by Shelly Bell
“No. You’re right.” But no matter what he believed, there was no way she’d be able to concentrate on her reading. Oh well. She’d just have to stay up late Sunday night. “I won’t get any work done now that you’ve planted that little seed in my brain. You’re very wicked, you know that?”
She wasn’t sure what to make of the gleam in his eyes. It promised mischief and so much more if only she listened. Safe wording didn’t even cross her mind when he got into this kind of mood. Experience had taught her in the weeks they’d been together that there was always a method to his madness. But studying naked on a table? That surpassed even her wildest imagination.
Since they’d been lazing around his apartment all morning, she hadn’t bothered changing out of her pajamas. “I don’t know how comfortable it’s going to be lying on a table to read.”
“You always read lying down.”
“In bed or on the couch. My head is elevated.”
“Good point. I’ll be right back. When I return, I expect you to be naked.”
She grabbed the bottom hem of her tank top and pulled it over her head, her already erect nipples hardening into tighter buds. Her panties soon followed, soaked and useless.
She didn’t know why she bothered wearing them when she was here since they did nothing to prevent her arousal from coating her inner thighs. She was a constant horny mess around Tristan.
Maybe it should embarrass her but it didn’t. Instead she reveled in the claim of her sexuality. A year ago, she could barely touch herself, the idea of sexual pleasure frightening. Tristan had done so much for her in the short time they’d been together. There was no way she could ever repay him.
But she’d spend every precious moment they had together trying.
Carrying a pillow and his comforter, Tristan strolled back into the room. He folded the blanket in two and laid it out on the middle of the kitchen table. After placing the pillow at the top of the “bed,” he slapped the table a couple of times. “Grab your book and hop on up.”
She scurried to her backpack and retrieved the book, then climbed on top of the table, her heart pounding in anticipation. Lying back, she realized it wasn’t as uncomfortable as she’d expected. Flat on her back with her legs straight ahead, she cracked open her book and began to read. Tristan placed the unmarked tests on the table beside her, then left the room again. What was he up to? She read the same paragraph over three times, none of it sinking in, her thoughts constantly straying to Tristan. She didn’t want to doubt him, but all signs pointed to this being a great big fail. She’d play around for an hour, but then she really did need to go out to get her reading done.
When Tristan returned, her eyes flew to a strange metal bar in his hands. And that wasn’t the only thing he brought with him. Hung over his shoulder was that black duffel bag, what she’d come to know as his Dom bag, implements of pain and pleasure hidden inside. She had a Pavlovian response to it, instantly becoming aroused.
“What’s that bar? Planning on swinging me from a trapeze?”
“Not today, but I’ll keep that in mind. This is a spreader bar for your legs.”
He dropped the bag onto his chair, then turned to her. “Knees apart. Feet flat on the table.”
He couldn’t be serious, right?
Rather than question him, she did as he asked, wholly throwing herself into the scene with the trust required of her. She put the book on her chest, inhaling deeply in surrender.
His cool hands settled on the inside of her thighs and pressed. “Wider.”
After she’d complied, he affixed the cuffs hanging off the bar onto her thighs. She waited for the panic to hit, but instead, all she felt was a hunger for more.
“What color are you at, Angel?”
“Green. I’m good.”
“Yes, you are. Today we’re going to work on your ability to concentrate. I’m going to teach you how to concentrate on your task in any situation. You may have to make a deal at a baseball stadium or read over contracts while you’re at a rock concert. Business doesn’t wait for convenience.”
Her body flushed hot as she watched him pull a U-shaped vibrator from his bag.
His smile turned pure Machiavellian. Hell, she could practically see him twisting his pencil-thin mustache as he tied her to the railroad tracks. He was a sadist. What else could he be when he expected her to concentrate on reading her book as she lay out for him like a feast, a spreader between her legs and a vibrator inside of her. Maybe he wouldn’t turn it on. He couldn’t be that evil. He was overestimating her ability to concentrate. But she’d hate to fail him.
He didn’t give her any explanation before inserting one end of the vibrator inside her slick channel and setting the other end over her clitoris. Then he took a step backward and stared down at her as if she was a piece of artwork he was admiring. “You’ll have to let me know what you think of the vibrator. The lady at the store said it won all sorts of awards.”
“What kind of awards do they give for vibrators?”
“The kind that stimulate both the G-spot and clitoris simultaneously?”
Her mouth fell open. “Seriously? You think I’m going to get any reading done while that thing is buzzing inside of me?”
“Hmm. I’m not sure. But it will be fun to find out, don’t you think?”
“Tristan—”
“Professor. Call me professor for this scene, Ms. Lawson. And I do believe you’ll get your reading done.”
Professor. She pulled in a ragged breath. “How can you be so certain…Professor?”
The side of his lips twitched as if he was suppressing a smile. “Because I demand it of you, and you don’t want to disappoint me. More important, you don’t want to disappoint yourself. College can only teach you so much. These lessons will prepare you for the real world. If you can complete your task with, as you said, a vibrator buzzing inside of you, you’ll realize there’s nothing you can’t accomplish.”
“You want me to read while I’m coming?”
“Oh no. I’m not that cruel.”
“Thank God.
“You’re not allowed to come.”
“But…but…,” she sputtered.
He palmed the small remote with way too much glee for her comfort. “Don’t worry. We’ll start it on low, Ms. Lawson.”
Twenty-Two
Isabella exhaled, relieved. Tristan had set the sex toy on low to a tolerable hum. It wasn’t much stronger than her cell phone when it vibrated with an incoming call. She could handle it. “Thank you, Professor.” She lifted her book. “I won’t disappoint you. Two hundred pages of Madame Bovary, here we come.”
“Nice choice of words, Ms. Lawson.”
She just gave him a little smile letting him know two could play at this game. She couldn’t imagine he’d get much done with her lying here, her pussy open and wet in front of him. He sat in the chair and pulled out his red pen, beginning to grade.
Ignoring her.
Was it possible he’d learned the lesson he was trying to teach to her? Could he actually concentrate in any situation?
She bit her lip as she read the first page of her book, ignoring the subtle buzzing on her clit. She’d show him she could concentrate every bit as much as he could.
For the next several minutes, she sank into her task, finding the book both compelling and heartbreaking. Other than her Intro to Business class, English Literature was her favorite, the professor a proponent for women’s rights around the country and especially on campus. While it wasn’t technically a women’s studies class, her teacher had chosen all female-focused books and spent a considerable amount of time drawing comparisons between historical and current times. At first, the guys in her class had groaned about what they deemed a female conspiracy to reduce men’s rights in order to become the dominant gender, but it hadn’t taken them long to appreciate the hypocrisy in society.
Before Madame Bovary, they’d read The Scarlet Letter, a book she’d read in tenth-grade English cla
ss. Her professor had compared Hester Prynne to Monica Lewinsky, the young intern who had had an affair with President Clinton. In both cases, the women had been blamed for their sexuality while society ignored that the men had been in positions of power, being that of priest and president of the United States. Surprisingly, it was the guys in the class who expressed that Hester and Monica had gotten a “raw deal,” and that the men should have taken the bulk of the responsibility for the affairs, having been the ones to break their vows. The women in the class, however, felt that to negate the women’s responsibilities for their actions was sexist.
Isabella couldn’t help but draw comparisons to herself in that discussion. If word about her affair with Tristan got out, would she become the Hester Prynne of the campus, or would she be banished from the school? Her thoughts drifted and she found herself staring at Tristan. Lines marred his forehead, and he shook his head as he marked the paper with red. She hoped that wasn’t her test. Good thing they were only identified with their twelve-digit student numbers and not their names.
As if he sensed her gaze on him, he lifted his head from the paper. Frowning even deeper than he had while grading the paper, he lifted something off his lap and raised it in the air.
Whack!
A fiery pain erupted on her outer thigh. “Oh!”
“Read, Ms. Lawson, or the next time I’ll hit you with this ruler somewhere much more painful.”
He’d hit her with a ruler?
Suddenly, the professor-and-student scene took on a whole new meaning.
She didn’t know whether she wanted to bite him or kiss him.
Maybe both?
“Yes, Professor,” she muttered as she returned her eyes to the page of her book.
For the next hour or so, she read in silence, the only sound the scraping of Tristan’s pen on paper and his occasional grunt of disgust. She wasn’t the fastest reader, but she’d made a decent dent into her two-hundred-page assignment. At that rate, she’d be done by dinnertime. She smiled to herself. Perhaps she could concentrate in any situation.
It couldn’t have been more than five minutes later that Tristan set his hand on her navel. He didn’t move it, but it was like a lead weight just the same. A little lower and he’d touch her pussy. Was it time for a sex break?
Unconsciously, her hips lifted a bit off the table. He chuckled and pushed her back down.
Damn him.
His hand drifted upward, tickling her ribs and brushing over her breasts, but bypassing her nipples. He was playing a game, and she feared it was one she’d lose. Her eyes drifted closed, waves of heated pleasure washing through her. His finger caressed her nipple, and a loud moan fell from her lips.
Game over.
He’d proved that when it came to concentration, she had none, at least if his hands were on her skin.
He tsked, removing his hand from her body, and whacked her stomach will the ruler. “Concentrate, Ms. Lawson.”
She hissed at the sting and took a breath. “How am I supposed to concentrate with you touching my nipple? Could anyone?”
“Maybe you need a better incentive than merely pleasing me.” He stood from his chair and paced, rubbing his chin as if deep in contemplation. He didn’t fool her for a second. The sadist knew exactly what he was about to do to her. In fact, she’d bet anything that he’d had this “lesson” planned for a while, and that any added incentive he gave her would come at a steep price. “Since positive reinforcement hasn’t helped, I’ll have to do the opposite, I’m afraid,” he said in an obviously mocking tone. “Orgasm denial it is.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes,” he said, cranking up the motor of the vibrator.
“I don’t see how this will help me learn how to concentrate. So far all it’s done is prove that I can’t.”
He tilted his head, as if truly considering her words, and retook his seat at the table. “We have all day for you to learn. Until you do, you will not have an orgasm. If you do, you’ll be punished. Thoroughly. And Ms. Lawson…”
Her eyes practically rolled back in her head as tension wound deep in her belly, one tip of the vibrator rubbing against her G-spot and the other massaging her clit. She clenched her teeth, adjusting to the pleasure. “Yes, Professor?” she ground out.
“We won’t stop until you learn your lesson, so I suggest you learn it quickly.” He shifted in his seat, demonstrating he wasn’t as immune to the scene as he’d appeared. “For the both of us.”
She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, working through the pleasure just like she worked through the pain when she exercised. If side cramps and shin splints didn’t keep her from running a 10K, then why should the threat of an orgasm keep her from reading?
Over the next couple of hours, Tristan didn’t play fair, bringing her to the brink of orgasm time and time again. It hadn’t been easy to concentrate, proof of that in the dozen or so whacks of the ruler on her skin. But her desire to succeed, as well as her overwhelming need to come, kept her from giving up on Tristan’s lesson.
Between the perspiration coating her skin and the arousal spilling between her legs, she’d soaked the blanket beneath her. Considerate of her comfort, Tristan had raised the heat in the apartment, warding off a chill.
By late afternoon, she’d won the war over her body and found the power inside of herself to remain completely focused on her book, lost in the world of the adulterous Madame Bovary and her oblivious husband. Tristan and the toy inside her body did their best to distract her, but in the end, she finished her two hundred pages of reading and laid the book beside her on the table.
Reclined in his chair with his legs spread, Tristan lazily stroked his exposed cock as he stared at her. He gripped himself hard, pulling and twisting the reddened skin taut over his considerable length, pearly beads of pre-come aiding his ministrations. Her heart picked up speed, the book forgotten.
He was so beautiful it hurt, and at times like these, watching him exult in his blatant sexuality, she didn’t understand what he saw in her. She didn’t miss the way other professors would flirt with him at the dean’s monthly gatherings, or the way her peers would stare in admiration at him as he walked across campus. It killed her not to have the ability to kiss him or touch him in public. The need to stake ownership in him and show those women he wasn’t available grew stronger and stronger with each passing day.
“Don’t I get a reward for finishing my homework, Professor?” she asked. If he came at his own hand in front of her, she’d cry. She needed him with a desperation that bordered on insanity.
He didn’t stop, but rather moved his hand faster. Damn him. He was going to deprive her after she’d worked so hard. “You do, Ms. Lawson. Have a little something in mind?”
“No. Something big. Your cock in my mouth would be a good start.”
A look of lust passed over his face as he tugged hard on his balls. “I do love that dirty mouth of yours. It would be a shame to waste it.”
He stood and walked around the table, stopping on her left side and offering his cock to her like a treat. She knew better than to reach for him. Holding his gaze, she opened her mouth and waited.
She didn’t have to wait for long. He rolled her to her side, then rocked up on his toes and fed her his cock, sliding it along her tongue until he bumped the back of her throat and she gagged. He pulled back a couple of inches, making her as comfortable as she could get while lying on her side on a hard table and being face-fucked by a cock that was so thick it just barely fit in her mouth.
Her lips stretched over him and she relaxed her jaw, allowing him to use her mouth as the vessel to get himself off.
There was something so sexy about Tristan taking his own pleasure from her body. She didn’t have to worry about pleasing him or whether she was doing it right.
He set the pace. He determined the rhythm. All she had to do was submit.
Tristan tasted like sex and candy, both sweet and spicy. A
ddictive. God, she was addicted to him and that cock of his. She’d never get enough.
He moved powerfully in her mouth, plunging and retreating with even strokes, completely controlled. She didn’t want that. She wanted him out of his mind and lost to his desire to come. She wanted him to break apart and shatter. To spill his seed down her throat.
When the vein on the underside of his cock pulsed against her tongue, she prepared herself for his essence to fill her mouth. But he deprived her, withdrawing his cock and slapping her on the thigh.
“Lie on your back,” he demanded.
She wasn’t about to argue. If he didn’t want to climax yet, who was she to argue, especially after he’d kept her on edge all day?
He shifted to the front of the table and grabbed her by the ankles. He pulled her until her butt was almost off the table, and then he lifted her bottom half into the air, hooking her bound ankles over his shoulders. She groaned as he removed the vibrator still lodged inside her.
Beyond sensitive after a day of foreplay, her clitoris fluttered as if the vibrator were still working. Arousal covered her mound and inner thighs. She was so wet, she should be embarrassed.
But she wasn’t.
Tristan lowered his head. “Feel free to come as many times as you want.”
The moment the tip of his tongue hit her sensitive bundle of nerves, she went off like a lit firecracker on the Fourth of July, her inner muscles clenching and releasing with so much force, she swore she saw stars. But Tristan didn’t stop. If anything, he took her climax as a signal to ramp up his ministrations. He shoved two fingers inside her still-spasming channel and worked them in and out of her, fast and hard, keeping her orgasm going. She cried out, the sensation almost bordering on pain, and tried to get away from his mouth. But his hands clamped down on her thighs, keeping her locked in place and at his mercy.
A second orgasm hit her before the first one had ebbed, sharp and powerful. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she wasn’t sure if it was the result of pleasure or pain. At this point, was there a difference?