Corrupting Our Saviors

"And this is your office," Amy said cheerfully. "Where, I assume, all the excitement will be happening." She wiggled her eyebrows, leaving no doubt to her implication.

Ivy ignored her. Her head still spun with the events of the last several hours. As, she felt, could be forgiven; it wasn't every every day one was summoned to a new world and tasked personally by an immortal and lecherous goddess to corrupt the rising saviors of a generation. And as if that weren't absurd enough, Ivy had other matters to adjust to. Namely, the very present, very difficult to ignore addition between her legs. Equipment of a very male persuasion, of which most certainly should not belong to Ivy.

And, even more uncomfortably, how said 'recently acquired equipment' related to the task the so-called Ysulla, Goddess of Sinful Indulgence, had assigned her. It would be … seeing use, to say the least.

Now, don't get her wrong. It wasn't the content of the task that had Ivy so aggrieved. The slow corruption, degradation, and conquering of prideful college-aged girls hardly was some torturous fate.

Rather, her grievances came in a different form: that she seemed to have been made a pawn. Ivy was, if anything, a stubborn girl. Independent, fiercely so. And principled – albeit not in conventional (or even moraled) ways. But principled nonetheless; she held to the convictions she made with dogged determination. And one of those convictions early on had been to be her own person, to work toward her own goals and not be somebody's subordinate.

But when it came to an immortal, immensely powerful goddess? Well. What choice did she have? She needed to obey.

A problem for later.

Again, the content of her given task didn't bother her. Rather, the fact she was forced into subservience, however generous and loose-fitting the terms seemed to be.

As for the fact she'd died and been reborn? Also to deal with later; or maybe never. With everything going on, she didn't have the faculties – or even time – to deal with existential dread, much less grief. Though there wasn't too much of that, even buried down. Her home life hadn't been great, nor had she many friends she'd be missing.

"Well, that should be it," Amy said brightly. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

Ivy glanced at her.

Amy. A sweet girl, from what Ivy had seen so far. She had a bubbly personality, endlessly exuberant, but of the type that didn't seem forced – like her cheer was genuine, that it wasn't some facade, and that somehow, she really was this excited to be showing up to work on a Monday morning. Or, Ivy corrected, whatever words this world used for days of the week. Were they the same? Probably not? How did the whole language translation thing work, anyways? Or were they speaking English? Surely not.

She could ask, if she wanted. Amy was part of all this. The one person inside of Ravenwood Academy that knew the truth: that Ivy wasn't Iverius 'the Dawning Light' Drovelia, a war-hero of unparalleled proportions, and the recently installed headmaster of this renowned academic institution.

No, Ivy was not some war-hardened veteran wielding fantastic magical abilities and single-handedly capable of leveling battlefields; she did not have six centuries of wisdom to bestow on her awe-struck alumni; nor did she even have the first idea how to run a lemonade stand, much less a massive, thousands-in-attendance, politically-influential academy like Ravenwood.

Basically, she didn't know jack shit about anything.

Only her assigned task, and what her purpose here was.

(Which, again, she had no great protestations for; merely the fact she'd been commanded to do something.)

As for the 'sir' part, the form of address Amy had given her – it just seemed to be how figures of authority were referred to, here, regardless of gender. That wasn't that unusual, she thought. Was how the military handled things, even, back on Earth. Right? Maybe. It wasn't like she'd know. She'd just been a naive college student herself, not much life experience to speak of. This body was centuries year old, despite its apparent youth, but Ivy herself was only a girl of twenty-two years. Marginally older than her students.

Maintaining this facade was going to be … a nightmare. Ysulla had assured her that by the sheer dint of authority 'the Dawning Light' held, nobody would question her, regardless of how aberrantly she behaved. And the big picture stuff, the implications of an influential war-hero's body being taken over, Ysulla herself was handling.

Why Ysulla had picked her to be her champion?

Who the fuck knew? Not Ivy, certainly. She was just some perverted college student who'd gone to sleep one night and woken in an enormous gothic castle, a curvaceous demonic goddess sitting across a grand dining table, offering new purpose in the form of the perverted corruption of college-aged girls.

Ivy barely had a clue of the small picture, much less the big.

Either way, she had a task, and not much of a choice on whether to pursue it.

"No," Ivy said finally. "Thanks for showing me around, Amy. Feel free to go …" Go what? Ivy didn't even know what her job was, really. What Ivy's own job was, what her day-to-day would look like. So she waved her hand to indicate 'whatever'.

Amy smiled – a mischievous thing, which was out of place on someone so bubbly and seemingly innocent.

(Emphasis on seemingly, Ivy suspected.)

"Okay!" she said, crossing her hands in front of herself and twisting her torso left and right. "Just, let me know if you need anything, yeah? And I mean anything. I'm here to serve, in any way you deem necessary." She gave a pointed look down at Ivy's crotch, not remotely subtle about it.

Which, yeah. That.

The enormous addition tucked away in her pants. She'd managed to forget, if just for a second.

What was the 'correct' reaction for a girl suddenly waking up with a dick? Was there such thing? Ivy was kind of at a loss to the situation; had, with a stubborn fervency, ignored the whole thing.

At least being attracted to girls wasn't new. Amy's body would have had Ivy's heart tripping over itself even back on Earth. She'd preferred girls her entire life; had never once turned her head toward a man. So at least she wasn't dealing with a sexuality crisis, even if she might be suffering a dysphoric one.

Or, maybe that was too harsh a way to put it. She was adjusting. And would adjust, she thought. 'Dysphoric' felt too exaggerated. Just, she hadn't had a moment's rest, yet, to mentally digest her new body. The meeting with Ysulla, then immediately being thrust into Amy's company, having a million details thrown at her, her backstory, the basics to how Ravenwood functioned, how Ivy needed to conduct herself in order to minimize suspicion – though she'd been assured she had a ton of wiggle room, there. It had been a lot. Overwhelming.

And, when it came to staying under the radar, beyond Amy's help and a having a goddess for a benefactor, Ivy had her own magical powers to assist.

Magic. She supposed for having been transported to a new world and having consorted with a literal goddess, magic wasn't that weird. But for her to have it? Different. Still adjusting to that revelation, as much as she was the heavy-duty equipment in her pants.

"That's fine," Ivy said, genuinely not sure what else to say – how to reject Amy's advances politely. "I'll, um, call you if I need you."

"Okie dokie," Amy said. "But seriously, feel totally free! Mistress gave me to you, so I'm yours … body, mind, and soul. But especially the 'body' part." She beamed at Ivy, waiting for a response.

Which Ivy struggled with.

"Right," she settled on. "I'll keep that in mind."

Amy winked, not dissuaded in the slightest by the lack of grace in her response, or even offended at the rejection itself. She swayed her hips back and forth as she left. It had the intended effect; Ivy couldn't tear her eyes away, even stared at the closed door for several seconds, wondering whether she should have accepted.

But she didn't move to call Amy back.

Instead, collapsed into her chair. Her forehead impacted her great mahogany desk, sticking to a piece of paper, probably some magnificently important document arbitrating the democratic relations between nations. Ravenwood was, even from the cursory background she'd been given, more important than certain kingdoms; an influential polity in its own right.

"What the hell," she muttered to herself, eyes squeezed shut and a massive headache setting in, "is going on?"