Master Class: A Billionaire Romance

by Linnea May

  I want to protest, but he’s still holding my nipples in a tight grip, pulling me upward and leaving no choice but to follow his command. I jump up on the edge of the desk, sliding backward just a bit so that I can place my feet on the edge.

  He pinches my nipples extra hard one more time, causing me to let out a pathetic whimper before he releases them, cupping my breasts as he gently pushes me back.

  “Lay down,” he orders.

  I obey, breathing heavily as I lie down on the cold surface. My tortured nipples are still screaming from the pain, throbbing as the ache slowly turns into a hot pulse. I’m lying on the desk, my hands stretched out next to my torso, staring at the ceiling above me as I process the aftermath of the intense strain that Mr. Portland just put me through.

  I’ve never felt like this. I feel drugged, dizzy, mindless with lust.

  I want more.

  I don’t even care about the awkward position he asked me to take. So far, every command he directed me to follow has only led to more pleasure. When he hooks his fingers beneath the seam of my panties and coaxes me to close my legs so he can pull them down, I don’t let shame overrun the intense thrill that all of this is giving me.

  Mr. Portland removes my panties, leaving me with nothing on but my black skirt, before he pushes my legs apart, exposing myself to his hungry eyes. A rush of heat spreads through my body as his gaze fixates on my entrance.

  “Fuck, what a good girl you are. You’re dripping wet for me, so welcoming,” he assesses - and I almost die of embarrassment.

  His eyes move from my center up to my eyes, his dark with mischief.

  “You know I must taste you,” he whispers.

  Before I have a chance to process this particular announcement, he’s down on his knees, his face disappearing from my line of sight and his hands wandering along the inside of my upper thighs.

  A few moments later, I can feel his breath on my wet core. I inhale sharply, paralyzed by his actions and tense with anticipation.

  He leans forward, his lips meeting my entrance. I arch my back, moaning as he starts to lick along my swollen labia, left first, then right, then left again. He starts drawing circles with his tongue around my throbbing nub, driving me crazy with need. I want him to move closer to the center, to touch my most sensitive spot, the pulsating center, the hub of my longing.

  His circles are getting smaller, drawing closer to my swollen clit. When he finally draws his tongue across that magical spot, I can’t suppress a loud moan of relief, arching my back and spreading my legs as wide as possible.

  He hums with relish, working my throbbing center with his skillful tongue. I squirm on his desk, the hard surface pressing against my back, as I bathe in his treatment. He adds a finger, gliding inside my wetness with ease, then another, stretching me gently while his tongue continues working its magic.

  I’m going to come. Soon.

  Does he want me to come?

  He bends his finger inside of me, finding another spot to increase my pleasure. I groan, hitting my elbow on the table as I lift my arms in a spasm.

  “I’m gonna c-”

  He stops. A mere second before my orgasm explodes, he withdraws his face and fingers at once, getting back up on his feet and looking down at me with dark and narrowed eyes.

  “No, you’re not,” he says.

  I stare at him, my cheeks flushed with heat and a sudden sense of shame overcoming me in light of my exposed position.

  “Get up,” he says, reaching his hand out for me to hold.

  I sigh and take his helping hand to sit up on the edge of the desk, folding my hands in my lap and looking up at him expectantly.

  He leans down and grants me a kiss on the lips. A passionate but quick peck, nothing more. I can taste myself on him. His face remains close to mine, looking at me with his characteristic attentiveness. I wait for the next command as I stare into the darkness of his eyes.

  Instead of telling me what to do, he holds me by the shoulders and helps me to sit up. His hands are back on my tortured nipples a moment later, and he regards them with a painful squeeze before he continues.

  “Get down from the table and turn around,” he says. “Hands on the table, ass to me.”

  I obey and reluctantly place my hand at the edge of table, turning my back to him.

  “You can look prettier than that,” he says. “Arch your back. Show me that pretty ass.”

  I blush as I follow his command.

  “Good girl.”

  His praise sends another wave of lust through my core, and I flinch with arousal when I feel his strong hands on my bare behind. He caresses the pale skin on my ass cheeks, and just as I’m beginning to relax and lean into his gentle touch, he withdraws his hands and uses one of them to land a painful slap on my ass.

  I yelp, biting my tongue a moment later. I can’t be loud in here.

  “Hush!” he warns. “You deserve this.”

  His hand lands on my ass again, and again, sending hot stings of pain ringing through my entire body. It hurts more with every strike against my flesh, the fiery song of ache drowning out every other thought and sound. Yet, I find myself hollowing my back between every blow, my entrance hot and wet with desire, begging for him to touch me again. To be inside me.

  I have never been spanked before, and especially not like this. It hurts a lot more than I thought it would, and it feels a lot better than I ever imagined.

  I’m panting and sweating by the time he stops. My body is processing the pain, while my mind tries to cope with the fact that I’m more aroused than I’ve ever been in my entire life.

  I’m burning, desire throbbing through my entire being. I feel as if I could come instantly, with just the touch of the tip of his finger.

  But he has other plans.

  “Get dressed,” he whispers from behind. “We’re done for today.”

  A wave of horror unfolds through my body.

  What? He’s sending me home like this? After all he did?

  “I thought we were just getting started…,” I whisper helplessly as I stand up and turn around to him, ready to get down on my knees and beg him to finish me off. I’d do just about anything for a proper climax right now. He can’t leave things like this!

  “We are,” he concurs. “You’ve a lot to learn, Lana. The first lesson is that you will be punished for bad behavior.”

  I’m suddenly aware of my own nakedness, and quickly fix my skirt to cover myself as best as I can, lowering my eyes in the process.

  “And this is how you punish me? By leading me on and then humiliating me by not stopping when…”

  My voice breaks off. I feel so utterly ashamed. I never knew how crushing it could feel to be denied a climax when it was already within reach.

  I flinch when his hand touches my cheek, softly caressing the skin along my jaw line, and then he puts his index finger beneath my chin and lifts my head up to look at him.

  “I did not lead you on,” he says. “But, yes, this is how I’m punishing you for being such a condescending brat during our first encounter. For rolling your eyes at me and for failing to show me the respect I deserve.”

  Asshole.

  Tears are threatening to appear. My vision blurs as I fight them. I’m not going to cry. How pathetic would that be? To cry like a baby because I wasn’t allowed to come.

  But it’s so much more than that.

  Mr. Portland observes me with a smile. There’s nothing cunning or mean about it, no spitefulness. Yet, I can’t help hating him in this moment.

  “You sweet, sweet girl,” he whispers. “You’ll learn. And you’ll be better next time, right?”

  Next time? Is he going to do this again? Knock down my walls of protection just to humiliate me in the long run? So I could learn? Learn what?

  To obey. To submit.

  “Excuse me,” I say, evading his touch as I turn to the pile of clothes on the chair. “I have to go.”

  “Yes, you do,” he agrees.
/>
  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JACKSON

  My heart sinks every time the bell rings to end our math class and we’re released back into the dreaded hallways. I know this feeling is exclusive to me, as everyone else jumps up with relief and can’t wait to get out of the classroom.

  For me, math class may not be fun either, but it is the only time of the day when I feel safe and somewhat happy at school. It’s the time when I can bathe in Aileen’s presence and admire her from afar, watching her play with her hair or carefully lay out her pens and paper to take notes for class. She’s so organized, so controlled and calm. Everything she says is smart and polite. I’ve never heard her give a wrong answer or take part in nasty gossip in or out of class.

  Unlike me, she’s not an outcast either. She’s not one of the cool girls, the really popular ones, but she’s not shunned either. I see her casually talking to other students, sometimes laughing with them, but never laughing about the misfortune of someone else. Her laughter is deeper and more restrained than those of the other girls. It seems as if she never lets go, never loses control of herself in any way. I wonder what that would look like. What Aileen would look like if she completely lost it, if she broke down in an overwhelming laughing fit, her eyes tearing up, her cheeks turning red and her hair flying wildly around, losing its silky-straight structure.

  I wish I could make her look like that. I wish I could see her in a state that no one else ever has. The thought of her losing control because of something I’m doing to her feels like the most intimate thing I can imagine.

  I’m in no hurry to pack up my things after class, and I linger, glancing at her while she collects her things with her usual stoic motions.

  When she throws her bag over her shoulder and walks out of class, I’m right behind her, getting so close for a moment that I catch a waft of her scent, her hair.

  I distance myself as soon as we walk into the hall, and watch her from afar again as she strides over to her locker that is way too far away from mine. Talking to her would be so much easier if our lockers were right next to each other, but fate has never treated me well.

  None of my mean classmates are around, so I enjoy the luxury of walking down the hall without having nasty words thrown at me.

  But I’m walking in the wrong direction. Instead of heading to my own locker at the other side of the hall, I find myself walking toward her.

  She probably doesn’t even know I exist, and I want to change that. I don’t know what came over me, but my body decides it’s time to approach her before my brain can arrive at a strategy.

  Before I know it, I’m standing next to her, trying to casually lean against the neighboring lockers as I smile at her. With how inexperienced and nervous I am, I know there’s nothing casual about my movements or my facial expression, but I hope that she doesn’t sense these things right away - or at least doesn’t point them out or pick on me.

  Aileen shoves her math books inside the locker and casts me a curious look from the side.

  “Hi?”

  I know it’s my time to speak, but I’m lost for words. I’ve never been so close to her, and I’ve never seen her eyes directly focused on me. Their color is the deepest blue I’ve ever seen, so dark that I almost mistook them for dark brown or black.

  She raises one of her eyebrows and tilts her head to the side, looking at me with her eyes wide with expectation.

  I have to say something.

  “Hi, I’m… I’m Jackson.”

  I secretly cringe inside. Where am I going with this? I should have thought about a topic. Anything. Anything we could talk about. Or a purpose for me coming to her.

  “Yes, I know,” she says, her voice soft and friendly. “You’re in my math class.”

  She knows my name! She knows who I am!

  “Yes, right,” I say, helplessly lowering my eyes. I stare at the tips of her shoes. She’s wearing ballerina flats, but still surpasses my height by about an inch or so. I have to look up when I talk to her, which I find appropriate.

  “Can I help you with something?” she asks. There’s nothing mean or impatient in her voice. In fact, I can’t remember the last time anyone has ever spoken to me in such a nice tone.

  While I’m still struggling to find my words, I notice Kendrick and his awful little gang walking down the hall from the corner of my eye. I pray to God they don’t notice me, but of course, they do.

  “Hey, Jackson Fatson!” Kendrick bellows in my direction. “Got a new girlfriend?”

  Humiliation clenches around my heart like a stone-cold fist, but what is even worse is the look on Aileen’s face.

  She blushes and turns around to the boys, her mouth partly opened.

  She looks horrified.

  “Dumb and fat. You got yourself quite a winner there!” Kendrick yells directly at her.

  He doesn’t even know her. Aileen has never caught his attention - until I pushed her into the limelight of my daily humiliation.

  Her eyes go back and forth between me and Kendrick, her face expressing nothing but horror and fear.

  “Yeah, I’d be ashamed, too!” Kendrick adds, and his entourage roars with laughter.

  That’s it.

  I let my bag drop to the floor and lunge at him, fiery rage burning through my insides as I strike out for him. He takes a step back and easily evades my attack, causing me to tumble to the floor.

  I almost land flat on my face, barely managing to cushion my fall with my hands. The impact still hurts like a motherfucker, and I let out a pathetically girlish shriek on impact.

  The laughter that erupts around me hurts even more than the fall.

  “Jackson Fatson!” the chorus chimes, fingers pointing at me, kids dying with laughter.

  I stare at the ground in front of me, incapable of moving. For years, I have endured their ridicule, hurtful words and chants, seclusion and loneliness. But this tops everything. I’ve never found myself on the floor.

  In front of her eyes.

  I slowly turn around, holding back hot tears, as I search for her beautiful face.

  Aileen is standing exactly where she was standing when I turned away. She is holding a bunch of books in her arms, pulled tightly against her chest as if she was trying to protect herself from the gruesome sight in front of her.

  Kendrick turns to her.

  “Don’t you wanna help your loser boyfriend?” he asks, pointing down at me.

  Aileen huffs and shakes her head.

  “He’s not my boyfriend!” she protests.

  She lays her eyes on me. I return her gaze, silently pleading for forgiveness.

  And then I see it. Aileen’s face has lost all of its beauty, her eyes now narrowed to slits, her eyebrows curled and her mouth distorted with disgust. Her expression reflects the same condemnation I’ve seen on so many faces before.

  “I don’t even know him!” she spits out, her words firing at me like hot daggers. I’ve never been so hurt before in my life. “He just wanted to copy my homework because he can’t do it himself.”

  Her hurtful lie is more than I can bear. Tears of anger and deprivation are threatening to roll down my face.

  I can’t let that happen. I can’t cry in front of them. The humiliation would be too devastating.

  I hurry to get up from the ground and run away, the students who have gathered to witness my degradation parting to the side, letting me pass without another comment as I flee to the boy’s restroom.

  There, fate is on my side for the first time that day. The restroom is completely deserted. I hasten over to the sink and turn on the water, leaning over to wash my face. I’m weeping uncontrollably, trying to hide the onslaught of tears with splashes of warm water, in case anyone should walk in and see me.

  I’ve lost her.

  I’ve lost Aileen - or rather the idea that I held of her. I never really knew who she was until she imagined that her reputation was being threatened and acted just as mean as all the other kids who’ve made
my life hell until now. She was afraid to be linked to me in any way, to be degraded from her position of irrelevancy to an outcast by association, one who gets actively mobbed by the cool kids.

  No one wants to be on my level, but the way Aileen distanced herself from me, that ugly expression of disgust on her face. There are no words to describe how disappointed and disillusioned I felt.

  The most fucked-up thing is that I still want to be close to her. I still want a glimpse behind that stiff, controlled exterior and see what lies behind it. I want to see her lose control, let go of her tense demeanor, and lose herself because of something I’m doing to her.

  But I don’t want this loss of control to become a joke.

  I want to expose her, humiliate her, drive her mad, make her dependent on me for pleasure.

  This is the first day I imagine a woman crawling on all fours in front of me. A woman like Aileen Watson.

  This is also the day I understand that I cannot stay the person I am if I ever want something like that to happen. Women like Aileen don’t get broken by a fat kid who lets himself be dragged down by bad grades and a hostile environment.

  I have to change.

  And I will, because I finally have a goal, a destiny.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JACKSON

  I don’t see her anywhere. This is the second time I can’t find Lana in her regular seat when class begins. It has become my ritual to find her, acknowledge her presence and nod toward where she is, sitting in the third row, her posture straight and attentive, her blue eyes glued to me, and her shoulders tense.

  Today, my ritual is disrupted when I don’t see her there, and I find myself scanning the auditorium. The last time this happened, she just showed up late. Today, it seems, she didn’t show up at all.

  I start my lecture, checking the rows again and again to make sure that I didn’t miss her. Even fifteen minutes, the doors in the back spill open to let in another student who couldn’t manage to get out of bed on time on a Monday morning.

  But none are her.

  Lana has been avoiding me ever since our little session in my office. I don’t know where she lives, and I have nothing but an e-mail address that was listed on the attendance sheet I received for my class at the beginning of the semester. It has been a full week since I’ve seen or heard from her, which would not have been unusual before, as we never interacted outside of class, but it is now.