Hot Lessons

by Annie Windsor

  “So controlled by day. Such a tight-ass.” His grin widened. “But I know how to light your fires. I know how to teach the teacher—and you’re about to learn the joys of indirect application.”

  What? Is that some kind of math term? Jerk. You know I stink at numbers.

  His lips found her chin, pressing hard, forcing her head back against the limo as he trailed down across her throat, then into the hollow between her breasts.

  The hell with numbers. With math, history, everything! Please. Suck my nipples, please!

  Her pleas were wild and senseless against the gag. Alan kept up his tasting, forcing his tongue between his lips, leaving wet trails over the still-warm, still-tingling path of the wand.

  I can’t take it. Please, please, please. Suck my nipples. Bite them. Give me some relief!

  The bastard was chuckling. He settled closer to her, then stretched out, rolled toward her, and used his body weight to hold her down. Celia sighed from the grounding comfort of his weight. Those leather breeches. That rough cotton tunic.

  Barbarian…

  Without warning, the barbarian took a nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, pulling the beaded nub between his teeth, flicking it with his tongue.

  Celia thrashed. Only Alan’s weight held her in place. God, she jerked so hard she might have ripped the restraint cuffs right off the limo floor. Her clit was pulsing again, her juices flowing. She needed him to fuck her. She needed to come. She was sweating so hard she needed another damned bath.

  Alan stopped moving.

  For a few endless heartbeats, he didn’t so much as twitch.

  Then his hand moved toward the wand, which was still fixed against her wrist. He switched it on.

  The humming sensation started in Celia’s body just like before, but spread wildly along the places Alan was touching her.

  He started to release her nipple, let it scrape back between his teeth, then out of his lips just a fraction and—

  “Oh, my God!” she shrieked against the gag before she bit it nearly in two.

  That hot tingle surged back, passing from his mouth, his lips, to her nipple. His kiss was electric!

  Indirect application. Shit! I’m the wand now. I’m electric.

  He was after her other nipple now, letting the charge flow through the wand into her, heating her from the inside out, humming, buzzing, sparking as he touched her, everywhere he touched her.

  The sweet fire was indescribable.

  Celia couldn’t stop moaning and biting the penis gag, couldn’t stop shoving herself against his weight, arching her back higher, higher. He was driving her insane. He was killing her. His lips, his fingertips literally snapped and crackled on her body.

  He shifted. Eased off her. And his electric mouth was moving again, down, away from her breasts, toward her drenched, vulnerable pussy. There was nothing she could do to stop his tender assault. The hairs on her body stood at attention. Her eyes clamped shut again. The stars danced—and he was only at her belly button, at the curve of her hip, and over, closer to her most sensitive spot.

  She wanted to scream for him to stop, dare him to stop. She couldn’t catch her thoughts. They were moving too fast. She was so hot. The limo had become a sex-drenched oven, and she was boiling over.

  Storms. It smells like storms. I’m a storm…

  Alan’s lips and tongue made contact with her pussy, with her clit. Fast and sharp.

  The shock was completely out of this world. Just a split second. Total fire.

  Celia’s body spasmed as an orgasm raged through her. She knew she was screaming her throat raw, gag or no gag. Unbearable warmth. The bubbling, tingling, stinging perfection of his teeth, his mouth, his tongue. He was sucking her clit, shocking her clit with his mouth. The walls of her pussy clenched against nothing, then his fingers thrust inside, shocking her again, humming and vibrating and turning her insides into a molten flow.

  Her brain seemed to fire and flame with every quake and tremor. She couldn’t keep up, couldn’t stop the rush of blood in her ears, couldn’t stand to keep coming so hard, so fast, couldn’t stand for the body-jarring climaxes to stop, but she had to, she had to, it was so perfect, so good, so deep. So, so deep…

  Celia’s mind swam away from her. She felt like she was high above some secret black mountain, just a bird wheeling on the wind, free of her body. No concerns, no cares, no worries. Her world was only sensation, only satisfaction.

  Until the wand was switched off and a sexy, sexy voice rumbled, “Did you just have an orgasm—or several—without my permission, you naughty djinni? Well. I’ll definitely have to punish you for that.”

  Chapter Four

  An hour later, Celia sat in a leather-bottomed chair in the sumptuous library at Blackmoor Downs. She was right next to an old oak table, which was weighted with sweets, fine cuts of meat, rolls, crackers, nuts and delicacies she couldn’t even identify. Dozens of people milled around the table chatting and eating. Reggie’s butler moved in graceful arcs, offering silver trays of canapés and other delights, while his maid refilled drinks from a strategically placed moveable wet bar. Gillian Markham, a young woman Reggie had raised after her parents were killed, also played hostess, slipping in and out of the library, chatting graciously with guest after guest.

  Classical music laced softly through the conversations like a soundtrack, filling the gaps and spaces perfectly. In the castle’s other main rooms, no doubt the same scene was playing out. Reggie’s yearly soiree was in full swing.

  Celia, however, could barely move.

  When the limo had stopped, Alan had left her bound while he got undressed, then put on a dashing tux complete with tailcoat. After he finished straightening his clothes, he removed her gag, released her from her bonds and spanked her naked ass firmly for moving when he told her to be still.

  Next, he had rubbed her head-to-toe with a sweet-scented lotion, coated her nipples and pussy with more of that heat-inducing cream, then instructed her to dress in a beautiful green silk gown he had brought for her.

  The bodice held her breasts high without being immodest, and pulled her in sharply at the waist. Its long, silky folds tumbled all the way to her ankles, covering the delicate matching heels he provided.

  We can’t give the appearance of impropriety at professional events, now can we?

  Yep. That’s what he said, right before he handed her the underwear.

  If it could be called underwear.

  It was more like a leather strap around her belly with a single slick rope that ran between the lips of her pussy, right across her clit. And whatever he put on that damned rope—she thought it might burn her alive.

  I was thinking about nipple clamps, he had told her casually, seemingly unaware of how the thought thrilled and terrified her. But I wouldn’t want those on you too long. We have to make a reasonable visit to the party.

  A reasonable visit.

  Bastard.

  There she sat amongst all her peers, her hair wild and natural, no makeup and the skin over her raised breasts still faintly pink from her time under the wand. Her nipples were heated and hard from the cream, Alan’s handprints still stung her naked ass cheeks under that formal gown…and a rope that seemed to be made out of mild, mind-blowing, liquid fire stretched from the top of her crack, down across her asshole and the wetter hole in her pussy, and up again, hard against her clit. Every time she shifted it bridled her, rubbed her, drove her halfway to a screaming orgasm.

  Who knew a thong could be so unbelievably exciting?

  I’m the one who said I wanted to learn new things, try stuff I’d never have the guts to try…

  A rope thong was definitely in that category.

  At least she could talk now, and Alan wasn’t in the room, so she was free to mutter to herself about squeezing his balls in a vise as she sipped cold, spiked punch and tried to stay sane.

  When are we going to the dungeon? Damn. Her juices flowed over the slick, coated rope, and the heat betwee
n her legs increased. If she rocked just a little, brought that rough-warm sensation across her swollen clit just a few times, she’d come. Hell, she’d explode.

  But she couldn’t!

  Not in front of everybody.

  “The appearance of impropriety.” She snagged a small chocolate cookie off the nearby table, stuffed it in her mouth, and chewed with vigor. Another chase with the delicious punch. Her head was spinning from the light dose of alcohol and the heavy dose of raw sex. Could she smell herself over the odors of the food?

  Could anyone else?

  If she could make it to the bathroom without fainting or falling and flashing her rope thong to everyone in the castle, she could have an illicit orgasm or two. How would Alan know?

  He wouldn’t, of course.

  But she would know.

  “I wanted this,” she told her punch cup in low, conspiratorial tones. “Maybe waiting will make it better.”

  That odd urge to cry rose inside her again. What was it she was needing so badly—other than the obvious? She could at least cry if she couldn’t come. But that wouldn’t be proper either, to sit there sobbing in her pretty green gown just because she wouldn’t let herself have an orgasm.

  “Impropriety.” She sighed. “Maybe I’ll stretch him naked and cover him with onion dip. Would that keep up appearances?”

  Celia reached toward the punch dipper again, but Reggie got there first. He moved the bowl away, just far enough that she couldn’t reach it without moving too much.

  Okay, him I’ll just throw out a second-story window. But damn it, I’d come ten times just climbing the stairs!

  “Our souls are captive in so many ways,” Reggie said quietly, his voice sliding beneath the room’s bubbly chatter. “It’s amazing how restraint sets us free, yes?”

  For five or ten seconds, Celia gave serious thought to telling him her exact opinion on restraints of any sort. Then the relaxed, clinical look on his face calmed her.

  Reggie came around the table and took her hand. He looked to be greeting her, but Celia felt cool metal press into her palm.

  “Second floor,” he instructed. “The long hallway. Follow the candles. I can trust your continued restraint, can’t I?”

  She swallowed hard as he let her go and turned away. Before she could say anything, he faded into the crowd and seemed to vanish like a wily magician.

  When she turned her hand over, she found a golden skeleton key.

  Okay.

  No big deal.

  She just had to stand up without rubbing her clit off, walk through a crowd of people without falling to her knees in the throes of a wild orgasm, somehow get up the steps, down a long hall—and figure out what to do with the key.

  If the wide end of the damned thing had been a little bigger, she might have used it as a dildo, restraint warnings or not. God, she was too excited for words.

  Doing her best to maintain her composure, Celia eased into a standing position.

  The oil-treated rope immediately slid back and forth through her pussy, stroking her clit like a firm, merciless finger.

  Her cheeks flamed.

  Her head swam.

  That punch. Maybe she’d had a few too many sips.

  Great.

  Teetering precariously on the delicate heels, she started through the library.

  “Please don’t let me fall down,” she muttered, clenching her fists against her sides.

  If her steps were just careful enough, just the right length, she might make it out of the room without stroking herself to oblivion.

  Three people to go. Then two, then one. The door—and she was out, in the main stone hallway, with even more people. Even the stairs were crowded on the lower section.

  “I’ll never make it.”

  But she did. At least to the bottom step. That’s where the Dean of Students caught her by the elbow. The contact brought her up short, and the rope thong gave her clit a tight, heavenly hellish pinch. It was too much. The orgasm was small, but it made her shake and sweat. Her teeth clamped together as she worked not to fall.

  The Dean of Students turned her around and gave her elbow an apologetic squeeze. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Good heavens. You’re as red as a spring sunset.”

  Celia cleared her throat. The naughty feel of her juices flowing down her thighs made her cheeks flush even more. “Too much punch,” she croaked. The words felt like crumbs sticking in her unwilling throat.

  “It is good, isn’t it?” Dean Rohan leaned forward and said quietly, “I’d give my teeth to have a look in the man’s bar. I can’t imagine what I’d find there, or down in the wine cellars.”

  He winked.

  Celia felt like all the adjectives to describe red were insufficient to categorize her face. Her chest, her arms, her entire body strove to achieve new shades of blush.

  At least Dean Rohan let go of her arm before he could jerk her into new states of arousal. “Listen, have you seen Reggie? I need to talk to him.”

  “I—well—” Celia squeezed the key. “Not in the last few minutes. But if I do, I’ll tell him you want to see him.”

  “Good, good. Thanks.” He moved away, but not before giving her a clap on the back that made her take three fast strides up the steps.

  OhGodohGod…

  The thong. Her pussy. She really was going to die. The urge to fall to her knees and hunch back and forth almost overpowered her. For a few long moments, the world felt unreal, and she could almost see herself doing something so outlandish, even in front so many onlookers.

  Because there were so many onlookers.

  “Get a grip,” she admonished.

  The two men nearest her glanced up.

  Shit.

  Beck and Baumeister. The two assholes in the history department who would have blocked her tenure if Reggie hadn’t stopped them.

  Throat absolutely dry, Celia forced a nod, gathered herself, and quietly mounted the castle steps.

  Shoulders squared, she tried to imagine that she cut quite a figure in the sumptuous dress Alan had chosen for her. Let them wonder where she was going and what she was doing.

  She reached the top landing without any disasters, turned down what looked to be the longest hallway.

  Candles flickered in sconces. Shadows danced through the entire arched passageway, giving life to otherwise serene suits of armor spaced along the corridor. Coats of arms decorated the walls, mingled with oil portraits of people who might have been Reggie’s distant relatives.

  Following the candles as instructed, Celia headed toward a heavy door at the end of the hallway. Slow steps. Measured steps. She had to keep everything just so, or she’d start screaming before she got there.

  Do I want to do this?

  Each foot, each yard made her heart beat faster.

  Do I really want to go down to a dungeon and submit to Alan—with Reggie watching?

  But she trusted the doctor, no question.

  And Alan…yes…she trusted him, too. As much as she trusted anyone.

  Sudden tears ambushed her again. She slowed down a little, wondering what to do with herself. Was she excited? Afraid? Both?

  Slowly, Celia realized that with each step she took, she was consenting to whatever Alan had planned. The erotic torture, now that was exquisite. The absolute surrender of control, though…that was harder. Still, she was looking for something, a sensation she couldn’t identify. That elusive…thing…that would sate her, fill that empty place way down deep.

  Celia stopped walking.

  All she had to do was turn around, duck behind a curtain to pull off the rope thong, and leave.

  Or start walking again and face the nervous fears building in her chest.

  Unimaginable pleasure.

  The night of my life…

  Could she stand it?

  As if in a dream, Celia started walking again, this time distancing herself from the maddening sensation of the slick rope teasing her clit. She felt a little outside her own
body as the candles led her to that heavy wooden door at the hall’s end. The door was ajar.

  She pushed it open to find herself in what looked to be a private apartment. Candles flickered from sconces along the right wall. As instructed, Celia followed the trail around the room—to an elevator.

  She found herself breathing through her mouth, like she was still gagged and helpless in the limo. A call button beside the elevator glowed softly, tempting her, daring her until she pushed it.

  The door whispered open immediately.

  Biting her lip, Celia stepped inside.

  The door closed, but nothing happened.

  Frustrated, Celia pressed the single glowing button on the burnished silver panel.

  Still, nothing happened.

  Think, woman.

  Great. Like that’s easy with a rope up my ass.

  Her jaw tightened. She clenched her hand—and felt the key Reggie had given her.

  Of course.

  He wouldn’t just leave the entrance to the dungeon open for anyone to find it, would he?

  When she finally managed to calm herself, she looked at the burnished panel again. There, above the glowing button, was a keyhole.

  Hand shaking, Celia inserted the key, turned it, and once more pressed the button.

  The elevator whisked down so suddenly her heart dropped with it. Soundless. Seemingly faster than light. Before she could steady herself, the door opened, showing a long, dark hallway with a bright archway about thirty feet away.

  Trembling, but still strangely separated from her body, Celia left the key in the elevator and made herself step into the cool passage. The click of her heels sounded like whip-cracks on the stone.

  The rope thong stroked her relentlessly with each step as she grew closer and closer to what she knew in her heart was Blackmoor Castle’s secret dungeon.

  By the time she reached the arched doorway, her breathing had grown ragged. It couldn’t be that impressive, right? Just a few toys in a stone room, Alan and somewhere, looking on, Reggie.