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Callum Hayes liked to think that he’d made good of his time at university. He had just started his second year at Stepchurch, a new-build Poly in East London, and people were starting to know his name. It wasn’t the best university out there, but his A-Levels hardly set the world on fire. At the time he’d blamed this on external circumstances, such as having done his GCSEs and A-Levels at the same sub-par, working class state school. That was before his personal responsibility kick, however – he now made the fault his own for being too lazy to move schools, and for dicking around in class when he should have been studying.

He first started to lean to the right wing a few months since he started his degree, which was in journalism. He enjoyed the newspapers and wanted to write them, but knew little of the politics pages. His first introduction to the political ‘sphere’ was when he realised how left wing Stepchurch was. Most students he stayed with and encountered were socialists, anarchists or even communists. He knew nothing of what these terms meant, but he knew they didn’t make sense to him. After not too long he started to read up on politics, getting information both from books, the internet and the few societies that were right wing. He came to understand himself as what those in the nineteenth-century called a liberal and what those thereafter called a libertarian. It made sense really: both the far left and the far right (he’d encountered the latter in his exploration of campus conservatives, and he instantly disliked them as much as their enemies) seemed like utter twats to him, there had to be a middle ground. He’d started a blog, the Stepchurch Sentinel (it sounded more like a superhero than a blog, but still) about student politics on campus, and it had grown both popular and controversial. Some read it with nodded agreement, some tore through it looking for holes to pick, but readers were readers. He quite enjoyed his campus notoriety, getting recognised at the Union bar and in the corridors.

This evening was busier than usual. He was in the library finishing off a paper; it was due in a week, but he’d developed an obsessive need to finish early and proofread. It was approaching a quarter to eight, which meant he had to head out. He packed up relatively quickly and header to the front of the library. He headed out to the corridor and there she was – Fatima Ahmed, the closest thing he had to a nemesis at Stepchurch. She was the Student Union’s Diversity Officer, whatever that entailed. She was a fairly hostile reader and commenter of the blog, which she’d had in her sights ever since she got voted in. If it had been paper-based or more closely linked to the school she would have had no problem censoring it, but this was his own private blog. They’d had several fierce debates – they were both part of the active debate circuit, and found themselves at odds on most issues.

Callum would have thought of Fatima as quite pretty if he didn’t dislike her so much. She was tall, around five nine by his measure, and a larger woman. She seemed to be equal (far) distance from obese and petite, fat but not outrageously so. She was quite dark compared to most Pakistanis he knew, with deep olive skin and a chubby, yet sharp and angular, face. She was fairly religious, and wore a loose-fitting hijab and abaya that left something to the imagination, making it difficult to work out exactly how big she was. She was older than him; something of a mature student at 24. He was only nineteen, and looked the opposite: he was white without much of a tan, slim with only the faintest signs of toning, and blonde. Maybe their status as opposites was why he thought of her as attractive.

“Hi,” she said cooly. She was from the East End like him, but instead of his Cockney accent she had more of a rudegirl twang. It made people underestimate her, which was their mistake, as Fatima was extremely intelligent, being able to run rings around even the lecturers sometimes. Even if Callum considered her cause stupid, he couldn’t deny she had the mental edge over him.

“Hi,” he said, equally cooly. He’d convinced her to do an interview for the Sentinel, which would essentially manifest as an explosive debate. The Stepchurch Union was going to have a vote on whether to disaffiliate with the National Union of Students over the election of Malia Bouattia as President. She was extremely controversial about Israel, ISIS and the right, and many other unions had voted to disaffiliate as a protest. Stepchurch was taking the same vote, and Callum was planning to vote to leave, while Fatima was firmly ‘stay’. This interview/debate was of mutual benefit: she wanted a dress rehearsal before the main debate, and he wanted to get her to admit the leave campaign had a good point. More than this, they both wanted to crush each other.

“Did you get my email?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Haven’t checked them. Why, what’s going on?”

“We can’t do the interview on campus, apparently,” he said. “There are only a couple of seminar rooms xslot that aren’t locked up, and the cleaners are going through those. I asked Facilities about it and they warned me off.”

“Okay,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What about the coffee place over the road?”

“Closes at six on Wednesdays. Fuck knows why.”

“My house share is about a ten minute walk away,” she said. “They’re all out tonight I think. We could do it in the living room?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You sure?”

She shrugged nonchalantly, and he saw the power play at once. She was demonstrating how unthreatening he was, and the lack of harm he could do her.

“Okay, good,” he said. They headed out the front and she led him through the Stepchurch evening. They exchanged about five words of forced pleasantries throughout; Callum had never spent much one-on-one time with Fatima, and now he did, the dislike was evident. He realised how deeply he shared it, and they walked the last few minutes in a stony silence. Eventually they reached a new build house on a T-junction. Fatima ushered him in and closed the door behind them. The place seemed empty, and none of the lights were on. They were in a small hallway, the living room just beyond it.

“Shoes off, please,” she said. He obliged, and looked over as she removed her shoes, and also her socks. He wasn’t surprised. The humidity was insane, and he could tell her socks were dripping with sweat. Fatima had large, elegant feet, the same dark colour as her face. He had a slight thing about feet, and these were better than average. He looked away, conscious he was staring.

“Do you want a tea or coffee, or anything?” she asked.

“Just water, please,” he said politely. She turned left into a small kitchen and produced two glasses, one each. She brought him into the front room and they sat down on the settee.

“Okay,” he said, producing a Dictaphone from his pocket. “Here’s how this works. I’ll record our interview, then type it up for the blog tomorrow. Once I do that I’ll send it over to you, you can have a look, highlight anything you think is wrong or add in anything the recorder missed. Once we’re both happy with it I’ll publish it.”

“Right,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. “First question-“

“Can I ask the first question?” she asked, cutting in.

“I…uh, okay,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said, taking a sip of water. “So why Malia? What don’t you like? It’s cause she’s Muslim, right?”

“Not even a little bit,” he said, defensively. She wasn’t going to hijack the interview. “Not at all. I like Muslims, I grew up with Muslims, I don’t have a problem with them.”

“So what is it, then?” she asked.

“Well for one, she’s an anti-Semite,” he said. “She thinks Western media is controlled by a big Jewish cabal. That sounds fucked up to me.”

“She’s not-“

“My first question,” he said forcefully. “Do you support anti-Semitism?”

“Of course not,” she said, angrily. “Neither does Malia, she’s not an anti-Semite. She has a problem with Zionism, and who doesn’t? It’s a violent, imperialistic ideology. I’d be against it if it came from the Palestinians, and I’m against it when it comes from the Israelis.”

“Fine, second question. You support direct student democracy, but you condemn the unis that opted to disaffiliate from the NUS. How do you reconcile that?”

“You’re presenting this as a contradiction in terms,” she said. “It’s not at all. I’m happy when students make a decision. But I don’t have to be happy with the decision. Those students let fear and racism rule them. That’s pathetic.”

“Okay,” he said. “But what about-“

“I want to ask a question,” she said, irritated.

“That’s not how it works,” he shot back.

“You’re asking me nothing but loaded questions. Only fair if I can ask a few back.”

“You’re trying to take over the interview, just like you’re trying to take over my blog!”

She laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. “The only thing I’d like to do to your little blog is shut it down while you beg me not to.”

While you beg me not to. The words went straight through him, hitting him hard. He couldn’t tell why, but he got an electric surge of excitement. He didn’t understand terms or concepts such as submission and dominance, but if he did, he would have realised why. He quickly composed himself, feeling the brief spell of butterflies in his stomach.

“Er, what?” he said, glancing at her. What he saw chilled him. Using some inhuman perception, she’d picked up the infinitesimal change in his demeanor, and had read volumes into it. He saw in horror as a small yet malevolent smile began to cross her lips. She was practically grinning at him by the end. He tried to steady himself under her predatory gaze when she spoke.

“Hmm…what was I saying?” she said, slowly, feigning confusion. “Oh, yes. I was saying that what I’d really like to do is tear down your blog while you begged me not to.” She drew in closer. “I think that was it. Yeah, you’d just xslot Giriş be begging away down there. Down there meaning on your knees.”

Callum gulped, going a deep red. He could feel himself getting hard as she made close eye contact, her face in a sultry smirk. He edged backwards slightly.

“And of course I’d tear it down,” she said, drawing every word out. “But it would be OK. You could work for me. Every union officer needs some good, experienced people serving…ya know…under them.”

“What are you doing?” Callum gulped.

“Getting almost as turned on by this as you are,” she said, suddenly breathless. Before he could reply she reached her hand round the back of his head. She pulled him towards her and kissed him imperiously. Her tongue was in his mouth fully and he stroked it with his own. At the same time she pinned him down on the couch by the shoulders. After what seemed like a blissful eternity she got up and wordlessly led him to her bedroom.

It was dark in the room, the light from the living area barely penetrating the blackness. Fatima shut the door, locked it and turned on a bedside light. It lit the room far better. The room was small and cramped, dominated by a double bed that was wedged between two bookshelves. Callum had a quick scan of the bookshelves and was surprised by its strange variety – it was split in equal parts between course materials, writings by Qur’anic scholars and, most bizarrely, a hefty collection of erotic fiction. The titles made it clear that the romance in these books was definitely female-led.

By the time he’d finished examining her collection she had stripped off completely and stood before him, proudly and defiantly naked. He did a double take, unable to help himself. Fatima was a women who looked good naked. He could see why she’d chosen black for her garb, it was slimming, but he was aghast at the idea of her needing to slim down for anyone. She was a big, very beautiful, woman with a large belly and breasts. The hair that was always covered was jet black and slightly unkempt, and flowed easily down to her shoulders. Her body was the same gorgeous olive as her face, except for her nipples, which were dark.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked flatly, acknowledging his admiration subtly. “Let’s see ya.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He quickly took his jeans off, then his t-shirt. He slipped his socks off with ease but faltered slightly with his pants, which prompted a snigger from Fatima. He stood naked in front of her and she slowly surveyed his athletic body down to his fully-erect penis.

“Not bad,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

“You’re, uh, not so bad yourself,” he said back, admiringly. She didn’t respond, but stepped towards him and in one fluid motion, cupped his shaft and balls in a way that wasn’t quite painful but strong enough to be uncomfortable. He suppressed the urge to react, standing as still as he could.

“Let’s get something straight, yeah?” she said in a harsh tone. “I hate you. I love dominating men. The fact that that’s something you enjoy is the only reason we’re in this position. If not, I wouldn’t even look your way. I’ll treat you like shit so long as you do everything I say, and you might even get to cum. Deal?”

“Deal,” Callum blurted out. He’d supposed he should have thought about it but he sensed, deep down, that he could miss out on something wonderful. Fatima released her grip and pushed him down to his knees, where he was face to face with her vulva. It was darker than skin around it, and had not been shaved in some time. She only allowed him a moment to admire it before pushing his face into it and leaning against the back wall. Her pussy had a strong scent that excited him. He’d only eaten pussy once but the girl had kindly told him what to do, which was go straight for the clit. He attacked Fatima’s with his tongue with gusto, making her tremble slightly. She let out a soft moan and placed her hand on his head, stroking his hair as he worked. He kept licking her clit, taking long strokes to the hood. The taste was as good as the smell, rich and sweet.

“Mmh,” she said. “Good boy.”

This encouraged him and he licked away, as she shuddered and moaned in pleasure. After a few more minutes of solid tongue she gasped and began to tense her limbs. She writhed as if possessed, slamming her legs against his face, hard. This was a strong orgasm. His face in pain, he leant backwards as her movements softened. She relaxed against the wall for a moment, then rose up to pat him on the head condescendingly.

“Good boy,” she repeated. She led him over to the bed. She reached over to the bookshelf and took out a small silk bag. Laying him down, she took out a pair of bondage cuffs with Velcro harnesses. She strapped him in and attached them to the bedposts, sniggering as she did so. He had the vague impression that he should stop her, or at least establish some sort of safeword before she rendered him powerless, but he kept silent and still until he was fully tied up. xslot Güncel Giriş These were not cuffs you could slip out of easily – whoever designed these had really not wanted to interfere with the roleplay. He knew nothing of bondage, or its various instruments, but he could tell these were specialist equipment.

“I had to order these online,” said Fatima. “Can you imagine?! Conservatively dressed girl going to a shop and buying these. I’d be the talk of the pervert community.” She chuckled, and he cracked a smile as well. Her work done, she laid on top of him, making him feel her weight.

“You’re mine,” she purred seductively. She brought her face close to his and licked his cheek, giggling. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours” Callum said, short of breath.

“My what?” she asked, with feigned innocence.

“Your slave” he said. This prompted in Fatima a brief look that he only caught for a split second. It could only be described as predatory, and it gave him the slightest of chills.

“Good answer,” she said. “But wrong. For the moment, anyway. You’re going to have to earn it.” She rose to a standing position, towering over him. She lifted her left foot and placed it gently on his face, its length stretching out over his features. The sole covered both his lips and nose, and he got a pungent, beautiful scent where it lay over his nose. He’d never been able to indulge one iota of his budding foot fetish, and now his nemesis was conquering him with her sweaty, unwashed soles.

“Lick my feet,” she ordered, with barely-contained glee. He obeyed with enthusiasm, using the small amount of movement his tongue was offered to run it over her sole in a sensual circular motion. It had a strange but pleasurable tangy taste. She gave a barely-audible sigh and began to move her foot back and forth over his mouth. He found himself licking her heel, then the gap between her toes in one swift movement from her. She pointedp downwards and her toes descended into his mouth. Despite their size, he was surprised to find that he was able to suck them, not just fit them. He sucked them with gusto, getting an overdose of the tangy flavour as he did so.

“Mmm. Worship those toes,” she said. “You’re doing well! Might have to keep you around.” She took her foot out of his mouth and sat down on the bed, between his legs. She took his penis, which had stayed powerfully erect for the entire session (a personal best) and played with it in her hands, grinning. “I could have you adoring me all night,” she said, seductively. “And maybe I will. But right now, I’m horny.”

She reached into a small plastic bag on her shelf which he hadn’t noticed until now. She pulled out a Durex and put it on him with a skilled fluid motion. He considered asking her how often she’d done that, but decided against it. When the condom was on she squatted over his dick and slowly lowered her pussy over it until he was fully penetrating her. She squealed in pleasure as his own limited experience told him to buck his hips. Fatima sat bolt upright, her weight pushing his throbbing member further in. He gasped in pleasure himself as the pressure mounted and she rode him forcefully.

“Yeah, fuck me!” she yelled. “Harder!” As he happily complied he felt the pressure mount; she was going to make him cum. He used all of his hip strength to fuck her fast, and she bounced up and down, making her phenomenal breasts fly everywhere.

“Oh yeah, fuck your Queen, boy! Fuck me, slave!” she said, but her face changed. Her eyes went wide as saucers, and she let out several loud gasps followed by a light scream. She was orgasming again, more powerful this time. Her legs seized up and her pussy tightened fiercely around him. It was all he needed. The pressure spilled over and he felt a rush of pleasure and shot his hot load into the condom. Having finished almost simultaneously, Callum and Fatima relaxed, and she slowly got off of him.

“You’re okay,” she said, slightly out of breath.

“You ain’t so bad yo-“

“Agh, just shut the fuck up,” she snapped. “You don’t speak ‘less I ask you a question.” She move to the top of the bed and undid his restraints, stepping over him as she moved to the right one. His grunt of pain only served to make her smirk. He lay there, almost as if waiting for orders, which he found pathetic.

“Bathroom’s through there,” she said, pointing to a door he hadn’t even noticed when he came in. “Sort your mess out. Don’t even think of spilling any.”

He rose up slowly, going through to the on suite. It was decent for a student house, small but featuring a bath as well as the standard toilet and sink. He pulled the condom off gently, wrapping it and its content up and flushing it. As he washed his hands he marvelled over the events of the evening. A standard debate against his academic nemesis had turned into a passionate fuck with someone who seemed to share all of his sexual likes. He wondered what would happen next: would she tie him straight back up? Kick him out? Or would they sit back down in the living area and finish the interview? The thought of the last one made him chuckle but he had to admit it was as likely as the others. When he re-entered the bedroom, Fatima had already put her bra and knickers back on. She sat on the bed.

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