More Stories - Satin Slippers

Satn Slippers

Synopsis: An inexperienced art student falls into the lecherous 
hands of her derisive instructor.

The Bloodletting

By Doxy Wringer ©

Click the play button to listen to an audio excerpt

Author's Note: This story may not be duplicated or re-posted on another 
website or in any medium without the written consent of the author. 
It is a work of fiction, and intended as a pleasure derived from the 
viewpoints of both the most tender and the most carnal hungers 
that swell within the human animal.

“Don’t forget your sweater,” I murmured, lifting the warm weight of his comfortable cashmere off my shoulders. 

“Return it to me next time, sweetheart. I don’t want you to get a chill.”

“No, you’d better take it,” I insisted quietly, pulling my arms free of the over-sized sleeves.

“Is this the part where you tell me we shouldn’t see one another any more?” his sigh was not so much condescending as tired, but the superiority was there.

Without looking up, I wordlessly pushed the plush fabric into his hands and turned back to the sorority house. I barely made two steps before he gripped my lower arm firmly and tugged back. 

“Jenna,” he breathed in one gusty breath of impatience. “Does there have to be a scene every time?”

“I keep telling you it’s over,” I mumbled, tired of being treated like his disobedient prodigy. “It’s over. It’s been over.”

“Except you keep fucking me.” His tone took on that mordant, sneering cruelty he was all too good at.

I wrestled my elbow free, hugging my goose-fleshed arms close to my chest. The four a.m. blanket of morning was chilly and sodden – providing an effective backdrop for the stage of my post-coital triste.

“Let’s not do this,” he offered gently. How easily he slid from spite to tenderness. “It’s not over, sweetheart. You don’t want it to be over.”

“I didn’t want it to start,” I reminded in a bare whisper.

The wind whipped up in a howling flurry and I shuddered hard against the cold – my slim form possessed of no insulation against the frost-laden air. His sweater was resolutely pushed down upon my shoulders again. He covered me warmly and then drew me forward into a possessive embrace. I should have drawn away, but I just couldn't manage it.

We were such a cliché, standing there – a sophomore art major in the arms of her college professor. I pressed my face into his throat and tried not to want to be in his arms. I tried not to remember the rumors that flew around about how he took on a new sex kitten every few semesters. I tried not to remember the wedding band on his left hand.

I hadn’t wanted it to start - that was true. What was also true was that I couldn't bear for it to end.


I’d had to pull strings and solicit a glowing review from my high school teachers to get into his advanced figure drawing class my freshman semester. My counselor had loaded me down with a bundle of required courses; I had been desperate to indulge in one luxurious elective.

Grissom Meyer was the best art instructor in the country. An open spot in one of his studios wasn’t likely to open up again until my senior year – if I was lucky. I had all but begged for admittance.

What a naive error in judgment. To think I could bounce right in on the merits of raw talent and insinuate myself into the fold of students who had been honing their disciplines for years – many of them at the graduate level or beyond. Every day I warred with my creativity just to not feel swamped with inadequacy. 

Grissom fed off my insecurity like a boorish houseguest picking at unsavory petit fours. He tore into my work with pitiless glee – singling out my ineptitude, and humiliating my every effort until I second-guessed each stroke of charcoal and pastel upon parchment. Until I spent nights sobbing in my own bed, suffering the soul-shattering betrayal all artists endure when the marriage of skill and inspiration goes on a trial separation. 

Finally, my classmates couldn’t endure it any longer. Most of them had hardened their hearts to Grissom’s malevolence over the years and couldn’t stomach the spectacle of his feasting upon my fragile ego. They lugged me under protest to frat revels, force-fed me hallucinatory brownies and sponsored me into a first-rate sorority. I obeyed meekly, glad to be a part of a group – glad to be around other artistic spirits, even if I felt mediocre in their company. 

I listened to them relate stories of beatnik parents, and madcap adventures. I pretended not to be shocked by the scandalous revelations they intensely traded as small talk. Tales of abuse, of sexual exploits, of misdemeanor crimes and drug trips. And I absorbed it all, trying desperately to hide my white-bread, virginal fascination. Nothing in my monotonous Lutheran upbringing or my Montessori-based liberal education had prepared me for these stark life truths. And while I sat, reminding myself not to gape in shock, they all complimented me for being such a good listener, and mused about how I must have a pretty fucked-up history to so understand theirs.

Grissom Meyer became our everyday gag. If I dropped a book, one of the girls would lower her voice to a staunch imitation of him and deride me with mock-insults. If a painting was crooked on the wall, one of us would lecture to it in monotone until the rest of the house surrendered into a fit of giggles. And the sordid tales of his exploits with students past were traded back and forth, like dirty jokes in a Brox bar.

By the time finals were bearing down, I had managed to thicken my skin enough to nod quietly through Grissom’s derision without trembling into a puddle of diffidence. I walked in for my one-on-one instructor session dreading the conversation that lay ahead, but assured that I could handle the verbal lashings in store.

Indifferently, he reviewed my portfolio, his tone remote and disapproving, while he itemized my flaws like a psychological grocery list. "These lack focus. This lacks truth. And what manner of tripe is this? Don't you have any empathy in you? What does this emit to the eye except a pitiable virgin's banal immaturity?"

"Are you going to fail me, Dr. Meyer?" I folded my hands prettily in my lap and fixed him with false confidence. I had shed enough tears over his brutishness to last a lifetime. I had no intention of giving him more.

Leaning back in his chair, Grissom flipped my portfolio open to the last page and bushed the imitation leather case onto my lap. 

"Do you think I should fail you, Jenna?" he inquired with a bemused smirk.

I didn't answer him, merely glared back mutely. I had no intention of playing his torment-by-Socratic-Method game. 

"This last sketch shows vitality and sagacity," he informed me flatly. "For that sketch alone, I'm giving you the highest mark in the class."

Slamming shut my portfolio, I angrily stood. "I realize that you're genuflected to like a God on this campus, and I'm nothing more than the dirt under your feet, but you go to hell."

Both his eyebrows shot up as a smug grin swept up the corners of his smooth mouth. "Well, that's a departure from your customary whimpering."

"I didn't fail your class, you old bastard," I huffed, feeling the sting of bitter tears struggling to be let out. "You failed me."

"I took an insipid, sad little girl and forced her to be an artist for one single sketch."

Teetering on unsteady legs, my mind wondered for the first time if he could possibly be serious. "Explain yourself."

"You had neither pain nor communion with humanity when you came to me. I have given you both." He spoke in a quiet, patient voice I had never heard him use before. It was lulling. "An artist bleeds, Jenna. Someone needed to open your wounds and bleed them. That's what I did. That's what it was my job to do."

Confusion consumed me. I shook my head. He nodded.

"I bled you, Jenna, and I will continue to bleed you. There is art within you. It's raw and unruly and aching to be let out. You need to hurt for it and empathize with it's sad reality so it can be born through you." His eyes roamed me like a tiger gazing leisurely through tall grasses toward a wounded antelope. "I will sculpt you to perfection, sweet prodigy." 

Taking a step back, my mouth fell open. Either he'd gone mad, or I had. But the stark-toothed hunger in his leer conveyed that he wanted to bleed me for more than my art. I might not have had much experience with men, but I knew lust when it stared me straight down the eyes. 

“I'm also going to fuck you, Jenna. I'm going to fuck you because I want to fuck you. And, once more, because I know you want me to fuck you.” 

My eyes had traded shock for horror, I've no doubt, and when he laughed at me, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Bolt and run, little girl," he waved his hand, dismissing me. "I'll get to you when I'm ready to have you."


He not only passed me, he gave me an "A" for the course.

I agonized over that mark and it's implications, wandering zombie-like through the finals bashes and spending long sleepless nights remembering his stalking tiger-eyes and the trapped thundering of my antelope heart. 

He had bled me. It couldn't be denied. That last piece had been my hands weeping out shapes on paper - blushing the manila base with the stains of my own angst - prostrate for just one perfect arch or exalted line.

I burned it a few days later - watching the smoke lilt up in tufts of misery – white, dancing clouds purging me clean like some shaman magic. Purifying his lustful eyes out of my thoughts with every crisp lick of flames on paper. 

I slept much better after that. 

The next semester, I was mysteriously enrolled in another of Grissom's courses. I didn't ask to be, but no one bothered to consider that I wouldn't be honored by his display of favoritism. I threw up for a week straight, but couldn't bring myself to drop it. Perhaps I had not completely charred my masterpiece after all. Perhaps I still had ashes to sift through.

In the studio, however, he gave me no further encouragement in my work - only the same derision I'd previously endured, only this time delivered with more noxious malevolence. And I decided that he'd been drunk when he'd given me my high grades. He'd been on some type of medication, or he'd been off it. Either way, I was doomed to failure this time at bat.

I got into the habit of arriving at the studio hours before the start of class, and remaining hours later. Sitting there on the uncomfortable wood-seated metal stools the college provided, feeling my own prosaic immaturity wash over me and my work like a plague.

One morning, as I sat floating upon my own plane of solitary misery, Grissom strutted in, settling his tall, lean frame against the doorframe - his face dancing with ridicule.

"How long are you planning to stare at that refuse before you figure out what's wrong with you and your work, Jenna?" he teased cynically. 

I closed my eyes and willed him to spontaneously combust.

"You sit around that sorority house and listen to all those graceless imposters tell you you're brilliant. The lot of you poke fun at me, and console yourselves that I must be an old man and a fool." 

I bit my bottom lip at that. I had never considered that he would know how we made fun of him. 

"Only you've begun to realize I'm not a fool, Jenna. I have the answers for all your questions."

Reluctantly, I turned to face him as he lazed against the door to the studio's small coatroom. "Why won't you give me those answers?"

"Oh, sweetheart," he cooed, and I was stunned to see sincere affection touch his eyes. "Come over here, and I'll give you the first answer right now."

As a young girl, I once argued with my mother that Little Red Riding Hood was mentally handicapped. What kind of imbecile fell prey to anything as obviously predatory as a wolf?

But I never thought twice about crossing the room to him. I was so thirsty to recapture just a taste of the inspiration he’d previously infused me with. He had to know the answers - he'd taken me through those gates of creativity before. And this time I’d pass the threshold with my eyes open. This time, I’d glean his wisdom from him and incorporate into my own soul.

There was precious little time before the class would begin to arrive, and I had no great wish to be seen conversing with Grissom alone. The rumors about him and previous students echoed heavily down the halls of the university. I did not want to be added to that chorale.

I stepped carefully before him, knowing only a bare moment of warning as his eyes swept me up and down. Then, suddenly, he lunged. All the sleek grace of a reptile on the strike, and there was one large hand clamped over my mouth, and one sinuous arm snaked around my waist. 

He wrestled me into the coat room - empty now that it was summer - and closed the slatted door with his foot. I screamed into his cupped hand - shocked at how effectively it muffled my cries. In response, his hand wasted no time, but dipped under my skirt to take a handful of my panties.

I fell dead still and silent, hardly able to breathe as my unexplored puss was mauled slowly by his domineering fingers. Through the sheer fabric of my panties, he stroked back and forth - as though he were conducting an orchestra between my thighs.

Within me, never-played instruments began to hum into life.

Full of sickening dread, I heard a few other classmates approach the room, their giddy laughter hushing as they filed into the studio. I could make out faint shapes through the slats in the doors, and when I should have screamed for help, my throat gave me nothing but dry silence.

His long-fingered hand continued to clutch my pussy, gnashing the flat of his palm against the damp crotch of my panties. The lips of my vulva swelled in expectation, the tiny button of my clit shifted from pulsing to screaming, and inside me there was an actual…pyre. I wanted something to burn inside me. Something to glide in deep, and press against the parts of me that had never been touched before. To sear through me like a fever.

"You're soaking wet, you hot little tramp," he breathed hard into my ear. "You've sopped through your panties. You're moving your wet pussy against my hand. Aren't you a naughty little tease?"

I felt his face press into my hair, while he kissed the back of my neck, and I shivered in delicious electricity. He felt my shudder and laughed softly.

"So many parts of you haven't been touched. None of your angst-ridden artist boyfriends have gotten a handful of your luscious wet pussy, and they haven't kissed the arc of this sweet neck. What are those boys doing with their opportunities? Or have you been saving yourself for me all along?" 

I shook my head and leaned back a little more upon his unyielding chest. More pliant now, I parted my thighs and turned my face into his shoulder. 

The tips of his fingers slipped leisurely along the elastic of my panties, then traced the lips of my pulsating puss through the delicate cotton. My knees liquefied and I opened my mouth against his sweaty palm, to taste salt, but also to let out the groan I'd been holding onto for what now seemed hours.

"Careful, sweet girl," he taunted in my ear. "Your snobby little classmates are just outside the door. And what if they hear you? What if they open up and find you in the closet with me? My hands full of your sweet, juicy pussy? And so, so wet. So aching for a fuck you can barely stand up?" 

Jus the possibility knocked the wind from my lungs. I couldn't begin to imagine the horror of being discovered. The shame of it. And yet, as he spoke I felt myself get wetter. The thought that they might find us was also recklessly thrilling. 

"I bet you taste good," he moaned out one long gush of frustration in my ear. "I'll bet you taste like apricots and honey. Ripe, fuzzy, sweet honey-drenched apricots. So laden with juice it would jet down my chin if I took a bite out of your plump pink fruit." 

He stiffened his tongue to a point and traced little circles on the back of my neck. It was maddening. At the same instant he grasped hard onto my cunnie and yanked backward while thrusting at me. His cock was hard in his pants and I felt it strain through the material of his tailored trousers to grind against my ass. My skirt was up around my hips, and my thong panties were little hindrance. He humped me from behind and swallowed the low growling of his pent lust. I realized that this man was raping me with every cell in his iniquitous mind. If thoughts were actions, he would have fucked me raw.

And I would have let him.

In the brief, shy heavy petting sessions I'd explored with my few dates, nothing had ever been this stark and hungry before. There had been hands beneath blouses. There had been cocks hardening in jeans. There had been many long, wet kisses attached to coaxing pleas for more. And each time, fear had won over curiosity. The horrible what-ifs had persuaded my wishy-washy morality into standing up for itself. And I had thought I was secure in my ability to say no and mean no.

But, with the choice completely removed from me, that left only a man fingering me through my wet panties and ramming his prick against my tight bottom. My pussy continued to emit an excruciating demand to be violated.

"I wonder what you feel like inside, sweetheart," he mused into my hair, panting. His thrusts had slowed, but he was still grinding his front against my back. "I'll bet it's tight, hot, and slippery in there. I bet you've never had a man push his fingers up your wet cunt."

I gasped when he used the word. It was a word I had never used, and I'd never heard a man use in my presence. All the nasty things he's said to that point melted away with the power of that brief utterance. 

He was really chuckling now. "Yes, that's right, princess. Your cunt. Your wet hot tight little cunt." Then his hand was suddenly inside my panties. The palm splayed over the top of my mound while his extended, dangling fingers tickled playfully at my lower lips. 

I couldn't help it. I moaned again into his other hand…this time bucking in response, my legs parted wide. One girl across the room seemed to hear something; she glanced over her shoulder toward the entryway but then simply shrugged and returned to mixing pigments with her palate knife. 

"You keep doing that and one of them will hear," he mocked me. "They'll open that door and they'll find you. You're not only sopping wet, you're spread wide and suppliant. Moaning because you want this old man's fingers shoved deep within your little virgin twat. Don't you, princess? You want to me to finger-fuck the honey out of your sweet apricot pussy?"

It didn't make a great deal of sense to bother to deny it. I was slick as a well-oiled gun and we both knew it. And, Christ, was I aching to go off. 

"No man's ever had his hands in your panties before, has he, sweetheart? This is the first time?" he was grunting thickly in my ear. I could taste his satyr- lasciviousness like an opulent merlot. Dark and redolent, with a heady bouquet of sin. 

"God, I wish I could fuck you right now," he lamented as the pads of his probing touch tapped the folds of my most tender flesh. Then, two of his fingers were pressing against my distended clit, rubbing slowly back and forth, gently, but urgently. I began to hump his fingers and I begged with every pore of my body for him to go faster… harder. 

And just before I came, he ceased his conductive symphony of sensation. My body jerked like a Jeep slung into reverse fresh out of fifth gear. I rumbled a protest as he pressed his fist roughly against my mouth.

This time a couple of my classmates looked up, glancing about. I heard their voices and froze in terror. As is generally the case in a classroom without a teacher, the same conversation took place amid several different people. The phrasing altered, but the gist remained the same:

Did you hear that? 
Probably just the wind.
It didn't sound like any wind I ever heard.
Well, whatever it is, it's gone now.

"That's the last time I'll warn you," he threatened - his voice amused and somewhat cruel. “The next time I'll kick open the door myself and they can watch as I break in your virgin cunt by fucking you pink."

I shook my head, hardly able to confess the secret thrill of that horrifying thought, when he jabbed his two fingers violently upward, spearing into my tight pussy. With a jolt I struggled a little against him - a minor rebellion he quickly quelled by mashing the heel of his hand against my clit. I clenched my teeth together to keep from screaming out in horrible joy.

"I know that feels good, you messy little whore," he jeered. "But do you know what I want to feel?" He worked his fingers deeper into my virgin snatch. I was so tight it hurt to be prodded by even his long, thin fingers - but under the sting was an itch, and the promise that he might scratch it.

"That's what I'm looking for," he was winded, his excitement was so tweaked. And deep within me, I felt a strange, awful, miraculous pressure. He pushed harder and the confusing sensation doubled over into a throb. Still harder and there was concentrated pain. I gave a meek whimper and lifted up onto my tiptoes. 

"Yeah, I bet it would hurt, my little virgin princess," his voice was liquid lechery. "I bet it would sting like hell if I rammed my fingers up and tore through your ripe red cherry and broke you. Broke in your sweet wet apricot of a cunt with my old man's fingers."

I was terrified that he would give that push. And clenched with misery that he wouldn't.

"But, I'm not going to do that, sweet baby princess," he promised, delivering hungry punishing kisses along my neck as he whispered. "What I am going to do is make you cum in one long wet puddle after another for the rest of the afternoon. I'm going to work your pussy sore and make you cum so hard your cunt will ache my name." 

The hand which had been covering my mouth this entire time, now clutched my chin and turned my face so that I could meet his smoldering eyes in the dim glow of our darkened closet. "You're going to cum so hard, sweetheart that you're going to feel my fingers still fucking in and out of your pussy tomorrow. All you'll be able to think about is how it felt to have my fingers jammed up this virgin cunt. And, then you're going to come to me and beg me to fuck you. You're going to actually get on your little princess knees and tell me that you want me to break you and fuck you and ram you and slam you…"

The rest of what he said as he stared like a madman into my eyes never made it to my ears, because it was at that instant when his pistoning fingers led me up to orgasm, and the palm of his hand crushing my tender, swollen clit shoved me over the ledge in the first consummation of the prophesized pleasure he delivered upon me.


"Keep the sweater," he whispered, his lips warm on my forehead. "I don't want you to catch cold." 

"You can't keep me," I countered feebly, my tone so juvenile I winced at the sound of my own voice.

His hands rubbed up and down my arms. "You didn't start this, Jenna, I did. And, when the time comes, I'll finish it."

"How long do you intend to bleed me, Grissom?" I asked, sarcastically. "How much longer do you intend to make my soul hemorrhage?"

"Until I'm full, or you're dry," he supplied, and the wind could not have chilled me anymore than his words. "Now stop acting like a spoiled child. It was a lovely show opening. You sold a nice piece. We made love like feral cats. Kiss me like a good girl and run in to bed."

I did lean up to kiss him, enjoying the familiar spice of his lush mouth. With every moment, I felt a tiny part of myself slipping away…consumed by him…

Internal bleeding. Massive hemorrhaging.

"Goodnight, Jenna," he whispered with one last kiss to my cheek. I wanted him to be a monster, but he wasn't. He was just a lust-ridden artistic genius of an old man who knew exactly how to manipulate me. Both predator and parasite.

"Goodnight, Grissom," I called demurely, stepping back toward the sorority house. Then, after hesitating a moment on the porch, I decided to add something to my docile parting. 

"Hey, Grissom, have you ever wondered what will happen to your pre-ordained strategy if I bleed you dry first?"



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