Obsessive history buff must stay in character.
A special thanks to Bundu Basher for helping to proofread and ensuring the story is in good shape.
Slave Girl Submission
Looking back, I should have seen the elements to create a perfect storm before it happened. I'm clever enough to have spotted it, but blindsided myself until I walked into it.
I'm attending a prestigious university and I'm in my first year studying history. My roommate Daphne is also passionate about history, but that is where any similarities between us ends. She's tall at 5 foot 9 inches with raven dark hair that hangs low down her back. Slim and athletic, with great boobs. I'm not into girls, but I know nice boobs when I see them and I see them often.
Daphne comes from a wealthy family, and friends growing up surrounded her. She's very outgoing and confident, with no hang-ups about her figure. In fact, she was naked in front of me within ten minutes of our first meeting, just getting changed to head out and explore the campus. With her looks and personality, she never wanted for a date, but she can be picky.
And then there is me. I'm Chloe and would have to stand on my tiptoes to pass the 5 foot barrier. The best way to describe me is petite. My breasts aren't huge, but on my frame they look oversized, as does my butt. I'm ginger, with curly hair and freckles. And as if that wasn't bad enough, I have OCD.
Not the 'opening and closing locks five times before leaving the house' kind. Mine comes out in a desperate need for accuracy and detail. For example, if I make a cake, I need to measure all the ingredients many times to ensure it's correct. If the recipe calls for two medium eggs, and I have a dozen to choose from, I'd weigh all 12 and choose the most medium of the medium.
When I was small, my parents belonged to a re-enactment society, which is probably why I love history so much. As I got older, I'd constantly point out when people's clothing or tools did not match the period properly and was confused when people got annoyed that I did.
Despite our differences, Daphne and I hit it off. The one thing we clash on is her constantly pressuring me to socialise more. My parents home-schooled me for a few years and I never quite got the hang of making friends as easily as she does. However, we mesh when it comes to history.
She'd always write her assignments up early and hand them to me, and I'd go through them and pick out any errors or inaccuracies. We'd constructively argue about it. Sometimes she'd fix them and other times not, which drove me insane. I'd work on my assignment until the last moment. Sometimes staying up to 4 or 5 am of the day, they had to be handed in.
As a result, I nearly always got a perfect score on my work and earned the respect and appreciation from our history professor. Something that made Daphne a little jealous. She admitted early on that she had a thing for him and I had to admit I was attracted to him myself.
He was about 50, but kept his greying hair so short you would hardly notice. He was several inches over 6 feet and extremely fit in both meanings of the word. I'd seen triathlon awards in his office and he usually dined with the students, eating a homemade salad, whilst being available to answer questions.
I have to admit, I would feel like a puppy wanting to wag my tail every time he praised my work in class. The one problem I had with him was his habit of wandering around the auditorium during classes. While we worked on stuff, he'd look over our shoulders at our work. I was so short compared to him, so as he stood next to me, all I could think of was his crotch was at my eye level.
That wasn't helped when, just before our Easter break, Daphne told me she had a sex dream about him. She wouldn't tell me the details, but she said it was good, and she was determined to find a way to kiss him before we left his class permanently. Her admission, and the fact that I'd not had a boyfriend in six months, triggered me to have a dream of my own.
We were in the auditorium taking an exam. It stressed me going over all my answers for the second time. As the other students finished, they got up, handed the papers to the professor, and left. It got down to Daphne and me as the only ones there. She'd finished her paper but hadn't left. When I looked over, I saw she'd unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse. I could see her bra, and I was fairly sure that the professor could see something.
But when I looked at him, he seemed intent on looking lower. I glanced down and was shocked to see Daphne was sitting in her short skirt with her legs wide open. I wondered if she had underwear on, as she regularly went out without any. She stood up and languidly walked up to the front, bent over unnecessarily to hand him her paper. Pausing to let him look down her blouse, then pulled a post-it note off the stack and wrote something. Presumably her number, then sauntered off, giving me a wink from the door.
There were only a few minutes of the exam left, and I nearly panicked that I'd not have time to triple check my answers. The professor checked his watch and walked over to me. As he stood next to me, I saw from the corner of my eye the bulge in his pants. Without meaning to, I turned my head to look.
"Sorry about that. Your friend Daphne is a very forward girl. Excuse me, this is extremely uncomfortable."
He was standing next to me, and unzipped himself and pulled his dick out. Having only seen one in the flesh, he seemed huge.
"I hope my best student can keep this between us."
I nodded woodenly, unable to take my eyes off it.
"How are you coming? I don't imagine this exam was too hard for you." The word hard resonated in my head.
I looked at my paper, but couldn't focus on the words. He leant forward to check my paper, and I felt his dick slide over my shoulder. I turned my head slightly, and the tip touched my cheek, right at the corner of my mouth.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. That nearly went into your mouth."
"That's ok, I wouldn't have minded." My mouth said without my brain having its say.
"Really, because I have another lecture to give shortly and obviously I cannot walk into it like this."
I twisted around in my chair and opened my mouth and accepted the head inside. Daphne would assuredly have more oral skills than me, but I wasn't a complete novice. However, the professor took hold of my head and I nearly panicked. Holding my head in both hands, he rocked back and forth into my mouth. My lips locked around the shaft and my tongue did its best to please the intruding flesh.
I locked my eyes on his, and he loomed over me and gave me such a smile I might have climaxed from that alone. In no time, he picked up the pace, then warned me he was about to cum and that I needed to swallow it all. He seemed to flood my mouth with his seed and I choked, trying to swallow it.
That was when I woke up coughing. My dream had been so real it flooded my mouth with saliva. I quickly tiptoed to the bathroom and sat on the toilet to relieve myself. But it wasn't urine I needed to be relieved of. I rubbed my clit and fingered myself as I tried to remember every detail of the dream.
The next time I saw him, he gave me an odd look because I was blushing at the memory of my naughty dream. Daphne spotted it and pestered me until I admitted the details of my dream. She said she was jealous, but admitted if she ever did what she had in the dream, in reality, she would not be wearing panties.
After the Easter break, the professor informed us he had a tradition of holding a toga party at his house for students at the end of May. He expected us all to come and as we were history students; he expected us to wear authentic togas.
Daphne and I knew that was a bit of a trick as the toga became a men's-only garment over time in roman history. A woman was far more likely to wear a stola, which was a floor length dress worn over a tunic, with a headscarf. While Daphne could call home and get her parents to arrange to pay for that outfit, I was not so lucky.
However, Daphne came up with a suggestion. She said that almost everyone would turn up in a toga, and one or two boys might come as a centurion. She doubted anyone would turn up like a slave girl. A tunic with subligaria and strophium, a loincloth and breast cloth, underneath would be authentic and simple to make myself.
This was where my OCD kicked in and caused me problems. There were plenty of historical references to slave tunics, so the biggest issue there was choosing the appropriate cloth. Depending on the time-period, they would have been woollen, but eventually most were made of linen. As this party was at the end of May, I decided that linen would be better.
The subligaria and strophium were more of a problem. Historically, ladies undergarments have far less reference material. When I talked to Daphne, she pointed out that the breast cloth or strophium was optional, depending on what task they assigned a slave to. Often only worn when a job would be hot and sweaty. Having your slave girl with their tunic clinging to their breasts would distract their owners from more important work.
The image of a slave girl being taken by their master popped into my head, and weirdly it didn't disgust me as it should. Slavery was wrong and taking a slave as a sexual plaything was worse, but somehow it hit a spot in my brain that vibrated with sexual deviancy. As with my dream about my professor, many of my fantasies were where the man took total charge of me. My darkest ones were not too far away from the slave girl situation.
As I have said, my breasts aren't that big and I could get away without a bra, but my nipples were fairly big. I'd need to choose a thick linen cloth if I hoped to hide them.
I found a haberdashery and nearly drove the proprietor mad by going through her linen samples. Trying to get the right type of cloth. Eventually, she promised to call a friend who had a wider selection and get her to send me exactly what I wanted. I was sure she said that to get me out of the shop. I repeated my requirements and ordered what I thought would be enough for the tunic and loin cloth or subligaria.
While I waited for the material to arrive, Daphne had another idea. She said as her outfit was of a Roman woman of means, that it was natural that I should play her slave girl. I'd follow her around all night, fetching her drinks or snacks. In return, I'd be introduced to all her friends and lots of available boys. It would make me look more authentic than just standing around in a plain tunic. So I agreed, provided she didn't push it too far.
