Ris Versus Reward

Author's Note

Risk Versus Reward is a prequel to Girl Friday and focuses on the story of Karin, the 'H.R. Lady' who provided Charlotte's rather unique interview experience when she was hired. You do not need to read Girl Friday to understand what's going on in Risk Versus Reward. But if you enjoy this story, Girl Friday should most definitely be on your reading list.

When we last left our heroines, they were standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes as their punishment for causing a scene over dinner. Karin and Desi seemed to be back to normal, hugging and confessing their love for each other. But is there really anything such as normal at The Academy?

What new challenges will the girls face, and will they overcome them as easily as before?

I hope you enjoy Karin's continuing story.

WaxPhilosophic

* * * *

Chapter 15: Stress Dream Tikka Masala

I stress-dreamed again last night -- another one of those hyper-realistic full sensory overload kind of dreams -- and of course it was Academy-style in the way it played out. It was obviously brought on by my little tiff with Desi over dinner, because instead of Mistress Nguyen sitting on the corner of the bed waiting for me to get up off my lazy butt and start in on some morning calisthenics, I dreamed I was sitting down to eat and all roped up again. Though something important was missing -- two things actually. It took me a while to figure it out, but when I did it was so obvious.

First, there was a disturbing lack of tikka masala in my little dinnertime dream. I mean, what good is a hyper-realistic dream, complete with sights and smells and tastes if there's no decent food to be savored. I felt slightly miffed at that and dream-me was about to complain to one of the lab-coat girls about the sudden and sharp decline in service here in the Lesbian Hogwarts refectory.

But I couldn't find any lab-coat girls ... not a single one ... not anywhere.

Well, better change that to I could only find

one

lab-coated female, and she definitely didn't have a track record of serving up any gourmet dinners. In fact it was much more likely that she would be serving up a heaping helping of pain in one of her weird-ass experiments. In my dinner dream I was staring directly into the eyes of Miss Spiced Latte, formerly known as the domme of my dreams, Doctor Tina Moreau.

And that led me to notice the second very important thing missing from my dream, and that was Desi. My favorite kinky dinner partner was nowhere to be seen.

Other than that, the situation was nearly identical to the last time Desi and I dined together. I was completely naked except for a red-rope harness cinched up nicely above and below and between my boobs, and my wrists were bound together with a rope that passed under the table to the other side -- Doctor Moreau's side. I don't mind being tied up so much if it's with someone with a gentle soul, someone like Desi. Doctor Moreau -- after my interactions with her thus far -- I was beginning to contemplate whether or not she actually had a soul. Of course

she

was not bound by the wrists, but rather held her end of the rope loosely in her fingers, though when she tugged the rope the effect was the same as it was at dinner and my hands were pulled sharply to land smack in the middle of my chest.

Doctor Moreau was clad in that lab coat of hers, the one with her name stitched over the breast pocket in red embroidery thread, the one that has the bottoms cut out of the hip-level side pockets so that she could touch herself while she conducted those dreadful experiments on me. And she was staring at me and grinning in a way that made my skin crawl.

"Go ahead," she said, "you've earned it."

In the surreal landscape of my dream it took a moment or two to figure out what exactly it was she was referring to. She gestured to a spot on the table directly in front of me with her hand that was not currently poised to tug on the rope.

Ah, dinner,

I realized. I looked down at my plate and sitting there staring back at me was an orgasm -- orgasm tikka masala.

I know that sounds weird, like how in the world could an orgasm suddenly take on a corporeal form and be served up in a curried yogurt sauce with a side of basmati rice and naan bread? But it's my fucking stress dream, OK? -- and that's what I saw, so take it or leave it. Doctor Moreau seemed dead set on having me take it too, the orgasm that is, but the pit of my stomach got all tied up in knots whenever I looked down at the plate and I was pretty sure that it was the last thing in the world that I wanted. Yeah, me refusing an orgasm. Go figure. But the orgasms offered up by Doctor Moreau always seemed to have some sort of strings attached, and more often than not those strings held something less than pleasant for me.

"Please, Miss." I pushed the plate away. "Please Miss, no more."

"But Kitten, you've earned it. Take it." Doctor Moreau smiled, but not so much with the proud smile of someone who just put the finishing touches on a lovely dinner that's being offered. This was more of a creepy little want-some-candy-little-girl? sexual predator sort of a leer. And I didn't really think I was in the mood for that kind of tikka masala at the moment.

"Please, Miss."

"Take it." Doctor Moreau gave a sharp tug on the rope she held in her hand and my hands were forced up against my chest, but not before being dragged through my plate of orgasm tikka masala and landing with a wet squishy slap right between my tits. I could feel the yogurt sauce running down over the skin of my tummy and I shivered it was so cold.

"Please, Miss. I don't feel so good. Please, no more."

"Take it," she insisted. "Transcend."

Transcend.

And with one word I realized with instant clarity what my dream was really about.

I blinked and I wasn't roped in at a dining table in the refectory anymore, I was strapped into that psychotic dentist's chair that Doctor Moreau kept in her laboratory, the place where she held me immobile while she conducted her cruel experiments on me -- the experiments that caused me excruciating pain -- the pain I was supposed to transcend. Unsurprisingly, I was stark naked and bathed in cold white light from some unseen fixture over my head as I lay in that chair.

Doctor Moreau had stepped up the application of her theory and now instead of being tormented, pausing and then being brought to climax as a reward for enduring it, she was expecting me to climax during the actual application of her torments. And the hell of it was, it was taking all of my willpower not to let loose and do just that right now -- to climax -- to mix up the pleasure and the pain into one great big ball of sensation and let it out as a single mind-bending orgasm. But I was not about to give her the satisfaction of having one under duress and validating her theories on submission.

I knew her conditioning was working. I knew it as soon as I started feeling the twinges and the building moisture whenever her tray of instruments was brought out. But I refused to let her know that she had me -- that she had created in me what she referred to as the perfect submissive -- that I could get off from the pain as easily as I did from the pleasure.

I pushed back against my bonds with all of my might, survival instinct kicking in hard even though I knew there was no way I was getting out unless she released me. I scrunched up my face and turned my head to the side. Doctor Moreau had picked up the dinner plate in front of me -- the plate of orgasm tikka masala that had somehow oddly followed me all the way from the Academy dining room to Doctor Moreau's home laboratory. She held it mere inches away under my nose.

"Smell it," she commanded. In spite of myself I did. And it smelled not like curry at all, but hot and musky, like sex.

I thrashed my head from side to side. "No Miss,

please!

"

Even in my violent shaking I could see the creases forming on Doctor Moreau's forehead as she lit up red with anger. "Take it, Kitten. Transcend."

"No. No. No." I writhed in the chair, trying in vain to shrink away. "No. No. No."

I screwed up my face and shut my eyes tight. And when I opened them, she was gone along with the plate of orgasm.

It was the strangest sensation. I knew I was dreaming and that anything could happen, but I was still slightly disturbed that everything had changed in an instant -- that I had blinked and now I was sitting alone. I was out of Doctor Moreau's lab and back in the refectory with my wrists bound together by the familiar length of red rope. Oddly enough that gave me some comfort. I flexed my hands a bit and felt the rope biting into my skin, not painfully just unyielding, and I concentrated on that sensation for a moment, focusing on the feeling of friction bringing warmth to my skin. It was the one constant in an otherwise fluid environment -- being restrained.

I sat there alone in the Lesbian Hogwarts refectory for a moment congratulating myself on my well-timed decision to blink that allowed me to escape the horrors of Doctor Moreau's lab, but after that brief celebration I found myself rather bored. I missed Desi. I don't know if that's what being all alone in the dining room was supposed to represent in my dream or not, but I did miss her.

If Desi were here, everything would be back to normal, everything would be alright again. I could be happy again and know that my decision to stay here was the right one. Desi is what I needed. I decided I would close my eyes again and that when I opened them Desi would be with me again. And you know what? It worked. I'm not claiming I'm some new-age yogi lucid dream specialist, but it fucking worked. I opened my eyes and there was Desi -- though not exactly as I had expected her to appear.

I kind of thought that Desi would magically take form seated on the bench across from me and that we would resume our dinner like we did so many evenings here at The Academy. This time I was looking forward to a nice big serving of orgasm in curried yogurt sauce with the rice and the naan, and the salad and Desi's hands roped in with mine so that we would have to coordinate our efforts to eat it. We would pull and tug at each other and giggle as we shared bite after bite of that glorious orgasm together.

But dreams being what they are, and me not actually being anywhere close to a new-age fucking yogi dream master, Desi appeared alright, but not at all in the way that I had expected. Miss Chowdhury entering the dining room should have been my first clue. She looked as buxom as ever in her immaculate white chef's coat and matching pants, being followed by a whole gaggle of bespectacled lab-coat girls.

So that's where they've been hiding out!

And above the heads of the lab coat brigade was Desi, cling-wrapped to the long mahogany serving tray that looked even more like a surfboard as it was being carried out to the table.

She looked absolutely splendid on that magnificently prepared serving tray, surrounded by wedges of naan and garnishes of leaf lettuce all around her naked body punctuated here and there by thin continuous slices of carrot that looked like they had been painstakingly carved into delicate rose blossoms. Desi herself was sporting a grin a mile wide. If my hands were not already bound, I would have put them together and given a little applause for the regal way Desi was being carried out and transported to my table.

My thoughts turned to deities come to earth being born out on litters to address the adoring crowd. I was certainly cheering. As she was brought closer to my table I could see the two mounds of basmati rice that covered her breasts and curried yogurt sauce that leaked from between her thighs. Desi had been stuffed with paneer -- the orgasm tikka masala that had been following my through-out this strange and wonderful dream of mine had taken up residence inside Desi's vagina and I couldn't wait to get my mouth on her.

There would be no pushing it away this time. I was planning to dive right in face first, plunge my tongue in as far as it would go, and eek out every last bit of that orgasm Desi was bringing to my table.

Except she wasn't stopping at my table.

I watched in chagrin as the lab-coated hostesses bearing Desi's mahogany surfboard passed right on by my table and set Desi down just out of reach and right in front of a very famished-looking Mistress Nguyen. Every bit the nightmarish specter of gluttony that she was fulfilling in my dream, the mistress leaned forward in her seat, white linen napkin tied around her neck like a bib, licking her lips in anticipation.

Somehow a bit of stereotypical Russian mobster got mixed up in there too, probably from some bad movie I had seen at some point in my life and the fact that Mistress Nguyen was clad in her usual tracksuit. The top was unzipped halfway down to her navel, but this time there was no black sports bra concealing the rest of her and I could clearly make out two silver dragons, each guarding a nipple, one wrapped clockwise and the other counterclockwise as they held the end of a barbell in their three-clawed toes. And I swear one of them winked at me and curled tighter against the mistress's flesh.

Normally I would have found that image to be pretty damn hot since although Mistress Nguyen had a rather small chest, I was absolutely fascinated by her pierced nipples and the dragons that lovingly protected them. But she had stolen my entrée damn it, and I was pissed.

I watched in helpless fascination as Mistress Nguyen reached out with her spoon and scraped it slowly over the inside of Desi's thigh, gathering up the sauce that had settled there. Desi shivered. So did I. And I felt my own love sauce leaking down my thigh as the show unfolded before my eyes.

Surely the mistress was not going to stick that cold cruel spoon up inside Desi's tunnel to extract her dinner? Would she?

But it certainly wouldn't be the first time she had stuffed something cruel inside my girlfriend. I thought about the three or four times I had seen them going at it in my presence -- once while I was being impaled myself by Miss Spiced Latte Doctor Tina Moreau. I thought that had been a friendly gesture, something to take my mind off the suffering I endured, as if having Desi endure it too would somehow make it all alright. But they kept showing up together and getting it on while I watched.

OK that one time Desi licked my pussy while I watched, but I swear it was like satan's P.E. teacher was trying to rub it in my face that she was fucking my girl, and apparently quite well from what Desi told me.

And now the she-devil doesn't even have the courtesy to use a fucking spoon!

Mistress Nguyen was out of her chair and leaning forward with her face planted directly in Desi's crotch. The worst part was that Desi didn't seem to mind one bit. The cling-wrap was all but gone except around her waist, I suppose to keep her from falling off the serving tray even though this was a dream and she could have just as well been floating a few inches off the table.

Desi had her thighs spread wide, hands pulling on the backs of her knees to give the mistress unimpeded access to her treasures. I watched as Desi's lust took the form of tikka masala sauce and flowed from inside her, over her thighs and onto Mistress Nguyen's lapping tongue. I didn't watch to see if any bits of paneer orgasm followed, I couldn't bring myself to do it, but judging by the way Desi's head was thrashing and the contortions spreading over her face I wouldn't be the least bit surprised.

That was my orgasm, damn it. Desi and I were supposed to be sharing it. She wasn't supposed to be in love with satan's P.E. teacher, she was supposed to love me, damn it. Me. I squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I could. It had worked before when I was face to face with Doctor Moreau, maybe I could vanquish the P.E. teacher and her guard dragons just as easily. It was worth a try. It was my dream damn it, and it was supposed to be happy.

* * *

"Karin? Karin, baby I've got you." Desi's face was directly over mine, only inches away. Her mouth had gone wide and her eyebrows were knit together in a kind of strange grimace.

For a moment I thought that I was right back in my dream and that I had a front row seat to watch Desi's face as Mistress Nguyen sent her reeling with orgasmic delight. But the big harem-style bed and the morning sunlight streaming through the large picture window soon gave me to know that I was back in bed at The Academy and that the look on Desi's face was one of concern -- concern over me.

"I'm done," I said.

"Done with what, Baby?" Desi had propped herself up on her elbow so that she could look over me while she trailed a fingertip lightly through my hair, pulling it up and out of my face.

"Doctor Moreau. Mistress Nguyen. This fucking place. You name it, I've had it."

"Baby." Desi snuggled in close and laid her head on my chest.

"I'm serious, Des. I'm having nightmares about it. I need a change of pace. I'm starting to think I made the wrong decision coming here."

For the longest time Desi didn't say another word, she just held me in her arms, her gentle touch letting me know that she was here for me in whatever capacity I might need. I felt myself relaxing and melting into her warm body. And as I lay there my mind was still whirring with the events of my stress-dream.

I wanted to tell Desi all about it, to lay it all out, tell her how much I loved her and how I wanted to be with her and how I was afraid that was never going to happen because we were supposed to be the dating pool for dominant women and we'd both go our separate ways and never ever find each other again. I wanted to tell her how my dreams of being a plaything for a gorgeous and wealthy older woman had turned to dust as soon as I stepped foot into Doctor Moreau's lab. I wanted to chastise her for being attracted to Mistress Nguyen and for letting the she-devil steal her heart and for leaving me alone with the choice of the doctor or going back home to the nothing where I started this whole journey.

But I held my tongue.

"Come on honey," Desi said at last. "We're going to be late for calisthenics."