This is slow-burn, multi-chapter lesbian D/s story with a 'psychological' focus. Later chapters will revolve around emotional manipulation and an increasingly toxic relationship. It's also a fantasy and should only be viewed a such. In real life, please practice only safe, sane and consensual BDSM.
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Chapter 1
Emily watched her dad start the car and felt a strange wave of sadness. The dad she had always thought was lame and boring was now someone she was going to miss. This only showed how low things had gotten and how much of a failure her first year at Oxford had been. Here she was, twenty years old, missing her dad instead of feeling excited to see the university friends she hadn't spoken to in months.
In high school, Emily hadn't been the queen bee, but she was solidly in the mix - invited to parties, usually dating someone. Things had felt settled, like her life made sense. Back home, she'd had a role; maybe not the star, but still someone. At Oxford she was just a random face with nothing 'interesting' about her. She seemed to be always a beat behind in conversations: people casually mentioned books, authors, articles, as if everyone knew them, and Emily would nod along, to look them up in private later.
She'd really tried - been open, talked to people, even had a few conversations that felt promising. But nothing stuck. Everyone was friendly, just not quite interested. Deep down, she knew some of the reasons why. She gossiped, got insecure, wasn't posh, didn't sound especially clever. Still, she couldn't be the only basic bitch here, right?
She missed having a clear structure. Back at home, her life had been predictable - she had her school, her friends, her weekends. Here, nothing was clear. People just seemed to know how things worked, and she didn't. No one explained anything.
Emily stepped into her small room in one of Oxford's newer colleges - the kind she quietly felt didn't carry much weight compared to the old, posh ones with grand quads and Latin mottos. Enough, she told herself. This year would be different. She'd try harder, make friends, finally feel like she belonged. She had to.
Just how, she wasn't yet sure.
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Two weeks later, Emily was sitting stiffly on a folding chair at the back of a seminar room. The chair wobbled a little, and she sat next to a radiator that made a faint hissing sound. This older chap with a grey beard and a worn-out tweed jacket was talking through a slideshow on the history of class struggle. His voice had that flat, droning rhythm that made it hard to focus. She wasn't sure what he'd said in the last ten minutes. Something about history, or systems, or both.
It was the first Marxist Society meeting of the year. Emily had come because she'd always sort of thought of herself as left-wing. Not in a deep way; she hadn't like read Marx or anything, and her politics came mostly from retweets and group chats back home where everyone hated the Tories. But the Marxist Society had seemed like the kind of place where she might meet some smart, interesting people, potentially... friends.
Speaking of. Emily glanced around. Everyone else seemed to be in groups. The chairs on either side of her still empty.
After the talk, Emily lingered near the toilets, pretending to check her phone, hoping someone might say hi. Instead, it was the speaker who came over - the same older man from the front, still in his tweed jacket, smelling faintly of something stale.
"You asked a good question in there?" he said.
Emily gave a polite smile. "Oh - I didn't, actually."
He barely seemed to register. "You don't see many young women sticking around for this kind of thing. Good on you."
She nodded. He went on, talking about how it reminded him of when he was a student, when people "still took theory seriously".
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he reached out and rested a hand lightly on her upper arm, his fingers pressing just a little too long, a little too purposefully. Emily froze and her throat tightened. She laughed nervously, trying to pull away without making it obvious. They were half-shielded by the wall, out of view. No one else around. She thought about saying she needed the bathroom. Or had a call. Or anything. But her body didn't move.
And then - salvation.
A voice cut through the corridor: "Oh for fuck's sake, Peter. Get your hand off her."
A girl appeared: slim, sharp-eyed, striding straight toward them. Emily recognized her from earlier, it was one of the society committee members.
"She's an undergrad," the girl said, "You seriously pulling this again?"
The man stepped back, mumbling something about a misunderstanding, already retreating. "Try it one more time and I will report your ass. Properly this time."
Emily stood still, stunned.
The girl turned to her. "You okay?" she asked, seemingly more irritated than worried.
"I'm Grace. You looked like you needed a fucking bodyguard."
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grace: u made it home alive then
emily: against the odds
