Honestly I don't know who the hell I think I am putting a bunch of shit about John Keats into a mind-control fetish story.
This chapter is a little lighter on the mind control than previous ones, as its main character Hannah has already been quite thoroughly programmed and her story is just playing itself out. She's still under the influence of her earlier programming, and the Prime Tone will feature heavily, so it still belongs in the Mind Control category, though.
The sex scene in this chapter is girl/girl; just noting that ahead of time since I haven't really been writing those. If that's not what you're into, well, sorry I guess.
One more note: that thing happened again where what was supposed to be one chapter turned out to be so long it made more sense as two. As such, the next chapter will ALSO be a Hannah chapter. Hannah was supposed to be a one-off, but she's getting a trilogy.
The Tessera Method, Ch 04
It was bright and early, 9:40 AM on a Monday morning, and Hannah Chung felt like absolute shit.
Physically, she was more or less fine. She didn't have the same epic hangover she'd had the previous morning, or the one before that, but her social life was still a huge fucking mess.
On Thursday, she'd had a falling out with one of her best friends after threatening to get her middle-aged professor boyfriend fired. On Friday, she'd had amazing sex with a student named Tyler, who she'd thought was the most romantic guy she'd ever met in her life, but on Saturday morning she'd discovered he was cheating on his girlfriend with her, and that encounter had very quickly ended with her being left naked, handcuffed, and covered in dried cum in a dorm hallway, which probably qualified as "rock bottom." On Saturday night she'd hooked up with another college boy at another party in a desperate attempt to prove that they were still worth her time, but that guy had refused to try any bondage or roleplaying at all with her - not even a little spanking, and how hard would that have been, really? - and had almost immediately gone soft from whiskey-dick and passed out.
Boy, can I pick 'em or what.
Sunday had mostly been spent failing to get sympathy from any of her friends about her struggles with college boys. Mackenzie was still off-limits, Tanya had apparently decided to take Mackenzie's side and was mad at Hannah too, Sara was dating a genuinely sweet guy and straight-up didn't understand Hannah's problem, Mei had pretty much no interest in dating anyone at all for longer than eight hours at a stretch, and Hannah didn't feel close enough to anyone else to really open up to them, so she'd ended up just sleeping, drinking herbal tea, watching reality TV, and doing homework. Which had helped a little, but not much, really.
And now the weekend was over, and it was time for Hannah to resume her quest to... get her friend's boyfriend fired, for the crime of making her too happy. Mackenzie was in love with Dr. Abramson, or so she'd claimed. Hannah had thought that sounded like bullshit at the time, but was it really her place to say? Why was she spending all this time and effort on this, anyway? Was it really such a terrible thing to fall in love with a professor? Every girl thought about it. Come to think of it, hadn't Hannah herself very recently had the best sex of her life while pretending she was doing the same goddamn thing? Why was she up on this high horse, again?
At any rate, the question of whether she was going to go through with her plan would have to wait until the final 10 minutes of the 19th-Century Romantic Poetry seminar Hannah was currently sitting in were over. God, why on Earth had she decided to take this 9 AM class?
The professor, one Dr. Asher Rosenberg, was talking about a poem by John Keats. "The main question Keats tackles in 'Grecian Urn,'" the young adjunct explained, "is the core truth of a fictional setting. Nobody can really determine every single detail of a town in a painting, for example, what the history and backstory and hopes and dreams of each person depicted are, because that town and those people never really existed. There are no facts to uncover. There is no objective truth. Sure, the reader can decide their own canon - death of the author, and so on - but what is that really worth? Is it
true?
What is truth, in this context?"
Oh, right. That was why she was taking this class. Professor Rosenberg was a fantastic speaker when he was impassioned, and he really knew how to bring this stuffy old verse to life. He was young for a professor, perhaps in his late 20s or early 30s, and there was a vital spark in his eye whenever he really got going on the subject of old poetry that couldn't help but suck you in.
He's cute, too,
a voice in Hannah's head interjected. It was pretty objectively true. High cheekbones, deep green eyes, good teeth, wavy black hair which he tried to keep tamed and combed in a professional style but was always defying him just a little bit, fashionable glasses, a well-maintained black beard. Clear skin, perhaps a bit too pale from long hours in the library, but that was actually kind of endearing on him. Not the tallest guy in the world, but Hannah herself could charitably be described as 'petite' so he still had a good seven or eight inches on her, which was enough for her to wear any heels she wanted and still feel little and cute next to him. He seemed to be in pretty good shape, too. A cyclist's body, perhaps? Hannah would have to see it in a little more detail to be sure. Maybe in dim lighting, shadowed so she could only take in parts of it at once, preferably from below as he crouched over her -
No. Stop.
Hannah shook her head out a little bit. Fantasizing about her poetry professor was absolutely not what she needed to do to get clarity on her current dilemma. He
was
pretty cute, though.
"The last stanza addresses that question with just the right amount of precision," Dr. Rosenberg continued, "steering the reader toward Keats' point of view while still leaving some room for interpretation. Brad, would you like to read it aloud for the class?"
A fratboy with a buzzcut and a chinstrap beard in a wrinkled polo shirt startled awake in his seat. "Wha? Uh, sure, Teach." He cleared his throat and coughed a couple of times, then spoke.
"Oh... attic shape? Fair attitude. With... uh... braid of marble. Men and maidens... overwrought with forest branches and... the trodden weed, heh..."
Hannah grimaced. This was a terrible performance. He wasn't pausing in the right places, and his voice was utterly flat. Combined with his frequent hesitance whenever he wasn't sure about a word, which was distressingly often, it sounded a lot like he was reading in a language he didn't understand. Clearly he didn't understand this poem, at least. Why was he in this class? Did he think it was an easy credit? College boys were just the
worst
.
Dr. Rosenberg made eye contact with Hannah and raised his eyebrows. "Inspiring reading, Brad." She suppressed a giggle. She'd complained to him about Brad before.
Brad chuckled nervously. "Sorry, Teach. I was up late last night."
Dr. Rosenberg nodded, clearly struggling to keep any judgment out of his face or voice. "Hmm. Anyone else want to pick up where Brad left off?"
A blonde Scandinavian girl named Kristin raised her hand. "Uh, why don't you read it for us, Dr. Rosenberg?"
He blinked in confusion. "Me? Um, I'm not sure that's really the best way to..."
Shannon, the brunette Irish girl sitting next to Kristin, cut him off. "Yeah, I'd really like to hear your reading, Professor. You're really good at communicating the author's intent."
Cindy, the Vietnamese girl sitting one row up from Hannah, joined in. "Yeah! Can you just read it for us, Professor? Pleeeeeeease?" She was quickly joined by a small chorus of feminine voices, all urging Dr. Rosenberg to read the last stanza himself.
Finally, he shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Pay attention, though." He stood with his hands behind his back, facing the window, gazing outside at the swaying branches of a nearby tree, and began to recite from memory.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
