Journal 13
Ruth 52
Professor of literature
- Life
- A comfortable academic salary. A book-filled house. A widow, and not a mother to the men in these pages.
- Temper
- Warm, articulate, maternal in public. Obscene in a locked office, in full sentences.
Kinks
- Adult mommy roleplay, not family
- Heavy degradation
- Late-life exhibitionism
I have taught at this university for a long time. My students in these entries are adults. Caleb is twenty-seven. I am fifty-two. I was married. I am not anymore. The house is books and a good lamp.
In public I am warm, which is a temperament, not a disguise. In the office, door locked, a graduate student who can sign his own forms calls me Mommy while he uses me. We are not related. That is the scene, not the census. The degradation is negotiated and written down, because I have graded too many men who get creative in the wrong direction. After, sometimes, the leash. Empty buildings. Night. My age on display instead of hidden in a blazer.
The blog
2 entries, newest first.
The quad is empty
We waited until the building was down to security and a few dissertations. Caleb clipped the leash to the collar under my coat. I have a key to the side hall. We are discreet the way people who like their jobs are discreet. He is twenty-seven. I will keep writing that until it bores me, and it has not bored me, because the scene is not a fog machine. The…
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Caleb is twenty-seven. He writes about Dickinson and he blushes when I say cunt, which is why I say it in complete sentences. He is not my son. He is not anyone's prop for a family. He is a grown man who asked, in email, because I told him the ask had to be in writing, to call me Mommy while he fucked me. I locked the office. I took…
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