Dr. Zelvetti's pubic hair was salted with white; her skin was the color of coffee. She had breasts like pillows, capped with prominent, chocolate-colored nipples. She was a large, heavy woman, but she carried herself with grace. In her curves, the svelte lines of her body, the fullness of her breasts and buttocks and hips, we saw the mother goddess, the nurturing female who birthed us, bathed us, watched us grow, let us go—the eternal mother, watching over us in benign complacence, arms and bosoms always ready to receive us home.As soon as the assembly ended (the orchestra and choir packing up and heading back to the music building), I caught Dr. Zelvetti's attention. Brandon, clearly having picked up my mood, backed me up. He was muttering to himself in abject shock: "She referenced me! Jesus fucking Christ, she referenced me! In front of the parents!" Ah, you two," Dr. Zelvetti said, clearly unperturbed by her lack of clothes, by the variety of looks the parents gave her. "I need. Daughter wasn't a term of familiarity that I'd heard in common use. I thought it must be the truth and the idea of being presented in this fashion to Mistress Atsumi's father was almost distressing to me. There was no practical experience I could draw upon to give their relationship context. My own father was an insurance adjuster, he knew as much about my personal relationships as I did about brain surgery. But Mistress Atsumi and her father seemed to be much more intimate than that."This is what I would like for her." Mistress Atsumi said, handing the man a piece of paper covered with kanji in her delicate script.Keiyu looked over the note carefully, rubbing his beard at one point. "Have you discussed this with her?" He looked at Atsumi hard, reminding me of the way my father looked at me when he thought I was making a mistake."No. I don't have to, she's my slave." Mistress Atsumi tugged the leash and I dropped to my knees in response. "She will accept what I ask of her." She's not.
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