"And I'm, like, totallyyyyy glad I get to try again as a fresher. Jack's super smart and stuff."
How Hannah had fallen. One semester ago, she taught her own classes, appeared on podcasts, hosted talks with soaring attendance. Today, she shared a room with Jack Shaw, the very man who turned her into... into this. With his techie know-how, it was easy to hack the housing system and assign ex-Doctor Hannah Fry to his room in an otherwise all-male dorm.
Her presence didn't go unnoticed. Between towel snaps at her bare ass in the communal showers, wolf-whistles down the halls and offers to be her 'study buddy', she lived a life surrounded by cock with no other outlet to unleash those young hormones. If she had a choice, she would run screaming from the building and never look back. But basic needs triumphed over pride, which she swallowed to keep what little she had left.
And what she had left was room and board. No prospects in the outside world, but the promise that if she applied herself - again - and passed all her classes - again - she MIGHT graduate in three or four years. It was a better future than slumming it in some alley, but it meant putting up with whatever embarrassments got thrown at her. Including living with the man who put her here, and doing whatever it took to please him, or else get kicked out for bad behavior.
He outranked her, after all. So like a good underclassman, she obeyed the man 15 years her junior as he 'peer mentored' his former professor on what to do in college.
"Good girl," Jack said from behind the camera. "Now tell them about your classes."
Hannah Fry smiled, trying (badly) to hide her shame as she put on the persona of an in-over-her-head ditz stressing about her studies. "My ca-lasseeees are like, so totally tough. Maths is haaaaaard. I'm lucky Jack helps me all the time cause numbies and titty orals make my brain fuzzy."
"It's numbers and tutorials, Hannah," Jack corrected, savoring his chance to mock her for a vocab trained too deep in her to shake. "At least you fill out that uniform nicely. It suits you."
She lost her job. Her awards. Her PhD. Those three losses were bad enough. Then University College London saw fit to make her wear a uniform if she wanted to attend. It wasn't in the handbook or guidelines. It existed only for her, to signal her new status for anyone who didn't get the memo. Instead, it turned her into the campus joke. Wherever she went, students laughed at the dumb 35-year-old freshie girl who probably couldn't maths her way out of a paper bag.
Which wasn't nearly as bad as living with Jack. He stopped and set down the camera. Sat down next to her. His hand dug under her shirt and played with her breast, as she bit her lower lip to his touch.
"There. I'll get that posted to your YouTube and we'll see if we can't get more people to see the real you. Maybe in a semester or two you can start wearing some of those skanky clothes we both know you really want."
She didn't know what was worse, her current schoolgirl look or the tight tops and tiny skirts Jack made her put on in the bedroom. He had their closet under lock and key, making her his own personal dress-up barbie he could play with however he wished.
He was getting plenty of playtime with her now. He would have plenty more to come. And why stop at four years, when with a few keyboard taps and mouse clicks, he could 'help' Hannah 'Vocal' Fry miss the mark year after year. Moving to her clit and rubbing it, he watched her sigh and moan in despair at her laptop showing her first big red fail of the semester, a whopping 28%, in her worst subject: math.
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(part 1, part 2)
Hannah Fry's Vocal Fry - pt 3
"And I'm, like, totallyyyyy glad I get to try again as a fresher. Jack's super smart and stuff."
How Hannah had fallen. One semester ago, she taught her own classes, appeared on podcasts, hosted talks with soaring attendance. Today, she shared a room with Jack Shaw, the very man who turned her into... into this. With his techie know-how, it was easy to hack the housing system and assign ex-Doctor Hannah Fry to his room in an otherwise all-male dorm.
Her presence didn't go unnoticed. Between towel snaps at her bare ass in the communal showers, wolf-whistles down the halls and offers to be her 'study buddy', she lived a life surrounded by cock with no other outlet to unleash those young hormones. If she had a choice, she would run screaming from the building and never look back. But basic needs triumphed over pride, which she swallowed to keep what little she had left.
And what she had left was room and board. No prospects in the outside world, but the promise that if she applied herself - again - and passed all her classes - again - she MIGHT graduate in three or four years. It was a better future than slumming it in some alley, but it meant putting up with whatever embarrassments got thrown at her. Including living with the man who put her here, and doing whatever it took to please him, or else get kicked out for bad behavior.
He outranked her, after all. So like a good underclassman, she obeyed the man 15 years her junior as he 'peer mentored' his former professor on what to do in college.
"Good girl," Jack said from behind the camera. "Now tell them about your classes."
Hannah Fry smiled, trying (badly) to hide her shame as she put on the persona of an in-over-her-head ditz stressing about her studies. "My ca-lasseeees are like, so totally tough. Maths is haaaaaard. I'm lucky Jack helps me all the time cause numbies and titty orals make my brain fuzzy."
"It's numbers and tutorials, Hannah," Jack corrected, savoring his chance to mock her for a vocab trained too deep in her to shake. "At least you fill out that uniform nicely. It suits you."
She lost her job. Her awards. Her PhD. Those three losses were bad enough. Then University College London saw fit to make her wear a uniform if she wanted to attend. It wasn't in the handbook or guidelines. It existed only for her, to signal her new status for anyone who didn't get the memo. Instead, it turned her into the campus joke. Wherever she went, students laughed at the dumb 35-year-old freshie girl who probably couldn't maths her way out of a paper bag.
Which wasn't nearly as bad as living with Jack. He stopped and set down the camera. Sat down next to her. His hand dug under her shirt and played with her breast, as she bit her lower lip to his touch.
"There. I'll get that posted to your YouTube and we'll see if we can't get more people to see the real you. Maybe in a semester or two you can start wearing some of those skanky clothes we both know you really want."
She didn't know what was worse, her current schoolgirl look or the tight tops and tiny skirts Jack made her put on in the bedroom. He had their closet under lock and key, making her his own personal dress-up barbie he could play with however he wished.
He was getting plenty of playtime with her now. He would have plenty more to come. And why stop at four years, when with a few keyboard taps and mouse clicks, he could 'help' Hannah 'Vocal' Fry miss the mark year after year. Moving to her clit and rubbing it, he watched her sigh and moan in despair at her laptop showing her first big red fail of the semester, a whopping 28%, in her worst subject: math.