Shame: Sophmore Year, First Semester

By Ashley Zacharias

Sadhbh O’Roark, our favorite socially incompetent sexual masochist, comes back to university to begin her sophomore year. She spent the summer devising a devilish plan to torture herself in a most erotic way. Now she has to recruit people with the skills to execute her plan. She will suffer whatever humiliation is required to satisfy them and herself. But no amount of shame is ever enough for Sadhbh. As soon as she has thoroughly dominated herself by turning her own sexual needs against herself, she looks for men who will go even further. And finds them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley Zacharias
• Release date: Oct 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005682262

Ashley Zacharias

I am a post-modern woman who lives a vanilla life but fantasizes about adventures in masochism. I appreciate readers who purchase my books but, more than money, I need your honest response to my writing. Review my books or contact me at ashleyzacharias.com and let me know what you think of my stories. Good or bad, as long as you are not indifferent, your honest response will help me to write more and better stories.You can find my thoughts about my own stories athttp://ashleyzachariascommentary.wordpress.com/Yours, Ashley

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

By the time I started my second year of university, I had a plan to torture myself in a most delicious way. I’d spent all summer thinking about it while I was working at Dad’s gas station in Temecula. When you’re sitting behind the cash one hot August afternoon after another, you get lots of time to dream about what you’d like to do when you get back to school. And when you’re a sexual masochist like me, you dream about doing things to yourself. Weird, kinky, shameful things. Things that will humiliate and degrade you. Physically and psychologically painful things. For me, that meant thinking of ways to give up control of my own body. Though not necessarily by simply giving control of my body to someone else. My plan was more devious than that.

You’re going to think my plan was extreme because it was. That’s what I liked about it. The more bizarrely I torture myself, the more it excites me sexually.

We’re friends, right? So, I can confess that I spent more than a few hours locked in my room, imagining what I was going to do to myself and getting myself off. My poor pussy was constantly wet and aching for relief. And when I fingered myself into ecstasy, the relief was only temporary. Within the hour, I was invariably thinking about how to revise and refine my plan and getting myself hot all over again.

It was a vicious cycle of lust and self-pleasure that I wanted never to end.

But it would. No question about it. That’s what made each orgasm so precious.

When September finally rolled around, I packed my stuff into Old Reliable, my trusty, rusty Yaris, and cruised down Fifteen to take up residence in my old room at the edge of the City University of San Diego campus.

There I considered my masochistic plan once more. Now that I was here, the only question was whether I had the courage to actually do it. Could I really force myself to undergo the drastic change I’d planned? Did I have the courage? I hoped I did. I’d convinced myself I did. But I would find out for sure soon enough.

My plan would require expert assistance, but that should be no problem. Universities are filled with professors and graduate students who have expertise up the ying-yang. All I had to do was find the right people and convince them to help me out.

When you’re a sexual masochist, you have ways to convince men to help you that normal, ordinary women can’t imagine. Or maybe they could imagine it, but they’d never dare make their dark dreams reality because they could never tolerate the humiliation.

I can.

CHAPTER TWO

Ruby texted: I’m back in San Diego. Coffee?

Great. When?

Anytime. Soon.

Now? The Good Mugger?

On my way.

Ten minutes later, I was in our favorite coffee shop. My best friend, a girl who’d grown up in Death Valley, of all places, was hugging me. God, I missed you.

Me too. It’s great to see you again. That was the plain truth. I have no social skills and couldn’t care what anyone thinks about me, so I never feel any need to lie. Not to save anyone else’s feelings, nor to save myself from embarrassment. It’s a character trait that sometimes causes me considerable difficulty, but it has an upside. When I tell a friend I’m happy to see her, she knows I’m not just saying that to be polite. I’m one-hundred percent sincere.

We drifted toward the counter. Have you heard from Gail?

Not for a couple of weeks. You?

Not a word. I texted her a couple of times, but I didn’t get a reply.

Same here. I wonder what’s up with that?

Ruby frowned. I can’t imagine, but I’m a bit worried about her. I hope nothing’s wrong.

Nothing’s wrong! At least not terribly wrong! A familiar voice caught our attention.

We both spun to see Gail framed in the doorway.

Gail! Ruby and I rushed to hug her but stopped dead in our tracks when we saw the cast on her arm.

Ruby pointed to it. What’s that?

Gail smiled and cocked her head. You want to sign my cast?

I want to know what happened.

I wrecked my Dad’s pickup. It wasn’t my fault. A stupid heifer walked out into the road. Jerseys hardly have a brain in their head. I stopped, but some idiot in a short bed with a crew cab came roaring around the cow on my side of the road and plowed right into me. You can’t trust guys in those short-bed crew cabs. City guys. They get the short bed because they don’t use their trucks for any real work, and they need the crew cab because they got to carry their whole family around in their truck. What they really want is a family sedan, but that’s not cool enough for a wannabe cowboy from the big city. This idiot was driving a Cadillac Escalade, which ices the cake for sure. No respectable ranch hand is ever going to drive an Escalade pickup around the feed lot, which is why Cadillac stopped making them a few years ago. There’s one fewer Escalade on the road now, thanks to that heifer. The idiot not only totaled his own truck, he totaled Dad’s One-Fifty, too. Anyway, the stupid airbag went off and broke my phone and my arm.

At least it didn’t break your head.

Yeah. Better to have an airbag than not, even if it does break your phone.

So, what happened to the other guy?

The idiot? God protects drunks and fools, right? He walked away without a scratch. She smiled. I’ve been dating him for the past couple of weeks.

Ruby smiled. Are you sure you didn’t damage your brain in the crash?

I’m sure. I got an X-ray. But don’t worry. Me and him aren’t going to last. I need someone who’s smart enough not to drive an Escalade pickup. Besides, he has a family back in Portland, Oregon.

He’s married?

Sort of. Separated. Heading for divorceville. That’s why he was in Nebraska. He doesn’t want to be in the same state as his ex. It’s complicated.

And what part of all that made you think he’d be a good guy to date?

Don’t judge me. Pickings are slim in west Nebraska. She looked around the old coffee shop and smiled happily. Boy, am I glad to be back in San Diego.

We’re glad to have you back. But you could have answered our texts.

She shook her head. Sorry about that, but I couldn’t. Like I told you, the idiot broke my phone when he ran into me. She waved a new phone at us. I was up in Fashion Valley at the Apple store getting a new one this morning. It was easier to wait until I moved here to replace my phone than to get one shipped to Valentine, Nebraska. Now I’ve got a California phone. Latest model. Everyone back home is going to be jealous. I just got off the trolley when I saw your texts about coming for coffee, so I came on over. She looked at the barista waiting behind the counter. So, are we going to order coffee or what?

It was great to be back with my friends again. It felt so natural, it was like we’d never been apart.

We chatted about our summer and classes over our lattes for a while, then Gail asked me if I was going to start giving performances for the frat boys again.

She was talking about my sex shows, and the way she and Ruby stared at me while waiting for an answer made me realize they’d been thinking about that ever since we’d parted ways at the beginning of summer. Nah. Been there, done that. I’m not saying I’m never going to do it again. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll put on some kind of show, but it won’t be drawing lots for blowjobs and rolling dice for spankings. That’s last year’s thing. I don’t need to do it again.

Gail nodded. That’s probably just as well.

Ruby smiled. But there’s going to be a hell of a lot of frustrated, unhappy frat bros on campus this year. I bet they spent half the summer jerking off, dreaming about getting a chance for one of your famous blowjobs. I can already hear the sighs of disappointment blowing up from Fraternity Row.

Gail laughed. That’s no summer breeze, my dear. There’s going to be a hurricane of disappointment sweeping across campus. Class five at least.

I smiled. I’ve got a plan. I was just going to amuse myself, but maybe I should share it with the guys, just to give them something else to jerk off about.

What plan?

I’m not telling. I have to get everything set up first. But it’s something completely different. No blowjobs or spankings involved. But you know what?

What?

It might drive the boys to whole new levels of frustration. Epic levels of horny frustration.

Ruby looked at me with wide eyes. Come on. Give us a hint.

I shook my head. Not even a hint. Not until it’s a done deal.

The girls looked stricken. Come on. We’re your best friends.

That you are. Their sad faces moved me. Okay. Maybe one hint. But you’re not going to be happy with it.

They stared at me and waited.

You know how I’m a virgin. Everyone says I’m the biggest slut on campus, but I’ve never actually been fucked. I’ve given a lot of blowjobs, but no man has ever stuck his dick in my precious pussy.

Yes?

That’s not going to change.

Gail shook her head in annoyance. That’s not a hint.

I smiled more broadly. Sure, it is. It’s the heart of my plan. When you see me do what I’m going to do, you’ll understand. Until then, you’re just going to have to be patient.

CHAPTER THREE

When I’d told Ruby and Gail I had a plan, it felt like I’d crossed a bridge and burned it behind me. Now I had to do something dramatic or they’d be disappointed. And I could think of nothing more dramatic than the plan I’d spent all summer formulating.

Nothing happened for a few days. I was too busy with my new classes. Over the summer, in between getting myself off and working at the gas station, I’d spent a lot of time on the web, looking at different possible majors. I’d narrowed my choices down to three: biology, psychology, or literature. I’d debated about visual art but decided against it. I didn’t have to get a degree to be a performance artist.

The problem was that I hadn’t taken any courses in biology or psychology, so I’d enrolled in both of those. And I was taking another lit course. To fill out my schedule, I was also taking an anthropology course, mostly because someone had told me I’d enjoy it.

One thing hadn’t changed over the summer. When I walked across campus as a sophomore, I got the same stares and whispers as I’d been getting before the summer recess. The older students were bringing the incoming freshman students up to speed about the campus slut.

At the end of the week, I got an email from some guy called Bert Hansen. He introduced himself as the new president of Alpha Mu Zeta and said he’d like to continue their tradition of hosting my artistic performances.

The email had been sent to an address I’d created specifically for this purpose: [e-mail]. That account had been set up to forward all email to my regular address, so I didn’t have to log into that account to see it, but I did have to log in to reply. I tried to keep my sexual performances as anonymous as I could. It wasn’t possible to be totally anonymous. Most of my classmates didn’t know my name because I never introduced myself, even when they struck up conversations with me.

I replied to Bert’s email promptly. I didn’t intend to offer regular performances this year as I had done last year. However, I was considering offering an occasional special if they were interested. Nothing would happen soon, but I’d be happy to let him know when I’d decided to do something. Then we’d see if Alpha Mu Zeta was interested in hosting it.

At the beginning of the second week, I had my classes under control, so I was ready to get my latest art project underway. I spent a weekend on the web, reading about biomedical engineering and the research on medical devices at various university labs. I didn’t get a nice, solid feeling about anything, but I got a few ideas about places to start.

On Monday afternoon, after my biology lecture, I walked over to the engineering school and wandered around, locating the bioengineering labs and poking my head in doors, not bothering anyone, just looking to see if anything interesting was happening.

Mostly, it was a wasted effort because all of the doors to the labs were locked. When people went in, they took cards from their pockets and swiped them to open the doors.

After walking the halls for a quarter of an hour, I was about to give up. But my notoriety came to my rescue. A student who was walking down the hall toward me suddenly stopped in front of me and stared at me through glasses that magnified his eyes to a frightening size. You’re the girl from Alpha Mu Zeta, right?

I shook my head. There are no girls from Alpha Mu Zeta. It’s a fraternity. All the members are boys. They have like rules about that.

No, no. I know you’re not a frat bro. I mean, you’re the girl who was putting on all those shows last year.

They weren’t shows. They were performance art. It was an art project. I’m an artist.

Whatever. It was hot. You’re the hottest girl on campus.

Thank you.

Can I have your autograph? He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and shoved it at me, along with a book he was carrying. He kept his pens in a pocket protector. The boy was a walking cliché. I half expected him to have a slide rule somewhere on his person. As in: Are you happy to see me, or is that a slide rule in your pocket? I know. No engineer has used a slide rule in last fifty years, but stereotypes die hard, even in Southern California.

I glanced at the book. The Elements of Blood Flow Mechanics. The boy was definitely a bioengineering student.

I shook my head. Sorry, I don’t do autographs. I don’t have a name to sign. I’m an anonymous artist.

He shook his head slowly as though he were trying to clear the fog of a bad hangover. I don’t get it. You don’t have a name? Everyone has a name.

I have a name as a person, but not a name as an artist. You know how some artists like Banksy have pseudonyms?

His name isn’t Banksy? This guy wasn’t too quick off the mark. At least not when it came to artists.

His name as an artist is Banksy, but that’s not his legal name. That’s just the name he uses when he presents himself to the world as an artist.

Okay. He was waiting for me to get to the point.

I’m the same way. I have a legal name and an artist name which is different from my legal name. Except my artist name is a null set.

Oh. Comprehension dawned in his magnified eyes. He didn’t understand art, but he understood math. "Um. You want to just write, Null Set, in my book?"

"No thanks. That would kind of defeat the purpose of not having a name, wouldn’t it? To sign Null Set as though it were my name would make those words my de facto name."

I guess. He looked disappointed as he slid his pen back into his pocket protector.

So, are you a biomechanical engineer?

Kind of. I have an undergraduate degree in mechanical engineering from Cal Tech. If I got some work experience and took the certification exams, I’d officially be entitled to call myself an engineer, but I haven’t bothered. I came straight from Cal Tech to the Ph.D. program here because I’m more interested in doing research than getting some mundane engineering job. Someday, I’ll get my certification, but I’m in no hurry. It’s not important while I’m still a graduate student.

He spoke like I should care about all the bureaucratic hoops engineers had to jump through. All I cared about was whether he could help me. You might be just the guy I need to talk to.

His face glowed when I said that. I’d be happy to help you any way I can.

My next art project is going to require a new kind of medical device and I’m looking for someone who can give me some advice about designing it, and maybe know how to build it.

A medical device? Like a machine?

No. More like an implant. Kind of.

Like silicone implants? He stared at my tits. They’re already a nice size, but I was pretty sure he was imagining them becoming a lot bigger and not being nearly so droopy.

No. Like steel implants. And not in my breasts.

I don’t understand.

That’s because I haven’t explained what I want to do. Is there some place we can talk in private?

The hallway was definitely not private. Students and professors were staring at us as they walked past. I was famous here. Everyone on campus stared at me.

I thought I was socially inept, but this nerd had me beat. He was too oblivious to notice the stares.

I have an office just down the hall.

He escorted me there.

I closed the door and took a seat. First, you have to agree that you won’t tell anyone. At least, not until after my project is finished and I’ve publicly presented what I’ve done to myself.

Okay. I can keep a secret. Do you want me to sign a non-disclosure agreement?

I don’t know what that is.

It’s a legal document that says I won’t tell anyone what you tell me. It’s legal, so that means you can sue me if I blab.

I don’t think that’s necessary. You only have to keep it a secret for a little while. Maybe only for a couple of weeks, if I can get the device manufactured and installed that quickly. My stomach churned when I thought about how soon this could happen.

No problem. Like I said, I can keep a secret.

Okay. Then I explained what I wanted to do.

When I finished, he was staring at me like I was crazy. Are you kidding?

No. I’m dead serious.

You really want to do that to yourself?

"I’m a sexual masochist. Want is a complicated word for me. I’m going to hate having this done to my body. It’s going to make my life miserable in a way that I find quite delicious. So, the answer is that I want this done to me mainly because I don’t want to have it done to me. Does that answer your question?"

He stared at me for a minute, trying to parse what I just said and failing. Finally, he said, The bottom line is that you want someone to design the device and install it.

I sure do. My heart began pounding as I said the words. This was really going to happen, and that terrified me.

I’m not the guy you need.

What?

I don’t design the kind of device you’re talking about. My expertise is blood flow. Specifically, the ways blood cells get damaged by artificial heart valves and mechanical pumps. I could design the device you just described, no problem about that. It’s not a complicated thing, though it does have a couple of tricky bits. But I can’t advise you about what adverse side effects you might encounter after it’s installed. It wouldn’t be ethical for me to participate in this project if there’s a chance that my ignorance and lack of experience could cause you permanent damage or worse.

I should be relieved that he was saving me from doing something that might be a serious mistake, but I was annoyed that he was thwarting my attempt to torture myself in a subtle, sublime way for the next few years. But I want to do this. I’ll be taking all the responsibility. It’s my idea, so if anything goes wrong, it’ll be my fault, not yours.

No. I’m the engineer. It would definitely be my fault if you suffered damage from a failure in design or execution.

I can make it worth your while. Not financially, but I could make you feel real good about helping me out. I looked pointedly at his crotch. He had to know I was talking about giving him a blowjob for his efforts. Even he wasn’t that oblivious.

He shook his head sadly. The thing is, I’m not the guy you should be talking to. You should be talking to Dirk Norton. He designs surgical tools and implants. He knows way more about the kind of device you want than I do. I can introduce you to him.

There was hope for me after all. I’d appreciate that.

How much?

A lot. Does your door lock?

It does.

I locked the door. Then returned and sank to my knees in front of him. I hadn’t sucked a cock in months. It felt good to fill my mouth with a man, but after I swallowed his emissions, I was left dissatisfied. I felt no shame. No humiliation or degradation. I’d done this too often. Sucked off too many strangers. I no longer felt any thrill because I didn’t feel like I was being used. To the contrary, I felt like I was using him.

As if to prove my point, as soon as I finished, he zipped up and said, Let’s go find Dirk.

Sure. But I didn’t move to follow him. I had an idea. Wait. You got a clean piece of paper?

He fetched a sheet out of the printer hopper.

And your pen?

He pulled it from his pocket protector and handed it to me.

I wrote: The bearer of this certificate is entitled to one free blowjob, any time, any place. Send a text with the words, ‘blow me’ and a location to 619-555-0633, and I will come to you as soon as physically possible. The only restriction is that the location must be safe and private.

His eyes grew wide when he read it. Really?

Redeem it any time you want. Or give it to someone else if you prefer. It’s up to you.

He got tears in his eyes. Literal tears.

One other thing, though.

What’s that?

I’m special. Don’t ever expect any other woman to do anything like this. You’ll never get a girlfriend if you treat other women the way I’m letting you treat me.

I have a girlfriend already.

He hadn’t mentioned that before. Not that I cared or would have demurred. His unfaithfulness was his problem not mine. Then you better be careful to put that where she won’t find it.

I almost laughed. His fear that his girlfriend might finding out he’d been intimate with the campus slut would keep him a lot quieter than his fear of being sued if I made him sign a non-disclosure agreement.

Right. He threw my handwritten blowjob certificate in his desk drawer.

If someone else found it in there, that was his loss. I was going to honor that certificate, no matter who texted me. All they had to do was produce it when I showed up.

That thought put a tingle in my crotch. I was going to get myself off but good tonight, knowing that I’d irrevocably promised my sexual services to some stranger. That was humiliating.

Okay. Now take me to your friend.

He grinned all the way down the hall.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dirk was a tall man with a thick reddish beard and an easy grin. What can I do you for?

The student who’d introduced us took his leave, probably because I asked him to shut the door on his way out of Dirk’s office. I never got his name, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need me to know his name to redeem his blowjob certificate. Presuming he didn’t give it away to someone else. In which case, I wouldn’t need to know that guy’s name, either.

I got down to business with Dirk. I want you to design, manufacture, and install a device in my body. It’s an art project. I swore him to secrecy, as I had with the other student, and then spent a few minutes describing what I wanted to do to myself. I ended by asking, Do you think you could do that to me?

Dirk hadn’t interrupted me while I’d been talking. He’d just listened and nodded at the appropriate points, his eyes growing wider as he came to understand what I wanted. Now it was his turn to say something. I don’t see any technical problems. Manufacturing the device won’t take long. In this lab, we make a lot of prototypes for testing. We can print parts in plastic, ceramic, or titanium. We have computer controlled milling machines that can produce stainless steel parts to tolerances of better than a ten thousandth of an inch. We can build just about anything you can imagine, and what you’ve imagined is mechanically one of the simplest devices I’ve ever designed. A second-year undergraduate could do it. He looked at me with narrowed eyes. I’ll have to take precise measurements of your anatomy, though. I’m sure you understand.

Of course. I expected that.

There is one small obstacle.

What’s that?

I can design and manufacture the device, but I can’t install it. There are laws in this state. You need someone who is properly licensed. I could be charged with assault causing bodily harm and thrown in jail if I tried to operate on you.

Assault? It’s not like you’re shooting me or beating me.

It would be like I’d be stabbing you. And poisoning you.

Poisoning me?

The anesthetic. I’m not qualified to administer even a local anesthetic.

I don’t need any anesthetic.

It’s going to hurt if you’re not anesthetized.

I can tolerate a bit of pain if you can tolerate a bit of screaming.

It’s a sensitive part of the female anatomy. It might entail more than a bit of pain.

Then I might have to scream more than a bit.

He shrugged. Okay. You can pass on the anesthetic if you choose, but I’d still be stabbing you. There’s no way around that.

Only small stabs in places that won’t be fatal and only with my permission.

It’s not a problem of your permission, or of doing too much damage, it’s a problem of my qualifications. Or lack of them. Like I said, that’s a legal issue.

Who would have the right qualifications?

I work with a couple of professors of surgery in the medical school. I’ll talk to them and see what they think about this device.

I’d appreciate that.

There was a minute of silence while we both thought about what the hell we were getting ourselves into. I’d assumed I was making the big commitment, but now I realized that anyone who helped me would be taking a significant risk as well.

When I didn’t want