding with excitement, flushed with the daunting challenge of somehow earning her love, I followed the brick walk around the house to the patio and found no one there.

There was just the same pool, the same spectacular sunset view, the same minimalist deck furniture – and a number of disquieting items on the table. As I cautiously approached I saw a video camera, VCR, and TV monitor displaying a real time image of the sling chair I’d occupied the last time. Next to these sat the same glass of wine, the same handcuffs, and weighted down by this last, a note.

I picked it up, and read: “Drink, boy! Then strip, sit, and lock yourself down like before. I will be back momentarily. Obey me!”

Like I would dream of doing otherwise, even without the coercion of the camera!

Watching myself on the video screen I managed to maintain a bit of dignity this time, as I removed and carefully folded my clothes. And by the time I sat down I could again feel the drugs beginning to take effect. I had to fumble a bit to get my hands cuffed behind me. But once that was accomplished, and I was once again at the mercy of events, I was able to sit there and stare mesmerized, just like before, at the orgy of colors cavorting over the expansive sea and sky.

Occasionally my attention would be drawn back to the sight of myself on the monitor, or to the real life close-up view of my once again monstrously paining and straining erection. But always the sunset would capture me again, its sublime cosmic riot aiding my rapid slide into dreamy, hallucinatory suggestibility.

After ten or fifteen minutes I heard the buzz of an approaching motorcycle, which grew rapidly into a magnified roar only to soon throttle back again into an angry sputtering mutter. Around the house it slowly growled, appearing at last and pulling right up onto the patio. Its rider was obviously my host, teacher, lover, etc, even though her features were completely concealed. There was no mistaking that tall, slender but shapely body, encased as it was in a skin-tight black leather suit.

Similarly black spike-heeled boots stopped just below the knees, and matching knuckle-studded fingerless gloves hid most of her hands. Not bothering to remove the shiny black helmet containing all her glorious hair, or to even flip up the mirrored visor shielding her face, she killed the engine of her sleek Honda Nighthawk and dismounted.

Without a word then she strutted up to the table, rewound the VCR to my arrival, and reviewed my behavior. Satisfied of my compliance, she nodded and shut it down. Then still without speaking or even removing her helmet, she turned, reached between her legs for a zipper, and