Supervised Pt. 01

I needed that signature.

It's been two days since the last meeting between dr. Bard and I, but it feels like an eternity. The theme of our discussions had regularly been a "lack of commitment" from my side. Complete nonsense, as I saw it, but she was not easy to argue with.

The board had to approve my stay if I wanted to keep my slot at this university. Ph. Ds are never in broad supply, especially in a humanities field like mine, and studying at a prestigious British school under an internationally respected supervisor had seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime.

Her ink on that sheet was the only thing standing in the way of me losing my student visa and getting sent home, having wasted a year of my life.

Commitment.

I don't think she genuinely thought I was slacking off. I was busting my ass, frankly, and I don't see how she could. But what could I do? Nothing I handed her was ever good enough, and she had final say in deeming my progress "satisfactory" to the board.

What choice did I have?

When she asked me to discuss my future over dinner I thought it was wildly unprofessional, but did not feel I could refuse after a tirade on only seeing her in these twenty-minute checkups between other engagements I had "obviously prioritized." She told me to dress up.

Over risotto and wine she made it clear she thought I didn't have quite enough skin in the game. My protests and arguments did little to sway her. She asked if my relationship was keeping me distracted from my work, I told her I wasn't in one. She asked what else it could be, since clearly my mind was occupied with something other than the work. I told her it wasn't I'm not, and I promised, promised I was committed, and asked her what I could possibly do to prove it at this point.

Maybe I shouldn't have asked. I don't think it would have changed much in the end though.

She asked me if I was serious about proving it. I told her of course I was, how couldn't I be? She said if she was going to sign off on my progress to the board she'd need some accountability from me, some way to keep a finger on the pulse and let her steer me in the right direction if she felt I got too distracted.

I keep running that conversation back in my mind, wondering how the hell I got here.

Halfway through that dinner I found myself in a restaurant bathroom far nicer than I'd been used to, holding a black satin drawstring bag with my future "accountability measures" in it. It was an insane situation to be in, and not one I felt I could get out of. Defying her and lodging a complaint would have put me past my visa's timeline. I didn't have a choice. I studied the cold steel curves of the thing.

"It goes around your penis." She'd told me earlier at the table. "The ring sits behind your balls, and the lock keeps it shut." She was whispering, but just barely. I couldn't believe the kind of things coming out of my supervisor's mouth when I heard them.

I jumped from the cold metal making contact with my skin, and awkwardly pushed my balls through the ring. "Fucking insane... God damn... Actually, this bitch... Who does she think..." I hope my grievances weren't heard by other guests, but I can't really care. My supervisor, a professional with a doctorate, an academic career woman, was forcing me to lock my cock in a steel fetish-device and hand her the keys. insanity. I kept telling myself that, angry at my cock for swelling in the process. It made the process of putting the thing much harder, both physically and emotionally.

"This isn't turning me on, I'm just fiddling with it too much." I'd think as it grew another size. "I mean, she's attractive, but this is way out of line. It's sexual assault, is what it is." I would quietly protest, as the ring tightened around my stiffening junk.

The tube came next. A little dome of steel bars not a third the size of my embarrassingly hard cock currently was. I pushed it over the tip, but it was clear it had a long way to go before closing the lock was an option. I pushed it down into the tip, pressure growing in my groin. I felt my cock give way to my push, but only slowly. The ring got tighter. Unwelcome images of dr. Bard flashed through my mind. I suppressed them, as they were making the whole process of getting this thing on me more difficult.

By the time metal contacted metal, the head of my cock was slick with pre-cum. Trying to occupy my mind with as un-sexy thoughts as possible I quickly pressed the cylindrical lock into its slot. It wasn't the smoothest operation, with all the pressure currently working on the system, but after a minute of fiddling I got the lock to turn and the key to slide out.

There I stood, in an unironed button-up in a restaurant I couldn't afford, sliding my pants back over a little steel cage whose keys were about to be in the hands of a woman to whom I couldn't say no.

It's been a confusing few days.

Due in part to the obvious reminder firmly gripping my junk, I've not been able to get the events of this weekend out of my head. The moment she told me to put it on. Me slowly pushing the cage down. The lock clicking. Walking back out into the restaurant, certain that everyone could tell. The discomfort of sitting back down. My awkward movement confirming to her what she needed to know without asking. Her knowing look.

And maybe the worst of them: the moment I handed her that little set of keys.

I can't get over how that felt. It was- I don't even know what it was. My heart was racing. My face was red. Was it humiliating? This woman could seemingly get away with making me do whatever the fuck she wanted. Was is terrifying? My heart sank when those keys left my hand and settled into hers. It was also beating a mile a minute; was it exciting? It took me a few hours to let myself ask the question, but was it? Only after I got home did I have the chance to look some stuff up on the internet, and boy did I find things.

Some articles meant for couples to spice up their sex lives, some store-pages where I looked for the model that looked like mine. Most of the rest was porn. I looked, of course. Guys in contraptions that looked a lot like mine, and gorgeous women torturing them with pleasure. Vibrators held against cages, frustrating streams of cum gushing out of hard cocks and tight steel in ruined orgasms. Men tied up and begging, worshiping, obeying and pleasuring their women.

This was also when I learned how incredibly frustrating these things can be.

I kept imagining dr. Bard's face and voice imposed over these gorgeous, cruel women. I spent the evening straining hard against the bars of the cage, leaking a wet spot of cum into my underwear. I'd keep grasping down into my pants, desperate to stroke myself, only to be met with empty space where I'd expect my cock to be, and a steel nub just below. I tried not to give in to the fantasy too much, but I have to admit how exhilarating it was to let myself think about the position I was in. A gorgeous, smart, dominant woman had caged my cock herself. Did she also look at videos like these? Was she intending to do with me what these men were subjected to? It was so hot, but so embarrassing to feel myself straining helplessly against the bars of my cage at the thought of dr. Bard using me like this.

I had tried to sleep, but if you've ever worn one of these things yourself you'll know how difficult that was the first night. I spent hours grinding myself into the mattress, growing more desperate and frustrated with each movement.

It's Monday now. I'm sitting in my car, in the university lot, gathering myself. I'm meeting her in less than half an hour. We haven't been in contact since we had dinner together this weekend. I don't know what to think anymore, how to behave when I see her, if I should bring it up at all. Then again, I can't think of anything but her. I take a breath and head to her office.

I've had a few days to get used to the sensation, but it's still awkward moving myself around with this thing on. Sometimes you hardly notice it's there, sometimes you just feel it present as you walk, sometimes it forces you to shift in your seat or get up with a bit of a twist. And when you start thinking about it, and about who put it on you, it becomes undeniable as it tightens.

I knock on her door.

"Come in." I hear in the same professional tone I'm used to. I enter without reply. It's cold in her office, the radiator fighting a losing battle against late-autumn, and I decide to keep my coat on. I take my usual seat opposite dr. Bard. Despite the layers I'm wearing I'm feeling horribly exposed.

"How was your weekend?" She asks.

I clear my throat. "It was fine. Thanks." I get out without eye-contact.

"Just fine?"

"It wasn't my most productive, I can tell you that much." My eyes still turned down to her desk.

She doesn't respond immediately, just takes a pen out of a pocket and a familiar sheet of paper out of a drawer. She looks at me long enough to force me to meet her gaze. "You need my signature on this form." She says. "And I'm willing to give it to you only if I can be assured of your continued commitment to your work." She uncaps the pen and lays in on the paper in front of her.

"Of course." I mutter.

"Now, you've become familiar with my... idiosyncratic methods this weekend. I just want to square things between us first so there is no room for misunderstanding." She takes a long sip of a steaming mug of tea. "First, you should not feel compelled to do anything you do not want to do. This is first and foremost a voluntary accountability measure, which you may request to terminate when you see fit."

I look at her, and give her half an understanding nod.

"Of course such termination would not be without consequence. I have seen how much you can end up slacking, and this is really a last resort to get your productivity up to where it needs to be."

This makes my blood boil. My eyes widen as I prepare to protest, but she stops me in my tracks at the first indignant syllable. "Tut-" she holds up a finger. "I don't want a single word from you right now." My face flushes. Besides not knowing how to respond in such a situation, I'm in complete disbelief about the power that this woman so easily wields over me, and embarrassed about how little resistance I seem to be able to put up. Half the scenarios I play in my mind end up with me on a plane back home, the other half with me straining and begging underneath her. I beat myself up over how much I seem to prefer the latter.

A smile flashes behind her eyes, and I feel like she hear this entire train of thought occurring in real time. Her voice gets low, sweeter than I'm used to. There's an intimate warmth poking through the stern-professor exterior. "Listen, I don't want to make your life difficult. I want you to succeed, I truly do." She extends a hand, gestures for me to extend mine. When I do, she cups mine in hers. It feels very weird to do this with a professor, but I don't quite dislike it. "I want you in this program. I want you to pass. And I want you to be approved to stay. What I need from you is your cooperation."

I nod.

"Will you let me guide you through the rest of your track here? Will you finally promise to just listen to me?" She firms her grip on my hand. "Will you finally just do what I say?"

I push the images and snippets of this weekend's porn out of my mind, but it doesn't take long for them to resurface. "I-" I stammer. "I promise, dr. Bard." My cage immediately tightens.

"Good." In my mind I hear her finish it with a "-boy." She lets my hand go, and continues: "I expect you to be serious about this promise."

"I am serious."

She raises her eyebrows and nods expectantly. "I mean it. You'll have to do what I say, when I say it, without exception and without protest. Can you do that?"

"Yes, dr. Bard."

She picks up her glasses and squares them on her face, before taking the fountain-pen from the desk and holding it close to the paper. She looks up from what she is doing through her eyebrows without moving her head. "Get on your knees." She says.

I stay completely still, more by accident than defiance. "Excuse me?"

dr. Bard tilts her head and starts capping the fountain pen. "See, this is what I meant. You promise to do what I say, when I say it, without objection, and not a minute later you've already broken that promise." She leans back in her chair with her arms crossed.

"I-" I don't get a chance to get a word out.

"Kneel."

The cage strains, and I open my mouth, but decide against speaking. My face is beet-red when my knees hit the carpet of dr. Bard's office one after the other. I don't know whether to stay upright or sit backwards on my legs, and hover for a bit before deciding to stay up.

Dr. Bard gets up, circles the desk, and looms over me. "That's better." She says. "This is what will be expected of you from now on." Her voice, still professorial, seems now to drip with a seductive edge. "Can you do that?"

"Yes, dr. Bard." I answer.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes dr. Bard, I'm sure."

She extends a foot slightly. A black heel and dark stockings, covering the dark, olive skin of her leg.

"Kiss it."

My brain has fully melted into mush. I cannot believe what is happening is real. The cage is painfully tight, and my mind is occupied with thoughts and images of mistresses and obedient men.

I bend down close to dr. Bard's foot, close enough to smell the faux-leather material of her heel. After a brief pause I touch my lips to the slick black surface, and kiss.

"Good boy." She actually said it this time. The words bounce around my skull as I feel the underwear in front of the cage get wetter.

The pressure in my groin protests when I sit back upright, still on my knees in front of her.

"Beg me to sign your little form."

I stay on my knees, the cage biting hard as I try to find the words. My voice comes out smaller than I wanted. "Please, dr. Bard... please sign it. I need you to. I'll do whatever you say. I already promised. Just... please fill it out so I can stay."

She doesn't move. The heel I'd just kissed stays planted in front of me, and she looks down with that same expectant lift of her brows. "That's not how you ask," she says, quiet and even. "Try again. Tell me what you are right now, and what you're asking for."

Heat climbs my neck. With every word each of us speaks this is getting further away from a sanctionable student-supervisor relationship. I swallow, eyes on the carpet between us. "I'm... your student. Your- your obedient student. Please, dr. Bard, sign the form. I'm begging you. I need your signature. I'll kneel whenever you want, I'll do exactly what you say. I won't argue. I can't argue. You have complete... complete control over me. Just sign it. Please."

A small, satisfied sound leaves her. She shifts her weight and taps the toe of the heel lightly against my knee. "Better. Now say it once more, properly." Her finger touches the underside of my chin, lifting it up so my eyeline met hers. "Say you're mine to keep in line, and you want me to keep your keys while you prove it."

The cage pulses; I feel the wet spot spread. I swallowed. This was the first time either of us brought it up. Until now it had sat in the background between us, but she'd put the fact front and center.

I force the words out, face burning. "I'm yours to keep in line, dr. Bard. And please... keep the keys." I swallowed again, looking into her eyes. Her face was still and satisfied, her eyes piercing into mine. "I- I want you to. I need you to sign the form so I can stay and... and keep being yours. Please. I'll be good. Just sign it."

She held my face with a few fingers before returning to her desk. She uncaps the pen again, and signs.

"Good." She says, putting her things away. "Your fate is sealed." With a wink.

"May I get up?"

She crosses her arms once more. "Is that how we ask?"

My eyes shoot down. "May I please get up?"

"You may."

My knees are stiff from the floor, and I stretch my legs a bit before returning to my seat. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome." She coos.

She slides the duplicate form my way, and I start to reach. When I go to pick it off her desk though, she does not remove her hand from it.

"I have a few questions first."

I pull my arm back again in a mix of disappointment and excitement. "Of course." I reply.

"I'd like your honest opinion on this weekend's events."

I stare at the form still under her hand. The cage is a constant low ache, and every time I shift it reminds me it's there. "It was fine," I say. "Weird. But fine."

She doesn't seem to buy it. "I asked you to dinner so we could talk about your future properly. What did you think of the date?"

Date. I almost laugh, except nothing about this is funny. "You called it a date." My face is hot. "I didn't- I mean, it was dinner. But... I liked it. The restaurant was nice. You looked-" I cut myself off. This is still my supervisor. "I was nervous the whole time, but I liked being there with you."

She nods. "And putting the cage on. How did that feel?"

I try to keep it short. "Uncomfortable. Cold. Took a while."

"We agreed you'd be honest." Her voice stays even, but there's an edge under it. "You promised. Try again."

I look at the carpet, then at her shoes, then force myself to meet her eyes. "It was embarrassing. Standing in that bathroom trying to get it on. I keep thinking I should have stood up for myself."

"Why didn't you?"

"You know why I didn't. I couldn't."

"Is that the whole reason?"

I pause. "Knowing you'd be holding the keys. I kept telling myself it was insane, that I shouldn't be doing it, but-" I have to stop. The cage is tighter now.

"But what? Spit it out."

"It was also... arousing. I didn't want it to be. But it was."

She doesn't smile, not really. Just watches me. "Were you aroused the rest of the weekend?"

"Yes." It comes out too fast. I clear my throat. "It was hard to think about anything else. Especially at night."

"Did you fantasize about me?"

The question sits in the quiet for a second. My ears are ringing. I nod, once. "Yes, dr. Bard."

"What specifically?" She leans back, arms crossed.

My mind is feeding me the same images I spent half the weekend trying to ignore. "I looked up... things. Online. Guys in cages like this one, and women. Using them. Teasing them. Making them beg."

"And?"

"And I kept putting your face on them. Your voice." I have to pause. Saying it out loud feels worse than thinking it. "I thought about you keeping the keys. About you telling me what to do. About not being able to touch myself while I thought about you. It was humiliating how much I kept coming back to it. How hard I stayed, and how little I could do about it."

She lets the silence stretch until I'm sure she can hear how fast I'm breathing.

"Good," she says at last. She hands me the signed form.

"I'll see you in my office tomorrow. Same time."

I can't speak before she's returned to the regular work ready and waiting on her desk, and she's already not paying me much attention anymore. I want to ask about the keys, but think better of it.

I leave dr. Bard's office more uncertain than before, and much more frustrated.