Derrick Evans entered the classroom, whistling, and with a wide open smile upon his lips. It had been a while since the last time he had been called to fill in for an absent colleague and he was both anxious and excited to get back to work. The sunny weather outside added to his overall good disposition, promising a day to remember. He kept on smiling until he set down his briefcase on the desk and took a good look at his students. The whistle immediately choked on his throat, and terror set in.
A dozen young women between the human ages of eighteen and twenty-two smiled ravenously at the same time. Dressed in shades of light brown and red, the mandatory school uniforms, they were all impossibly beautiful, imbued with the primeval traits of long forgotten myths. Their alabaster skin glistened with fervent hedonistic promises and the uniformly blue hue of their eyes ran deeper than The Mariana Trench.
"Oh, no!" He muttered, the initial gasp becoming more pronounced with each subsequent vocalization. "No, No, No, FUCK NO!"
"Oh, yes!" They all seemed to say even without uttering a word.
He had heard all the stories, of course. The Atlantean Descendants, The Lustful Twelve, and many other designations that would put most scholars to shame if spoken out loud. Even though he had never laid eyes on them until that morning, he knew they were as real as all the other supernatural entities that attended Gehymnis Academy. He also knew that, for safety reasons, only women were in charge of their education and that no male creature, no matter how young or old, was allowed to be within thirty feet of distance of them under the weight of... repercussions.
"And now you're trapped in a room with them," he thought. Yes, trapped, for even though the main door was slightly ajar, every fiber of his being was telling him that it would be useless to even try to make a run for it. Averting their gaze, he tried to remain cool, composed, but the tide was already shifting inside his mind.
He remembered the last time an incident involving The Twelve had taken place. On his second day on the job, eight months ago, a group of electricians hired to solve the problem of power surges in the main auditorium took a wrong turn and passed too close to their dormitory. Lots of things were fried in the most extravagant slumber party ever conceived, or so the rumors went.
"Oh, God!" Derrick exclaimed involuntarily as a whirlpool of negativity took form. His right hand moved to cover his mouth and the words that followed came out almost imperceptibly. "Why did this happen to me? I'm just a poor sub..."
Almost imperceptibly, but not quite. Responding to a very specific combination of sounds, a blonde head cocked to the side, exhibiting much more than simple curiosity. Equally intrigued, the other remaining predators in human guise followed suit. This time around, silence proved insufficient as a form of expression, and the melodic lore he feared so much proved to be true.
"Sub?" asked one of them, a striking brunette with the most enthralling of red lips.
"Are you... a sub?" continued the blonde that started it all.
"Have you come to be our pet?" two other voices came into play, redhead twins, dual sides of the same perfection.
"They don't let us have pets in here..." another temptation cooed, though he couldn't see which one.
"We're so glad you came!"
The last voice echoed differently across the room reaching his ears faster than the rest. It also came from a different direction—behind him!—but how was that possible when he was still seeing all twelve of them on their respective seats was beyond his comprehension.
"Don't think about it too much," the same voice insisted, her dulcet tone impossible to resist. "Some things are not for pets to know."
Although Derrick grinned somewhat sheepishly upon hearing that, the innermost recesses of his mind were seething with bitterness and resentment. Not much for fooling around, whenever he did, he preferred to be on top of things, looking down at a lucky, gorgeous naked woman eager to sate on his manhood. Being played like a fiddle was not part of his fantasy realms, yet there was no stopping his body from responding to the harmonious combinations that now filled the room.
He blinked, seizing the broken moment to notice all the small alterations happening here and there, from a shallow breath to trembling knees. The most prominent one, of course, was the euphoric rush brought about by the reverberation of sound. Even though the girls weren't actually singing, he still heard music coming out of their lips, a sort of pitched wave that repeated itself on a perfectly regular rhythm. A specialist would probably call it a form of discrete glissando on a C major scale. To him, it was a call-out to Passion and Lust, a devious sequence meant to turn all bright Alphas into shadowy omegas.
He tried to control himself, think about something else and was actually successful for a while. The first thing that came to mind was the following question: how come he had been assigned to their class?
An accident, human error, was an obvious choice to consider. The problem was that an elite institution like Gehymnis couldn't really afford mix-ups like that because, if the public ever got wind of them, its reputation would be damaged beyond repair. Besides, everyone in charge of schedule management and task distribution knew the tools of the trade all too well to let something like that slip through the cracks, right?
However, if there hadn't been any confusion at all, the only other possible explanation was willful sabotage, an idea so scary that, just by lingering inside his mind for half a second, made him quiver from head to toe. Could it really be that an unknown party with an unknown agenda wanted him there, at their mercy? "Come on, Derrick, don't be para..."
His inner ramblings were shattered by the mystic rampage of the Atlantean voices.
"Oh, Are you still trying to think for yourself? That hurts, you know?"
It did, it really did. The whispered suggestion ricocheted in the tympanic membrane before bouncing off like a squash ball within his nervous central system. If it weren't for the desk in front of him, Derrick would have fallen flat on the ground, overwhelmed by the sudden pain.
"You know what you must do if you want it to stop."
At that moment, he felt a phantom hand massage his temples and, from the corner of his eye, noticed one of the girls making the very same gesture on her own. The relief was almost immediate, a soothing balm washing away the tension and stress before releasing another wave of chemical seduction on his already weakened psyche. The billowing engulfed all quite effortlessly, the symphony of his mind falling into silence.
"Is the pet ready to play, now?"
Derrick's head bobbed, an involuntary motion more befitting of a rudimentary puppet. With the last shreds of independence fluttering away, only their imaginary songs could hope to fill the void. The true meaning of reality was nothing but a game, and all rules were to be broken by their insidious commands.
"Come closer."
His feet started dragging themselves away from the desk, happily complying with the external influence at hand. If he were still able to focus his vision properly, he would have seen two of the students get up, followed by a third. In the hierarchy of the group, they were The Unholy Trinity, the first to reap the rewards. They met the discombobulated sample of a man in the middle of the room, assuming equidistant positions from one another in a perfect triangle. He languished in the center, buried under the weight of emptiness.
"Do you think we overdid it?" One of them asked in a much more subdued tone.
"Yes, most definitely."
"Agreed. The pet needs a little more spunk or he won't be of any use to us."
"Fine, I'll take care of it," the owner of the original voice declared. "Listen closely now, pet. Stand to attention and look at me!"
Derrick obeyed the instructions to the letter, posture becoming rigid, almost soldier material. The sight of her ethereal face so close to him almost brought him to tears.
"That's better," she said whilst exhibiting a pink smartphone in her right hand. With the flick of a thumb, she opened up her favorite playlist, selected the appropriate song and hit Play. "You're going to strip for us so I hope you're good at dancing."
He wasn't. Not only he had two left feet, but also two left hands and a rather crude way of jiggling his torso with every move. That was something that no mental conditioning could overcome. He did try his best at hints of sexiness with unexpected sways and a massacre on his shirt's buttons, but there was no way his performance could ever be satisfactory. Minus one on a scale of one to ten would be a rather flattering result, but they were laughing so not all was lost.
The music came to an end when he was down to his boxers, the rest of his clothes sent to die on the floor. The Atlantean Descendants laughter died with them when confronted with what little he was hiding.
"That's hardly impressive," said one of the seated bystanders, a perky little thing with blue highlights running across her curly, auburn hair. "Can't you do any better? Jerk it, pet! Jerk it silly!"
The new melody played inside his brain and he got to work harder for their amusement. Starting slowly at first, the strokes intensified, becoming vigorous and admittedly furious, sometimes bordering on erratic mania. The laughs returned, intensified by the exercise in self-humiliation, but that wasn't enough.
"I think we need to keep your mouth busy as well," said one of the vertices of the power triangle. Her pointy heels clicked on the floor. "Kneel and keep stroking while you suck on these... Obey!"
He registered the shift in tempo and adjusted his position accordingly. From the corner of his eye, he saw other shoes and even one or two pairs of boots demanding his attention as well. One of the girls raised her skirt up high giving him the perfect angle to admire her already wet panties as he kept on sucking helplessly. "Don't you want this, too?" she giggled.
Yes, the answer was yes. A thousand times yes. He wanted everything they had to give him, no matter how strange or inappropriate. He was drowning like the city of yore, and loving the mesmeric call of the abyss.
