If you find the themes in this story disturbing or not to your taste, I understand, and I encourage you to stop reading. I've done my best to explore this dynamic of submission and domination in a unique way, but if it still falls into familiar patterns, I sincerely apologize. Please be kind in the comments. Positive feedback goes a long way and means more than you know. All characters depicted in this story are 18 or older. This story contains no references to minors in any sexual context.
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Chapter 1
I am an ardent diary keeper. I started keeping a diary when I was 13, and I've been doing it ever since. I follow only two rules in my diary writing: I must always tell the truth, no matter how much I hate it, and I must write every single day.
That's the reason why I can tell you all now in detail what happened during my university years. It's a bittersweet story, a story that changed my life nonetheless.
When I was 20, after an almost two-year-long marathon of exams, incessant interviews, and piles of paperwork, I secured a scholarship to a prestigious university in my city.
My family was proud of me, and I was the talk of the neighbourhood for about a month. People congratulated me whenever I went for a walk. To this day, it has been -- and perhaps will always be -- the single greatest achievement of my life.
A week before the orientation day, I moved into campus. I took three different buses to downtown from the outskirts, where I lived. With my luggage in one hand and a pillow in the other, I was quite a sight. I made it anyway, and I was completely spent when I got there.
It was all worth it. The front gate towered over me as I pulled my luggage through security. My mouth was agape. The main university building looked like the Parliament, with its whitewashed walls and round domes. There were marble statues everywhere, and a tree-lined walkway led me from the gate to the domintory I was assigned to.
The first year went really well. I made a few friends, got to live in my own room and kept up with my studies. And the newfound independence from not having to live with my family? It was intoxicating.
Then I met Axel--the man who would later become the centre of my life. He was one of the backbenchers, always sitting alone at the back of the auditorium, his face lit by the glow of his laptop screen. For the better part of a year, we hadn't spoken a word to each other.
From the start, I knew I didn't want to end up on his bad side. He was taller than me, with a broader frame. He hit the gym regularly although he didn't have that lean, chiseled look most gym guys go for. He was more burly than athletic.
I later found out that while Axel and I were technically in the same year at university, he was actually three years older than me. It was a spine injury from deadlifting that had set him back. He'd spent those extra years in rehab, slowly working his way back to full strength. Now, his spine was completely healed, and apart from slight back pain from sitting too long, he did not have any symptoms.
We started hanging out in class, and at first, it was genuinely pleasant to talk to him. I dropped some of the friends I had already made to hang out more and more with him. He took me to different cafés, restaurants, and sometimes even bars. Since I didn't have a car, I was truly grateful that he was taking me along with him to those places.
But as I got to know him better, my feelings began to change. I once saw him forcing a quiet student to do his part of a seminar presentation. It didn't sit well with me, but I stayed silent. Another time, I caught him using racial slurs toward an immigrant student, a genuinely kind person, which made me feel deeply sad. It hurt to see someone so decent receive such hate.
Axel also looked down on the fact that I came from a poor family and often made rude comments about my background. He acted astounded when he learned that my family did not own a car.
However, the worst thing about him was his harassing comments about my older sister: they always made me really uncomfortable. Whenever I tried to change the subject, he always made a point of pressing me for more and more details about her.
It kept escalating, until one evening, he crossed a line.
"Does she have great tits?" he asked, his stupid ass planted on my pillow, his head resting against the headboard of my bed. I had already told him to sit somewhere else and that I did not appreciate him sitting on my one-and-only pillow, but he did not listen and kept pressuring me about my sister.
"No, I don't wanna talk about that," I replied, sitting on what little space was left on the bed. The only thing that was pissing me off more than his disrespect for my sister was his boots on my sheets. I tried to push his feet away from my bed but he was a lot stronger than me.
Axel kicked my hand away with a sharp, deliberate motion, like I was nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing too close. I did not appreciate that, but what was I supposed to do?
He then straightened his legs just a bit, trying to find a comfortable position for them, before replying. "I bet her tits are awesome"
"Don't talk about her like that"
"Do you think she will let me touch them?"
"I told you. Don't talk about her like that."
At this point, I was starting to regret that I let him into my room. It was not like I had a choice anyway. Whenever he came knocking on my dorm door, I had to let him in. Otherwise, he would make a big scene out of it.
Our male dormitory was accessible to anyone as long as they were students of the university and of the same gender. So, he used that fact to come find me whenever he wanted. It was like having a stalker who lived with you in the same building even though his apartment was in a totally different neighbourhood.
Though an asshole, he seemed to get along with people who did not really know him for who he was. He knew a lot of people on my floor and always said he was visiting someone else when I tried to complain about him to the management a few times.
So, I could not do anything to get rid of him and instead stared at him lying on my own bed as if he owned the place.
"Why?" Axel quipped. "Is your sister a saint? I bet she is dying to let me play with her tits."
I felt indignant. I had to tell him he couldn't say vile things about someone's sister. "She wouldn't even look at someone like you, let alone be into you. You're an ugly jerk," I said.
I should have known that the last thing you want to do to a narcissist is insult them. He grabbed me by the collar and slammed me onto the bed, pressing my face into the mattress before climbing on top of me and twisting my arm behind my back. "You think that you are better than me?" He said. "Who are you calling ugly?" He put more pressure on my body as he continued. "A slut like your sister should be grateful that someone like me is interested in her."
I was scared shitless. "I'm sorry, Axel. I didn't mean it," I begged, hoping he'd just leave me alone.
The apology seemed to take the edge off. He let go of my arm and climbed off my back, and he was back to his usual self again.
For a few seconds, I remained in the same position, trying to process the pain, as he tried to convince me that he was just joking with me.
When I was composed again, he patted the bed beside him, signalling that he wanted me on that spot. Still shaken inside, I inched towards the place beside him. His face was too close to mine, but I did not want to piss him off again.
It was a warm evening, and Axel was wearing a tank top and a pair of shorts. I could feel the heat from his body and smell his musky cologne. He looked disgusting inside and out, but he had this power over me that was terrifying. I had heard of guys like him before, guys who liked to push people around and make their lives miserable if they resisted.
And there I was, in my own room, with him acting like he owned the place. A moment later, his voice echoed in the quiet room. "Do you still think that your sister is too good for me?"
