Dawnlight softened the black beyond the attic-slats as Cora adjusted her skirt, "You're sure you don't want me to go with you? The bakery can miss an open..."
You don't want to miss orientation.
"People need their daily bread, and I'm not ruining your Dad's streak." He already had enough reason to hate me.
If it comes to light that I've been tending her belly like sourdough starter for the past few weeks...
I shook away the thought, "If you want to come, then come."
Her lips pursed to stifle a laugh.
"Don't say it," I warned. She woke me hours prior, and we hadn't wasted a minute in our countdown to dorm life and reproductive intercourse prohibitions. I couldn't reconcile our daily coin toss, spilling myself into her. We were playing with fire.
Alard, Cora's father, was still searching for a morning shift replacement, as he handled prep from the afternoon to night. In the interim, Bloom provided Cora with a morning work release.
Her belly quaked, and she delivered the expected punchline before I caught her in a headlock and ribbed her with my knuckles.
"Stop~♥" she squealed, muffling herself to avoid waking Prava. In short order, we were both dressed and packed, tiptoeing down the stairs to the front door. I slipped a note with a heartfelt thank you onto Prava's counter before we left.
Tulk Breadworks stood only a few blocks off my route, so I escorted Cora to its front stoop. "Don't forget anything," she said, clasping my palm.
"They'll say all the same stuff at evening orientation."
"Prove it," she stole a quick kiss, "I want notes."
"Yeah, alright, I'll jot it down word for word."
Another hug, another kiss, a lingering squeeze of her ass. Her panties were wet, not with slick but with stick, the kind that kept your fingers from rolling across each other. My kind.
I returned to my trek, retracing my steps to avoid my family's residence. The sun had capped the horizon, cloaked in a cloudy sky, but you could still make out a face in this light. I didn't want to be noticed.
My pack hung too light from my shoulders. In my blouse pocket, the marigold envelope overflowed, stuffed with bank documents detailing my loaned tuition. Its payments were deferred until the conclusion of my studies. Graduation or expulsion, make or ruin. I could not afford the payments on a warehouse wage, regardless of Prava's generosity.
The closer I drew, the worse my gut ached. I was anxious, nearing my proving ground.
Bloom, Le Jardin Essentiel. The University shone atop Scintille's central hill in a perpetual cloudbreak, the Corpusculaire.
Twelve slender towers, wrapped in a kaleidoscope of floral stained glass windows, rose above red stone walls. I strolled through a class of grade-school children working at easels with watercolors. Cora and I attended a similar field trip, only to have our creations ruined in a downpour on the trek home. Hers still hung in her room, dappled and warped.
Throngs of tourists, peddlers, and cheats lined the surrounding streets. A line spilled from the gate, other freshmen armed with marigold envelopes in one hand and leashes in the other. An unmistakable crop of short crimson curls stood near the lines' end, Reilin Durough. I spun.
Not risking a conversation with that bitch.
Halfway to the nearest alleyway, a glimmer of light caught my eyes, and then my legs. At the end of her leash, a lash of braided scarlet leather, sat a charm. As small as a pebble, gold spun around a well-polished diamond.
You already bound an esprit?
After weighing the consequences of finding a brick to toss at her head, I filled my chest with air and entered the queue. She stood with her shoulders back, in a lacy red dress. Reilin's father, Regis Durough, held the lordship of Scintille.
Her outward appearance marked the distinction, but her personality repulsed, and now an Esprit hung at her side.
Of course, she wouldn't wait for instruction like the rest of the class; instead, she undoubtedly had a private tutor guide her through the process. It was her standard, buying advantage over her peers.
Quit buckling, you'll make it up. Besides, she's on your list.
My draft list lay at the bottom of my pack, a ranking of the girls we'd grown up with. Tacticiennes held the privilege of assembling their équipe in a round robin draft following the evening commencement. My list was a working document that I'd been preparing for years, marked with contingencies and revised numerous times. Each name held subrankings of talent, drive, compatibility, and personal interest.
At its top was Cora, a sentimental pick. I rationalized her as an emotional anchor, needed support through the trials I faced.
Close to the end was Reilin, a conditional pick. She placed high in the category of interest; the desire was there, desire to break her down and make her admit what she wanted, what she'd teased at.
From the look of the charm, her esprit was of low rank, likely an Ace. That wasn't surprising; bonding anything higher carried risk.
I closed my eyes and focused. If you squeezed your brow tight enough, you could often catch a glimpse of one.
In the black space where Reilin stood, a Carillon hovered. She was petite, nude, with smoothed nipples and crotch. Esprit forms were in many ways mutable, and they contoured them to their liking.
She looked like a moving glass statue, her lengthy hair billowing with tinkling beads capable of detecting minute shifts in currents of air.
She'd have sensed the brick; plan needs revision.
Reilin had tracked down an unbound, a dangerous and desperate entity, engaged it, and brought it to climax. The process was similar to a tether, like Cora and I had developed, but one-sided. Either they finish first and submit, opening themselves to your essence, or you do, and are left at their mercy.
Even with help, things could have turned south. The stupid cunt could have wound up an emotionless husk.
With a huff, I let daylight return, squinting at my former schoolyard aggressor. I fell for that honeypot once, had my hand trapped, and left humiliated. Then I swore not to let her do it again. She wore a pristine outfit, making its debut appearance. Much to my chagrin, that meant the fashionable little shit would often be found in an uncomfortable pair of shoes.
Today, she fucked up. Oblivious to the line that appears here every single year, she strapped on a pair of polished, snow white stiletto heels. One of which now hung from her thumb as she wobbled on the other, rubbing a blistered ankle.
Well-worn boots deserve a better reputation.
"Walk much?" The words spilled from me before I thought better of them. Turning, she lost balance and dropped her leg to let those virgin toes kiss commoner pavestone.
Nose wrinkled, she looked ready to spit.
Hope loomed over her shoulder, a second chance to prove to her how she truly shaped up.
"Oh, Serica! I thought I caught a whiff of desperation." She said, reaching to flick a pebble from her heel.
"That's called sweat, it's how some of us get ahead." I rang back, a bit too loud, and caught the attention of a few girls I didn't recognize.
"Sweat, huh?" She said with a pout, "I'll remember that, in case I ever need to plow a baker girl in a bathhouse. That's what you used?"
Eat shit.
My cheeks burned. Her retort drew the eyes of a few others in the queue; they looked like they'd just stumbled upon a coughed-up hairball. Internally, I ran through five or six potential responses, my fists clenched at my sides, but the weight of the debt in my shirt pocket held me at bay.
"Funny."
"You think?" Reilin said and drew close. Her voice dropped so low I could barely make it out, "I think it's disgusting."
Her breath was cinnamon and cardamom, spilling from cherry red, pouty lips. The pipsqueak had her chin tilted up, her shoulders angled from her uneven footing.
She continued, "You know it's bound to get out; better to tear off the scab, let everyone know what you really are."
I loathed to admit it, but she was right. I couldn't build a house on a shaky foundation. The bathhouse was a matter of public knowledge; it was best to own it.
Or share the embarrassment.
"Go on then." I placed my hands on her shoulders and wrenched her around to face the crowd, issuing a shrill whistle.
"Get your hands-" she glowered, prissy, over her shoulder, then turned to a swath of appraising eyes.
"Lord Durough's daughter has an announcement." I held firm.
You chose to take it this far, live in it.
Reilin shirked, rolling her shoulder out of my grasp, "I..."
Among the crowd were familiar faces from lycée, already aware of the incident with Cora. Three held a place in my personal ranking.
Twenty-two, Allison Tems, fencing team co-captain, blonde, wiry, reckless.
Seven, Amélie Lavigne, tri-medal gymnast, black, fit, kind.
Fourty-eight, Vivienne Abadie, student, brown, small, drew porn.
"You wanted to share your thoughts on what's under my skirt," I said too loudly.
"Alright- Serica, very funny."
I considered pushing it further, but held myself back. Cora lived in this as well, and I wouldn't force her hand like that if it could be helped. Reilin caught my message. If I was getting dirty, we both were.
"My mistake," I patted her shoulder. Anonymity returned quickly. No one gave a damn; I needed to remember that.
The hue of her cheeks nearly matched her hair.
"Flustered?"
"Of course not," she slipped her heel back onto her foot, "You're the one who should be embarrassed."
"Miss Trumonde," a voice called from the gate, rich with authority.
Reilin and I turned and immediately snapped up straight at the sight of Professeur Titulaire Illia Courin.
I knew her by sight. She'd delivered many of the addresses at the Podium des Champions, where each class's Première Équipe was lauded at year's end. The woman was all dark-brown waves and emerald curves; pale skin bound in a velvet dress with a slit that rose to her hip.
"With me," she said, and turned back inside. I gave no pause, walking at a speedy clip.
She heard.
I ran through the code of conduct in my head, trying to recall any infraction my interaction with Reilin may have incurred. The rules covered a wide range of topics, including skirt length, hygiene, and two lists of acceptable locations for recreational activities, one for peer students and the other for Esprit.
I paused in my advance, allowing an upperclassman, denoted by the iris pin on her collar, to pass through the gate with my head bowed. Aloof, she paid me zero mind. Deference was another piece of the puzzle. Bloom taught its students to provide it, and then to expect it. She could have had me stop on the spot and submit to an inspection of my undergarments if she so desired.
Surely mentioning my under-skirt didn't qualify as a shameful display?
As always, the gardens thrived, a vibrant palette of colorful oversized petals, lazy bumblebees, and book-bound upperclassmen. One such student lay in a grassy clearing, chatting with an azure-skinned Esprit sitting cross-legged at her side. The air was warm and rich with a floral fragrance that varied from garden to garden.
"My problem child," Illia said as I caught up to her. My throat seized.
I couldn't make it through the gate without-
"I hope you're prepared to earn your station," she said, curling lips painted in a green dark enough to be mistaken for black.
"I-yes," In the days preceding, I practiced this speech many times before Prava's mirror, but now it bubbled from me in jumbled bursts, "My- I understand my compromised position- more than ready to make up-"
Her leash, a silver chain punctuated with various gemstones, was tied around her wide hips. Its handle, an ornate rolling length of the same metal, sat on the cleft of her generous rear end. I fought my eyes to avoid it, but they returned, and returned. She wrapped a hand back to brush it and said, "Sirop." With that, a pulse of amber light ran through the chain's length, back to her hand.
When her fingers left the leash, tipped in that same dusky green, they carried that light with them. She tapped one to my forehead, and the result was instant. The campus turned sepia, and my thoughts slowed.
"Easy, this is no tribunal. Would you like to repeat yourself?"
The clamor of my inner monologue now rolled, the heady scent of her perfume lingered on my nose, and my words came calm, "Thank you. Please be assured that I'm prepared to dedicate myself wholeheartedly to my studies. I know that recent events have-"
"I require no apology, and am familiar with said events, as are the faculty at large."
Of course.
The campus was simple to traverse, a circular ring of towers, each with its windows showcasing a single color in prominence, surrounding a central auditorium with a domed brass roof and administrative offices along its circumference.
"I hope you can understand that I do not hold you in low regard," she said, leading me through the auditorium's entrance. Its halls were spacious, with polished wooden slats composing its walls and vaulted ceilings. Its floors were gray marble speckled with blue.
"To the contrary, I advocated for your placement. Your unique anatomy holds relevance to my work."
My stomach clenched. The way she spoke made me feel small, less of a person, and more of a subject. We approached a door etched with her name, and she slid a key into its lock.
I don't want to be a project.
Within her office sprawled comfy leather chairs and a chaise, a polished mahogany desk that dwarfed her, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Soft, colorful light wreathed a curtain drawn across the curved outer wall. The space was secluded, plush, and dark; the implication was unmistakable.
"I won't let it become an issue. I believe I understand Bloom's stance," I said, hoping that would satisfy her. Despite my reluctance, the focus of our conversation, my anatomy, was stiffening.
"That you pose a reputational risk." Illia stopped behind a chair and gestured for me to sit.
I nodded, lowered slowly, and placed my hands in my lap, igniting sparks, "Yes."
"I'm glad you recognize that, though it isn't the whole picture," she said, and my neck prickled as her hand slid the chair's back.
Above me, behind me, her words were soft but landed like hammer strikes. "Once bonded, an Esprit assumes the gender of its bond-mate. Within bonds, they are binary entities, of masculine or feminine polarity."
I winced, and she placed her hand to the side of my throat, "Without a strong identity to attach to, bonds can grow unstable and shatter."
Her sepia magic was gone; my thoughts raced. Throughout my life, the rule was that men had male Esprit and women had female; I'd always assumed I'd fall into the latter category.
And shattering?
"Were it just your bonds at stake, Bloom would take little notice; however, a shatter can carry immaterial backlash, running along tethers. Do you follow?" she asked, and pinched my earlobe between thumb and forefinger.
Cora. Yes, I followed. I was an accident waiting to happen, one that could wreck both of our academic careers.
I held no recourse but to agree, pressing firm against my skirt, begging my button not to snap.
"Good. Ainset, we're ready for you," she said, tugging my ear as she sat down against her desk. The air at her side shimmered, brass in hue, solidifying into a lithe, wiry Esprit with her hand tucked between her thighs.
A bent bar was set across her shoulders, each end set with a hanging tray. Her wrought-brass hair hung in long curls; her voice warbled like a bell. "Mmmh, this is the invitée?"
My cheeks burned. She was brazen, the nipples of her teardrop breasts erect, with unsmoothed genitals. A jagged crack ran through her form, beginning at her shoulder and ending under her left tit. Essential pressure rolled from it in waves.
"Oui, Miss Serica Trumonde. Serica, this is Ainset, an unbound Esprit and university associate. She graces our halls out of personal interest."
Ainset let the scale roll from her shoulders, where its bar hung lazily in the air, and extended her other, limp hand, which I clasped politely with my right, keeping my left to my lap.
As I let go, she returned those fingers to her mouth and purred, "Cranberry." A shudder ran through her form, and her hips rolled to the sound of laborious schlking.
Unbound Esprit were notoriously debauched, and Ainset delivered on the reputation. Propriety was another aspect they took on within a bond. Her presence here was an abnormality. Most Esprit within Scintille had been bound, and those that hadn't rarely made their presence known.
She circled my shoulder, "I could roll you across my tongue all day."
Illia clacked a fingertip between her teeth, "Tart, that's cute. I took her in a similar regard."
With the side of her head, she nudged Ainset's bar, "Would you please perform your appraisal? Masculine or feminine?"
The Esprit opened her mouth and took in air, as the bar set back upon her shoulders. It felt like wind upon my skin, pulling at me, but my hair and clothes did not billow. In the bar's trays, brass balls, each the width of a thumb, appeared and rolled, the left side's growth well outpacing the right.
"Feminine, " Ainset said, sinking to her knuckles in her brass cleft. My body was in full heat, ready to grab her by the shoulders. I mustered every last drop of control in my body to stay seated.
The high-hanging tray wasn't empty. What did that mean? Did those balls represent my actions with Cora, how my peers saw me, or something internal?
Ainset closed her eyes tight and the balls dissipated, her shoulders rose and fell, and her lips pulled into an O.
Reaching with a pen I'd not seen her produce to add a note to the end of a pad of paper at her side, Illia said, "The results of this examination were promising; you placed well within the limits my peers agreed to."
Great...
"Ainset, you agree? You're prepared to retread these waters?" A soft thunk punctuated the question, Illia setting down her pen.
What do you mean?
The brass Esprit lowered its face forward and met me eye to eye. Her features were angular, yet plump enough to entice; her nose curved almost to a point. She placed a palm to my cheek, cold and only slightly yielding, "I would like to proceed."
"Oui. Then, Serica, we need to discuss your probationary status," Illia picked up her notepad and scribbled while she spoke, "On the matter of enforcement, you will form a bond with Ainset, who will monitor your polarity and adherence to the code of conduct, reporting to me daily."
Her statement sparked both thrill and trepidation. It was a chance to even the playing field with Reilin. She'd braved this, and I doubted someone of Illia's prestige would let things turn sour.
Ainslet's brass eyes, like balls of liquid metal, held my gaze locked, "No underclassmen creampies, those are only for me."
"Do you accept?" Illia asked, as Ainset pulled her hand away and clasped it with her other at the apex of her thighs, showcasing her breasts with a subtle grin.
My cock brooked no argument, growing hotter within my harness, my initial trepidation grew more and more distant. This excited me.
Besides, I had little choice; I chose this path, and now I would walk it.
I gave one internal apology before crossing the line.
This will make things impossible with Cora...
"I do."
"In the event of your failing, the two of you will undergo the process of forced bond-shatter within a controlled environment."
You could have mentioned that first.
The term pulled a wince from Ainset, which bore zero reassurance.
"Understood."
"Excellent." Illia swung her legs across her desk and settled into her chair, "Then there's no time like the present, I give you two the room."
What the fuck? Now?
A tug hit my chest, Cora, thinking of me. Ainset rounded to my ear, her voice hungry, "Don't worry, I'm a veteran."