#personal fav

Slowly, I push open the heavy doors, and at once, I am enveloped in the sultry scent of pine and smoldering wood. The fire crackles low in the hearth, its embers casting long, flickering shadows across the room. The scene is set.

And there you are. Seated in your armchair as always—legs parted, back reclined, hands resting on the arms of your throne. Impeccably dressed, as ever. Your suit jacket is folded neatly over the back of the chair, abandoned in favor of ease. The sleeves of your shirt are rolled up just enough to reveal the lean strength of your forearms.

I shiver.

You beckon me forward with a deliberate twitch of your finger.

My bare feet sink into the plush sea of crimson carpet as I cross the room. I stop just before you, my lips curling into a shy smile, which you answer with nothing more than a slow arch of your brow. I hold the paper at my side so your eyes can wash over my body freely. I have chosen a maroon sheath dress with a modest neckline. It is an unforgiving silhouette on any body type, but truthfully, I don’t have much to forgive, and I wear it for you with quiet pride. 

Once you have inspected me thoroughly with your gaze, you nod, inviting me to begin.

Taking a deep breath, I steady myself, and start reading. 

Once upon a time, in an untouched corner of the forest, there lived a doe and her fawn. In her earliest days, the fawn trailed her mother closely, her spindly legs barely able to carry her weight. To keep her hidden, her mother would cover her in leaves and bracken, pressing her gently into the earth until danger passed.

Summer rolled in, and the fawn grew stronger. She no longer needed her mother to keep her hidden. With newfound confidence, she explored beyond their home territory. But before letting her go, her mother gave her one final lesson.

“If ever you need to escape detection, don’t run. Drop down into the grass, like this.”

With an ungraceful thud, her mother collapsed into the underbrush. The fawn followed suit, her legs folding beneath her as she melted into the earth, the tall grass swallowing her whole.

It was a useful trick.

In those days, foxes still roamed the valley, and man had not yet come to claim what was green and good. One evening, as the fawn ventured into a clearing, she froze. Just beyond the tree line, a fox slinked between the bushes.

A stupider fawn would have run. But she remembered her mother’s words. She sank low, her body motionless, watching as the fox moved through the undergrowth. His coat burned orange in the dying sunlight, his body sleek and purposeful. She held her breath, heart hammering, until he disappeared into the trees. A thrill ran through her.

The next day, she ventured out again. This time, she lingered longer, catching his scent amidst the sweet fragrance of crushed berries and meadow breeze. Hidden within the grass, she watched him move—observing her natural enemy from a place of safety.

On the third day, she grew bolder. The grass where the light was softest, where the scent of wildflowers was thickest, was too tempting to resist. She stepped into the open. Her ears swiveled as she heard the snap of a twig. She dropped to the ground, but it was too late—his keen eyes had already caught her movement. Slowly, deliberately, the fox prowled toward her, ears pricked, whiskers twitching. His scent filled her senses, stronger now, more potent. 

He moved closer. With every step, she backed away, until her haunches pressed against the trunk of a fallen tree. She was trapped. The fox loomed over her, his gaze sweeping over her trembling form. His patience had paid off. Unbeknownst to her, he had been observing her routine and even anticipated her visits to his clearing. But he knew better than to confront her, as it would have surely scared her off. So he let her watch him casually from a distance. 

His eyes skimmed over her, drinking in the sight of her. From the tip of her black nose to the soft white of her belly, to the delicate tremor in her limbs. She gasped as his whiskers brushed her flank, a sensation she had never felt before flickering through her like fire on dry grass.

And then, in one gulp, he swallowed her. The end.

I peek at you over the paper. Your eyebrow is arched. It’s evidently not the ending you had expected. The paper trembles in my hands as your gaze weighs heavy on me, making each second feel like an eternity. I fidget with the edge of the paper, eyes darting between it and the floor, avoiding your steady, knowing gaze.

You don’t speak at first, but I feel the anticipation grow, thickening the air between us. The silence is thick with unspoken tension, and it’s clear that I can’t move forward. My mind feels frozen, as if the conclusion I crave has slipped just beyond reach, mocking me from the darkness.

You lean forward, your gaze sharpening. “Clever. But you’ve written yourself into a corner, haven’t you?”

“I didn’t… quite know how to land the plane,” I admit, running my fingers along the paper’s edges. My obvious allegory has one glaring flaw—the punchline. But how to tell you that, despite the abrupt ending, it was the truth? That my fantasies always began with perfect exposition, sparkling characterization, good-looking actors…. But the moment I imagine you backing me into a corner, feel your hand cupping my cheek, the screen goes dark, the credits roll, and I stumble out of the theater of my mind, dazed, confused, blinking in the harsh light of reality? 

“Maybe - maybe the fawn forgets about the things her mother told her, and runs?” I offer.

“Where?” you press.

“I don’t…know.”

“Running can be fun,” you murmur, your gaze steady as you watch me, “but it’s tiring.”

I nod, the weight of those words sinking in deeper than I expected. It’s true—there’s a certain thrill to the chase, to the adrenaline of evasion, the rush of keeping ahead of something, or someone. But sooner or later, the effort catches up with you. I’ve been running so long from this moment, from the ending, from the vulnerability of finishing the story, finishing me, that I hadn’t realized how much it was draining me.

“Tell me,” you continue, your voice low and sure, “what happens if the fawn stops running?”

“The fawn… faces the fox,” I whisper, my voice a little unsteady.

“And when she does, what happens?”

The realization dawned on me - that I was not running from my fox - I was running from myself. From the truth I had so carefully hidden behind layers of hesitation and uncertainty. The fox was never the true threat; the danger lay in what I might find if I stopped hiding.

You watched me closely. You were closing the distance, and I was cornered, not by you, but by my own reluctance to accept what was before me.

“I don’t know.” My voice is barely above a murmur. You rise from your seat in one fluid motion.

“Let me show you,” you whisper.

You envelop me quicker than I can react. I drop the paper and it flutters to the ground in front of the fire. In one swift motion you gather my wrists together behind my back in one of your hands, hugging me tight against your chest so that we are both facing the fire. “The fawn is fettered with fear - she has no more strength to run,” you whisper. “But this fox is not hungry; he is merely curious.” 

With your knee, you nudge my right thigh to the side, prying my legs open a bit more, making me sway against you, unsteady as my newborn fawn. 

“The fox’s whiskers graze over her graceful neck.” I squirm as you trace the tip of your nose gently over the side of my jaw, your warm breath trickling down my nape. 

“She feels his claws trace over the tenderest parts of her trembling frame.” The fingertips of your free hand slide up and down my silhouette, from collarbone to the hem of my dress. 

“With his razor sharp pearls, he nibbles the places that he knows drive her absolutely wild.” You nudge my head to the side and take my earlobe between your teeth, grazing, stroking, teasing. The giggles bubble up in my throat. There’s no doubt about it - you’re intentionally tickling me, but I’m still too afraid to laugh.

“He prods her flank with his inquisitive, narrow muzzle.” I gasp as, from behind, I feel something hard nudge its way slyly in between my bum cheeks. I fight the urge to squirm my hips against you. 

“He won’t stop exploring until he hears her giggle,” you say. 

Something shifts in me. I feel my brazenness bubbling up, threatening to spill over, and I don’t have the will to cork it anymore. Here comes the volta. 

“Fawns d..don’t giggle,” I hiccup, my laughter catching in my breath. 

You growl playfully and tackle me to the floor, murmuring something about ‘creative license,’ your fingers skittering over every inch of me you can reach. You squeeze my thighs, race up my ribs—your touch light yet unrelenting. I twist and squirm beneath you, my laughter flowing freely at last, my heart thumping wildly as I wriggle helplessly beneath your delicious weight.

Breathless and content with my mirthful outburst, you finally lay off, collapsing beside me on the carpet. For a quiet moment, we both stare at the ceiling. The fire crackles in the background, its warmth flickering between us, casting shadows that dance and play.

“The end,” I whisper.

You turn your head toward me, a soft, knowing smile curling at the corners of your lips. “The end,” you murmur.

I sit up on my elbows, letting my eyes wander over your body. Wrinkles decorate your once-crisp dress shirt, and the sight of your flushed face framed by your now-mussy hair stirs something in me that’s almost feral. The bulge in your black dress pants is noticeable. I bite my lip. 

“Are there enough blank pages for an epilogue?” I ask, flickering my gaze to your crotch and back up to meet your eye. You give me a smirk, sitting up to match me. Your hands begin undoing the buckle of your belt. The clatter of metal and the swipe of leather send shivers down my spine.

There are some who find wearing a uniform to be freeing. Those are the indecisive people, the people who want life’s choices made for them. It’s one less thing for them to worry about when they get up in the morning, their method of presentation. 

I was not one of those people. 

I was also not, however, a rebel without a cause. In fact, I quite enjoyed following the rules when I knew they would lead to my own self-advancement. I just couldn’t understand how adhering to a dress code would lead me anywhere worthwhile. Every morning, I would stare at the heap of navy and white cloth on my bed and swallow my rising indignation. I wanted a word with the Powers that Be presiding over the UK. 

With that small concession of my freedom also came other changes. My vocabulary expanded to include words like ‘lift’ and 'loo,’ and I watched in confusion as Z’s morphed into S’s. Eggplants slowly faded from my memory, supplanted by aubergines. I learned to savour the short British summers, which lasted two weeks out of the year at most. 

However, I took it all in stride. My one small consolation, which I eagerly anticipated each day, was sitting in Sir’s French class. To me, he embodied the Perfect English Gentleman—polished, stern, and wielding the devastating power of a flawless French accent. For his praise, I would endure anything. Almost anything.

From my seat at the side of the room, I would watch his every move. I became as much a student of him as I was the language of love that rolled off his tongue. I learned his wardrobe by rote, memorized the width and textures of his belts. At home, under the covers, I marked in my French dictionary the word that, in English, made my heart palpitate - chatouille - and imagined him reading it to me in his tuneful intonation, helping me to spell it, using it in countless sentences. I conjugated his praise in my bed at night to the rhythm of my slick, skittering fingers. Vous. Êtes. Une. Bonne. Fille.

He was a stickler for rules - or so I’d heard it whispered. As I had entered the class in the middle of the term, I hadn’t seen him dole out any punishment yet. It seemed to me that everyone who sat in his class was a perfect angel. I would’ve believed it. Who would dare test such a man as he? 

It turned out, I would. 

Day by day, my American-bred sensibilities, those of independence, freedom, and yes, rebellion, which I had haphazardly stuffed under the pillow of my subconscious, slowly seeped back into my brain. I was going to do it. Sneak a toe over the proverbial line. 

I called it my little Operation Manifest Destiny.

I came to school that day dressed in uniform, save one tiny detail. My socks, which should have been white, were gray. Not grey, mind you - gray. 

I slipped into his classroom alongside my peers, quietly taking my usual seat by the wall. The lesson unfolded like clockwork, each minute ticking by with practiced precision. Je vais, tu vas, il, elle, on va…. My eyes lingered on the wall clock, tracking its steady progress. As the hand inched toward the hour, a slow, satisfied heat bloomed in my chest. I was about to get away with it. Monsieur hadn’t spared me so much as a glance the entire class. The quiet thrill of rebellion was intoxicating, a fleeting sugar rush of freedom. It was enough. Tomorrow, I would return to my usual uniform socks—no harm done.

The bell soon clanged our release. I gathered my things, hurried my way out the door - 

-heard him call my name in his gorgeous, British inflection - 

spun round, my sheepish face coming nose-to-nose with his wolfish glare. 

“Yes, sir?” I said meekly. 

He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. Slowly, I shuffled forward, my gaze fixed on the floor, determined to ignore the startled glances my classmates cast over their shoulders as they filed out. He ushered the last girl through the door, then swung it shut. The lock clicked into place.

When he turned to face me, my breath caught.

“Behind on the laundry, are we?”

I balked. This redcoat had caught the rebel.

He settled into his desk, his posture casual yet deliberate. With a slight tilt of his chin, he gave me the unspoken invitation to speak first.

My mother may have raised a rebel, but she didn’t raise a liar. 

“I - I did it on purpose, Sir.” 

“Unpack that for me.”

“I just - was tired of wearing the same thing every day. And I…” (the next part came out mumbled) “…wanted to see if you would…notice me.” 

“You wanted to see if I would notice you.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“You arrived midway through the term, so missed my first-day speech,” he said, his tone calm but deliberate. “I’ll make sure you hear it now.” Slowly, he rose from his seat and moved around his desk, making his way toward my chair. I instinctively shrank back.

“Uniforms create a sense of order. They create high standards. Wearing one instills discipline.” 

I shivered at this last word.

“Did you know,” he continued, now circling me in my chair as I tried desperately to avoid his eyes, “You have exactly two choices of uniform in my classroom. One is the uniform found in the school code. The other is your God-given uniform.” 

I tilted my head, not fully understanding, watching him out of the corner of my eye as he continued to pace. 

“So. As you neglected to fully adhere to option number one, you will spend today’s detention fully observing the second.”

Wait - he didn’t mean - oh.

He came to a stop in front of me, his heels brushing the floor with a soft precision. “Strip,” he commanded.

I was too stunned to move. I looked hard at his face, searching for any sign of joking, sympathy, anything - but there was none. 

I started with my blouse, fingers shaking as I undid each button. My camisole followed, then my skirt. I stole a glimpse at his face as I used my toes to slide my shoes off of my heels, then peeled off my offending socks. There was no trace of judgment or smugness in his countenance. This whole affair for him seemed clinical, analytical. 

Soon I stood before him in a puddle of clothes wearing nothing but my bra and underwear. I folded my arms, trying to preserve my body heat and a thin slice of my dignity.

“Continue.” 

With trembling hands, I undid the front clasp of my bra. My breasts bounced free. I expected him to glance down at them, but still his eyes watched my own. I bent down to lower my panties, exposing the rest of myself to both the coldness of his air and the frostiness of his gaze. Shivering, I stood tall to face him.

“Be seated.” 

I glanced over my shoulder, and slowly sat, hissing in surprise as the cool wood of the chair seeped into the flesh of my still-warm buttocks. 

I lost sight of him as he moved behind me once again. “Tell me, would you consider yourself a hands-on learner?” he asked casually, stroking my hair gently with the flat part of his fingers. I shivered at the surprisingly soothing sensation.

“Um - yes, sir?” 

“Good. Let’s review,” he said. I felt his two hands cup my face. His fingers curled on either side to brush the edges of my ears. “Qu'est-ce que je touche?”

My answer came out in a dry, husky whisper. “Les oreilles.”

His hands slid down each of my cheeks, caressing my jawline with his thumbs, until his fingers rested lightly on the base of my chin. Slowly, he began trickling his fingertips down my throat. “Le cou.” My heart beat faster. I bit my lip. A shocking thought popped into my head… if I pressed my neck further into his hands, would he reward my brazenness by wrapping his firm fingers around my throat, squeezing me just a bit more firmly, melting me with the heat of his gentle strength…

He continued lower, stroking gentle fingertips along my entire body. 

Les épaules, les bras…

I was soon engulfed by his presence, cradled on both sides by the warmth of his arms and the solid pressure of his chest against my back. Good god, he smelled wonderful. My head started to get swimmy. I fought hard against the urge to moan, knowing it was only a matter of time before he discovered my humiliating secret…

I gasped and squirmed as he circled each one of my stiff nipples with two gentle fingertips. He took his time here, making at least a dozen teasing circles before asking, “And this?” 

“La…poitrine…?” I offered, knowing only the generic, inoffensive term for the part of me he touched. 

“Les mamelons,” he corrected.

His fingers travelled lower still, fondling the undersides of my breasts, pausing to rest on my uppermost ribs…

Oh no, not there - 

His fingers twitched against me every so slightly, and I lost it. A whimpering chuckle escaped me. He “Hm’d,” and further pressed his advantage and his fingertips. A soft, fluttery laugh tumbled out of my throat, and I knew I was doomed.

“Something funny?” 

“No, sir,” I gasped. 

“And what is this?” he prompted, skating lower still and skittering his fingertips over my belly with nimbleness. 

“Les ch-chatouilles,” I stuttered without thinking.

He clicked his tongue in surprise. “Someone has skipped ahead a unit. Est-ce que ça chatouille? Does that tickle, mademoiselle?” The playful cruelty of his question turned my insides to mush. My ears burned in embarrassment, glowing as bright as the tingling places he’d touched. 

His fingers brushed lower still, caressing the curve of my waist, circling my hip bones, tapping and squeezing and tickling…I shook my head against his chest, my eyes squeezed tight and nostrils flaring from the strength it took not to let more giggles escape my trembling lips. If I laughed, a moan might slip out too, and it would give him more ammunition… But I already knew I was fighting a losing battle. I sensed he knew it too.

He stroked back and forth along the sensitive imprint where the waistband of my panties had gently bitten into the area just above my mound, and I I felt my pearl pulse and my translucent excitement begin to seep out from under me as he neared that special place. I pressed my thighs together, terrified he would dip his fingers lower into that slick, ticklish little crease… Merci, monsieur… No! I meant mercy - 

And then he removed his hands. I gasped in surprise. 

He stepped back and patted my head, tapping me out of my heated daze. 

“Ce sera tout pour aujourd'hui, mademoiselle,” he said, taking his place at his desk in front of me. “You may dress. And remember: every morning when you wake up and face the mirror, you have two options. You can come to school in your uniform. Or you can come to school in the uniform God gave you.” 

Trembling, I nodded meekly and rubbed my hands together in a useless attempt to self-soothe. And then, slowly, began gathering my clothes. Undergarments first. Skirt, then blouse. Tuck, tuck. Gray socks, and finally, shoes. I felt his eyes on me the whole time I dressed. He knew now… knew my terrible secret… The heat between my legs was so glaring it felt visible. I clenched in my panties, but this did nothing to quell the sensual smolder. The shame that burned through me was either the stuff of nightmares or fodder for my fantasies - it was too soon to tell. I would find out tonight in the quiet of my bed.

With a flourish of his arm, he ushered me to the door. Before I left the room, I glanced back at the chair where I’d been sitting. The only evidence of the tantalizing French inquisition I had endured was a small, glistening spot.

“Remember, mademoiselle. Deux options.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“En français.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

That was two months ago. The heat of my humiliation haunts me every time I dress for school. But even though my cheeks burn from the memory every time I slip on my white socks, there is not a small part of me that doesn’t still wonder what would happen if I came to school sporting la deuxième option.