Am I still in love with her?

That’s the type of question that a friend of mine refers to as midnight thoughts. The sort of intrusive, negative, poisonous thought that you’re ashamed of, that you wish you could just un-think.

Normally, what happens is that you get some kind of reality check. You go out, talk to a friend, touch some grass, and the midnight thought melts in the sun, and you return to reality.

But lately, it’s getting harder and harder not to ask myself this question. Am I still in love with Lisa?

She’s the same Lisa I fell in love with. We were both uni students at the time, though in different buildings — a lesbian bar is where we met. Now, we’re both professors, ironically also in different buildings — she teaches sociology, I teach psychology — and while so much has changed in our lives, there’s also so much that’s never changed at all.

Her, for example. Loving and supportive. Gorgeous and witty. Funny and kind. The sort of gal one can build a happily ever after with.

But if I truly love her, why would I ever stab her in the heart like this?

We sit on the sofa. Her head is on my shoulder, our hands loosely entwined. The apartment is quiet, save for our slow breathing. This should be a perfect moment. These used to be the moments I lived for, the simple togetherness that made everything else worthwhile.

If only I wasn’t harboring such a homewrecking secret…

I stroke her blond hair absentmindedly. It's grown out long again. It’s good, I like how it looks on her.

"Let's just stay in tonight," Lisa says, lifting her head. "We can watch some terrible reality TV. I'll make popcorn if you want."

She kisses me, a quick peck that's meant to seal the deal, and I feel a rush of warmth that makes the gnawing pit in my stomach even worse. How can I tell her that I have plans? Tonight I'm going out to meet… to meet…

Him.

"I can't," I say, my voice smaller than I intend. "I'm meeting… a friend for dinner. Last minute thing."

Lisa raises an eyebrow. "Which friend?"

I scramble for something believable. "A new teacher from the faculty," I say, and even as the words leave my mouth, I know it's a ridiculously flimsy lie. Lisa and I have been together long enough that she knows most of my coworkers, and more importantly, she knows I don't socialise with them much.

My heart hammers in the silence that follows. I imagine her calling me out, demanding to know what's really going on, and I don't know what I'll say. The truth is unthinkable: that I'm betraying her in a way that might be irreparable. That I’m cheating on her.

With a man.

"Sophie," Lisa starts, and I brace for it, for the confrontation that will tear us apart but at least be honest. She looks me square in the eye, and says…

"Just don't be too late, okay? And whenever you feel like sharing, I want to hear all about this new friend!"

Oh. The relief is so strong that I feel lightheaded, and it’s all I can do not to laugh. She believes me. How? That was a terrible lie. Well, I’m not going to complain, I suppose. I really need to come up with a better cover story for future escapades, though.

"I'll text you if I’m running late," I say, squeezing her hand. "I promise."

Lisa nestles back into me, and for a moment, I let myself believe that everything can still be okay. That I can balance this, that I can have both. That my secret doesn't have to mean losing her.

But I know, deep down, that I'm only delaying the inevitable. I know, deep down, that if I were given a binary choice between her and him, I’d pick him. Every single time.

***

Nothing worth having is easy.

That’s what Tom always says, and I find myself thinking about that as the tram rattles around me. I watch the city slip past. The streets are blanketed by a cover of soft snow, the storefronts look brighter in the darkness of encroaching winter, and everyone is so bundled up in thick warm clothes that we look more like plushies than people.

Bad lie or not, I would have always ditched whatever plans I had with Lisa to answer Tom’s summons. It just wouldn’t do to tell him no, and it makes perfect sense. Nothing worth having is easy.

Now, a man like Tom can have whatever woman he wants. His handsomeness is surpassed only by his intellect, he might genuinely be the most articulate and intelligent person I’ve ever met. But here’s the thing. If it’s easy for him to get any woman he wishes… it’s also not worth much, is it?

That’s where I come in. I’ve been a gold star lesbian all my life. My very orientation makes me automatically unattainable for the vast majority of men. So the fact that he’s won me over, that he’s earned my devotion with nothing but his sheer presence, means that what we have is special. It’s valuable.

Of course my relationship with Lisa can’t compete. Lesbian romances aren’t exactly uncommon these days, they’re a dime a dozen really. But how many lesbians do I know that have ended up with a guy?

No other example I can think of.

Obviously, given its rarity and value, I give my clandestine tryst with Tom top priority over everything else. It’s only logical.

I should feel guilty about this, and I do, in a distant, abstract way. Lisa doesn't deserve this betrayal. She's been nothing but good to me, and here I am, answering a man’s booty call. I do know it makes me look pathetic, and a weasel besides.

But even as I try to summon the appropriate shame and remorse, I find that I’m just… no longer capable of that. There's something about Tom that overrides all my principles and convictions.

He has this… magnetism.

It pulls me in, strips away my defenses, makes me see things from his perspective as if they were my own.

It’s crazy to consider that right now, I literally embody the straight male fantasy of the conquest. The "turning" of a lesbian. If it were a fantasy someone mentioned online, I’d roll my eyes at the intrinsic misogyny in it.

Yet knowing the script doesn't make me any less of a character in it. And the feeling of wrongness doesn’t scare me away, on the contrary, it feels like such a rush. It’s addictive, it fills me with such adrenaline that it makes me lightheaded sometimes. I feel utterly compelled to just keep going, and it’s hard to get excited about Lisa, when set next to the thrill of being turned bisexual by a man through sheer force of will.

I can't go back to my bland, predictable life with Lisa. I just can't.

I think about the first time I met him. How surreal it was, how quickly it all happened. I was looking for a guest lecturer, something out of the ordinary, just to throw my students a curveball. Tom seemed perfect. I’d found an essay of his online, "The Last Hypnotist," a piece about the history of stage acts and their roots in the older traditions of psychoanalysis.

I was yet to find out just how perfect he actually is.

The tram slows to a stop, and I realize with a start that it's my stop. I've been so lost in my own head that I nearly missed it.

I get out from my seat and step into the cold night air, pulling my coat tighter around me, for all the good it does me.

The streets here are quieter, more residential, and I can hear my booted footsteps on the pavement. His building is just ahead. I take a deep breath, to steady my nerves, and remind myself of his lesson.

Nothing worth having is easy.

***

I’ve barely had a chance to step through the threshold and remove my coat that Tom’s lips are on mine. He kisses me deeply, his hands roaming my body possessively as I melt into his embrace.

No opposition, and no resistance.

Physical contact with a man is so different than with a woman. Lisa and I are of matching height, but Tom towers over me. Lisa feels soft and welcoming when pressed flush against me, but Tom feels hard, and not just because of his tenting erection poking at me through his trousers.

He feels hard like steel. Broad shoulders, firm chest, wiry arms. His frame could envelop me completely.

It’s an entirely different kind of physical contact than the sapphic variant, indeed. A more fundamentally… unequal one.

He makes me feel smaller, vulnerable, and in some way I really can’t explain any better than this…

He makes me feel female.

Somehow, we stumble our way further and further into the apartment, leaving a trail of discarded clothing behind us — his shirt, my blouse, belts and shoes. Miraculously, we don’t bump into anything.

By the time we’re both fully naked, Tom backs me up against the wall, pinning my wrists above my head as he kisses and nibbles at the sensitive skin of my neck. I arch into him, craving more contact, more friction. He grinds his hips against me, and once again I feel how hard he is for me. It makes me ache with need.

Incredible, how quickly my body has gotten used at responding to the inputs of a hard cock being rammed against me. And to think I once found male erections downright gross.

How long has it been now? Six months? Eight? I’ve lost track of time, but it hasn’t been that long, objectively speaking. Yet in these few short months, Tom has completely rewired me. My body responds to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if this is what I was made for all along.

In a way, I suppose it was.

Evolution selected and sculpted us for this exact purpose. Lesbianism just can’t compete with the weight of millions of years of evolution.

Tom pulls back just enough to look into my eyes. "Sorry if it’s a bit last minute, but timing is important. Have to keep you on a steady schedule."

I'm not sure what he means by that, but I find I don't really care. All that matters is that he wants me, needs me, and I logically have to make him my priority. It’s just the course of action that maximises good in the world. "It's okay. I'm supposed to come when you call."

He grins. "That you are. Did the sudden call cause you any problems at home, or…?"

I shake my head. "No, everything is still the same at home. My girlfriend doesn't suspect a thing. I told her I was meeting a new teacher. She seemed to buy it."

Tom nods, looking pleased. "Good. I don’t want drama, and I don’t want to attract attention, so just keep playing the part of the lesbian, if you’d be so kind. Never let anyone in on your secret."

"Of course. Anything for you," I say, with utmost sincerity. A part of me finds that surprising, but at the end of the day, why not? Prioritising him above all else is the morally correct and logically sound course of action, after all.

He walks me backwards towards the bedroom and we tumble onto the bed — but he doesn’t stay there long. In a flash, he’s dropping to his knees, burying his face between my legs.

I cry out at the first touch of his tongue, and pleasure sparks through my nerves like lightning. I’m already wet for him. His hands firmly grip my hips, holding me still as his tongue gets to work. He laps languidly at my slit for a bit, before starting to trace slow teasing circles around my clit, never quite fully attending to it.

It drives me mad.

It's still a shock sometimes, how good he is at this. How easily he can take me apart with lips and tongue and clever fingers. Before him, I never would have believed a man could make me feel this way.

Now, I can't imagine going back to a life without his touch.

Then, he suckles at my clit with his lips, and my eyes flutter as I try to arch into him. The sudden intensity is too much for my nervous system to process… and then, in the blink of an eye, it’s gone.

He stands and crawls onto the bed, straddling my chest. I love the feeling of his weight pinning me down. Just like his sexual needs are pinning down my nominal lesbian orientation, sidelining it, trivialising it, acting upon it. Forcing it to conform to the male expectation, to the fantasy of conquest and conversion.

His cock hovers inches from my face, thick and hard and perfect. I lick my lips in anticipation. I’ve never felt more a woman than at this very moment.

"Get me wet," he says, casually. "Then we can begin the usual process."

Usual process? I wonder what he means by that. It’s a pretty weird way to refer to sex… but I guess it isn’t really important.

Slowly, torturously, he pushes forward until the tip of his cock is inches away from my lips. There’s a moment of delicious anticipation where I breathe in his scent, so raw and masculine, before I fully part my lips and let him slide in, taking him into the wet heat of my mouth.

He groans appreciatively as I swirl my tongue around the tip.

He’s been very patient in teaching me how to suck cock. I feel very proud for having acquired that new skill under his firm hand. As a lesbian, I really had a gap in my sexual toolbox with that one, and he’s rectified it so thoroughly…

Just goes to show how mutually beneficial this arrangement actually is.

My hands move to his hips, and I can feel the tension in his muscles, the restrained power as he lets me work at my own pace. I bob my head slowly, creating a slick, wet friction, and his breathing grows heavier.

I feel so proud at myself for this. I want to get so good at this that Tom will only be able to conclude that lesbians make the best cocksuckers in the world. Just to make any wondrous instance of lesbian submission to a man even more special, and thus even more of an absolute priority…

Unfortunately, I don’t get a chance to flex my shiny new cocksucking skills just yet — he doesn't let me worship him for long.

Pulling out with a wet pop, Tom shifts his attention lower. He takes my breasts in his large hands, kneading and caressing. Then he pushes them together, creating a warm channel, and slots his cock right between them.

The sight is obscenely erotic — his hard shaft sliding between my soft lesbian tits, thrusting into them. The way the soft titflesh yields submissively before his hard cock, just as it yields for his strong hands squeezing from either side. So much visual power in this act. Male over female. Straight over lesbian. Him over me.

He builds a steady rhythm, fucking my tits with single-minded focus. I watch, transfixed, as the tip of his cock peeks out from my cleavage with each thrust, glistening with my spit and with pre-cum.

"Look at it," Tom says. "Watch how it moves. Focus only on that, let everything else fade away."

Fade away? I’m not sure why everything else would fade away, but I’m happy to go along with his instructions. I keep my eyes locked on his cock, and after a while, the mesmerising motion makes my sight go blurry. Back and forth. Back and forth…

"Keep watching it," Tom says. "To truly focus, let your mind empty of all other thoughts. There’s only my cock, and it’s moving—"

Back and forth. My mind helpfully finishes the sentence for him. My eyelids feel heavy, and it’s becoming a struggle to keep my eyes open, but he told me to keep looking, and I must obey… I strain against the heaviness in my eyes with every fiber of my being. I must not miss a single second of this motion.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

He picks up the pace, fucking my tits harder and faster. The obscene slapping sound of flesh on flesh fills the room. My tits jiggle with the force of his thrusts.

My mind is hazy, floating. I swear I can almost feel an invisible string, pulling me along towards some hidden depth. If only I knew where… maybe I could ask him…

"Tom," I say. "Master…"

The title slips out unbidden, but it feels right. He’s more than just Tom to me now; he’s Master. Simple as that.
God, it’s becoming so hard to keep my eyes open…

But I have to. His cock is my center of gravity. It’s guiding me somewhere… some…

I feel so empty, so wonderfully vacant. Every thought has dissolved, leaving only the pure essence of his will. I am his blank canvas, his faithful worshipper, his perfect lesbian conquest. It's like he's fucking my mind into submission just as thoroughly as he's fucking my body.

"Almost there…" he says, grunting, and I nod, or at least I think I do. It’s hard to tell. But that’s no reason to avoid nodding. When your master says something, nodding is usually a good bet.

Master's thrusts are more urgent now. I can feel his cock pulsing and twitching between my tits. Time stretches, the moment elongating into an unbearable eternity of anticipation. My own arousal mirrors his; I’m on the edge with him, waiting for that final, obliterating release.

A part of me seems to remember that it doesn’t really make sense, to cum without even being touched. But it’s a distant memory, so hard to bring into focus. It pales, next to the blinding light of the pleasure I’m experiencing.

With a final powerful thrust, Master cries out as he cums, his hot seed spurting over my neck and chin in thick ropes. The feeling of his cum marking me, claiming me, is enough to send me over the edge too. My own orgasm crashes through me like, and my awareness shatters into so many pieces flying in every direction.

I feel something snap into place in my mind, like a lock clicking shut.

I don’t understand what he says, after that, even though he talks at length. I just lie underneath his weight, and listen, letting his words worm their way into my mind.

With no opposition… and no resistance.

TO BE CONTINUED…