What She Needs

by Lacey Alexander

  And she knew instantly, she wanted Brent to see her this way. She wanted him to know she could look like this.

  Not that she didn’t remain nervous as hell. She was nearly as nervous as she was turned on. But in this moment, she wanted to find out what waited on the other side of that closed door more than she could have imagined a few hours ago. Brent had seduced her again, it seemed—this time with risqué clothing and written commands. But that was who he was—a wildly seductive man. She’d accepted that about him quickly and surrendered to it. And she felt like Alice in Wonderland as she reached for the doorknob, gently turned it, and stepped through the metaphorical rabbit hole.

  She found herself in a large schoolroom. She could even smell old books, aging wooden desks, and the scent of chalk. Moving farther into the space, she glanced down at the teacher’s desk to find props that made it feel all the more real: a teacher’s gradebook, a pencil holder, a couple of history textbooks, and a wooden bin filled with tests, marked with red ink. When she noticed the one on top bore the name Jenna and had received an F, written in angry red strokes, she fought to conceal a smile. She was beginning to understand her role here.

  Except that it still surprised her to walk around the front of the desk in her sexy heels, clicking loudly on the tile floor with each step, and see a nameplate that read: FATHER POWERS. “Oh,” she murmured, discovering his role as well.

  “Do you know why I made you stay after school today, Jenna?”

  At the sound of the deep, sexy voice, she looked up with a start to see Brent had entered the room through another door in the back, wearing the black suit and collar of a priest. And—oh God—if it was possible, he looked even hotter than he had last night, a mere glimpse of him making the mound beneath her short skirt flutter. But maybe it was just because she hadn’t seen him since then—maybe she’d forgotten exactly how good-looking he was.

  “Answer me!” he snapped. “Do you?”

  “Um . . . no.” Lord, she was flustered. She’d never been much of an actress and hadn’t had a chance to think about this aspect of things.

  He proceeded up an aisle between rows of desks until he stood only a few feet away, after which he gave her a once-over that told her he liked what he saw. When their eyes met again, her breasts seemed to swell within the tight cups of her bra. “You’re consistently late for class,” he said without breaking the gaze, “you fail all your tests, and you try to tease and distract me with your body. You’re a very naughty girl, Jenna.”

  Again, she felt the response between her thighs, even if she didn’t quite understand why.

  “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked, eyebrows raised. And wow, he was good in his role, since she actually felt a little intimidated by his brusque manner—nothing like the man she’d met last night.

  “Um . . . I’ll try to do better?” she managed.

  “Not good enough, Jenna. I’m going to have to teach you a lesson—you’re going to learn who’s in charge here once and for all. You need to be punished.”

  Punished. She swallowed, not sure what he meant. “How?” she whispered.

  He never took his eyes off hers. “Bend over my desk,” he said. Then he stepped past her and used one arm to sweep half the desktop’s contents to the floor in a loud clatter that made her flinch—which she felt in her panties as much as everywhere else.

  God. Despite her arousal, well . . . this changed things. It was a far cry from the romantic sex she’d hoped for. And maybe the schoolgirl outfit had made her anticipate something . . . well, at least playful—but they’d just left playful behind. “Seriously?” she asked.

  He looked positively outraged by the question, his expression actually making her take a step back as her heart pounded against her ribs. “When I give you an instruction, you do it. Do you understand? Now, bend over!”

  Jenna sucked in her breath and slowly moved to where he stood. Biting her lip, she leaned over the big desk until the upper half of her body rested on it. She turned her head sideways, toward him, to try to see what was coming, not at all sure she was ready for it.

  “Lift your skirt up over your ass,” he demanded.

  In response, even in her subdued position, lust continued to flow through her veins. After all, she’d wanted to show him—all through her preparations, she’d wanted him to see her. And despite the weirdness of being bossed around this way, as she reached behind her to flip up the tiny skirt, revealing the strip of lace there, her arms felt heavy, warm.

  Upon seeing her bottom, he let out a low sound of approval that ran all through her.

  But when he brought the flat of his hand down on her rear for a stinging slap, she cried out, stunned. Maybe she should have understood that was coming, but somehow she’d gotten too caught up in the moment to really expect it.

  “Tell me you’re a bad girl, Jenna,” he instructed her from above.

  She let out a breath and said the words. “I’m . . . a bad girl.” But it sounded so odd coming from her throat, in a voice too meek, disbelieving.

  He brought his palm down to deliver another slap. “Again,” he commanded.

  “I’m a bad girl.” Better this time. Stronger. Not that she was sure why that mattered to her. But at the moment, she found herself compelled to appease him.

  Another hard, spanking blow—and again, she yelped slightly. He wasn’t being gentle and it hurt. “Tell me you like showing me your ass.”

  “I like showing you my ass.” As she said it, though, her eyes fell shut. She just didn’t usually think of her rear as her ass. And to tell him such a truth, because it was true . . . felt strangely difficult.

  He spanked her again, and this time, his voice deepened slightly—she could hear the stark lust in it. “Tell me you want to show me your tits.”

  Another word she never used. And another truth she felt at her core but found it painful to admit. Yet as a writer, she knew words were only words—she wasn’t offended by them, just not accustomed to using certain ones. She knew guys liked that particular word, so if he wanted to hear it, if it would keep him from being angry, fine. “I want to show you my tits.”

  An additional slap of his hand made her wonder if her . . . ass was turning red, and if that turned him on. “Tell me you want me to play with your wet pussy,” he instructed—and for some reason, she felt that one in her gut.

  “I—I never talk that way, so . . .”

  “You do now. What I command, you do. Now say it!”

  She let out a breath. She’d realized he was a know-it-all, but she hadn’t foreseen him being so . . . mean. Words so foreign-feeling had never left her mouth, but she focused on getting them out in a calm, obedient manner. “I . . . want you to play with my pussy.”

  Behind her, he went quiet and she wondered if her acquiescence excited him. She wondered what the hell all this was supposed to accomplish in terms of her sexual education. And she didn’t want to be aroused anymore—she wanted to be angry. But despite her wishes, her crotch still throbbed against the desk as she waited . . . for something, and sort of wished this were over. Her heart beat too hard.

  This wasn’t what she’d hoped for when she’d put on the bra and panties—at all. She even considered using the safeword—just to end it.

  Yet she didn’t. Maybe because her crotch throbbed. And her breasts felt full, needy, pressed against the desk. Part of her was appalled by this, by what he thought qualified as a fantasy for her . . . and yet, wasn’t she aching for more? Wasn’t she excited?

  So she lay there, nervous, pulsing, anxious, torn.

  That’s when he eased one finger inside the narrow band of lace stretching downward over the center of her bottom. She bit her lip at the touch—and sharply pulled in her breath as his fingertips moved slowly over her anus. They felt damp, as if maybe he’d moistened them first. She tensed, waiting for the pleasure of his fingers stroking lower, through her wetness—so it shocked the hell out of her when his touch didn’t stray from the
small fissure and he instead slid one finger smoothly, firmly inside it.

  A startled cry lurched from her throat at the strange, uncomfortable sensation. “Wh-what are you . . . ?”

  “Punishing you, naughty girl.”

  “B-but . . .”

  “Quiet,” he told her, and began to move his finger in and out.

  Jenna had never felt anything like it. She wanted to think it hurt—the initial entry had been distressing—but . . . it didn’t. In fact, she began to squirm, almost involuntarily, and she heard her own breath growing ragged. With pleasure? She couldn’t figure that part out, but something was definitely making her hotter inside. She suffered the sense of being invaded, never having expected anything to enter her there, yet she never said the safeword or anything else that equated to asking him to stop.

  Then he used his free hand to spank her again—harder now, in a faster rhythm. Jesus God. She yelped at each strike of his palm, overcome by the combination of odd feelings vibrating through her. Did it hurt? Or did it feel good? She couldn’t even tell. But each unyielding slap echoed through her body, seeming to heighten every other sensation: the finger moving in and out of her anus, the hardness of the desk beneath her hips and breasts, the pulsation between her legs.

  “Have you had enough?” he finally asked.

  “Yes,” she burst out. Because her bottom was sore, and inexplicable feelings wracked her from head to toe.

  Yet even as he withdrew his finger, making her yelp yet again, he said darkly, “I don’t think you have. I think you need to be punished much, much more, Jenna.” And with that, he grabbed her hip and rolled her to her back on the desk.

  It shook her to see him again, face-to-face, after what he’d just done to her, yet his expression held nothing but intense desire mingled with power. Stepping between her legs, he leaned over, brusquely curled the fingertips of both hands into the cups of her bra, and yanked them down, causing her breasts to tumble free.

  “Damn,” he murmured then, for a brief second sounding more like the Brent of last night than Father Powers, and his reaction reminded her it was the first time he’d actually seen them. His response warmed her cheeks and made her glance down to where the two mounds emerged from a frame of white knotted blouse and askew lace, large and round, nipples pointed.

  His eyes remained locked there, too, as he closed his hands over them, massaging roughly. A moan escaped her throat when, below, his hardened length connected with her crotch through his pants and her thin undies. Her body felt supercharged now, as if everything up to this moment, from the shaving to the spanking to the anal play, had all been priming her . . . for whatever happened next.

  Brent aggressively twirled her nipples between his fingertips, then pulled on them, gentle but firm, the move seeming to elongate them further. Soft cries and mewls left her and she suddenly felt out of her head with pleasure—and the need for more.

  Next, he bent over her, taking one turgid peak in his mouth, sucking it in hard. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh God!” It hurt—and yet it didn’t. Because it made her throb still more wildly below. He rubbed against her there now, and her head dropped back in abandon. She felt her back arching, urging him to take as much of her breast into his mouth as possible. She’d had no idea she liked things a little rough.

  She wanted to protest when he released her breast and stepped back, disconnecting their bodies completely, but she held her tongue when he reached under her tiny scrap of a skirt to pull the lace thong down and off, over her sexy shoes.

  Once it was gone, he moved back between her legs and flipped the skirt up again to look at her—there. She tingled madly, pulsated almost violently. But then—oh no—he looked furious. What on earth was wrong?

  She didn’t have to wonder long. “You disobeyed me again, Jenna! I instructed you to shave your pussy completely, yet you didn’t.”

  She simply blinked, surprised—and still crazily aroused, as well as a little freaked out because he seemed so upset again. “Yes, I did. Mostly,” she insisted, realizing he was referring to the small thatch of hair she’d left, despite its being located well above the area that mattered. “I mean, I just thought . . .”

  “You just thought you’d do what you wanted to do,” he boomed at her. “How many times do I need to make this clear? When I tell you to do something, you do it—or you suffer the consequences. Do you understand that?”

  Quietly, she nodded. She didn’t know how else to reply.

  “I don’t think you do,” he groused. “And I think I need to teach you a lesson the hard way!”

  Lying half dressed yet fully revealed before him, she shuddered. “How?”

  “I’m going to fuck you until you scream.”

  Oh. My. That didn’t sound much like punishment.

  But then she got it . . . sort of. He was pretending sex was punishment. He was doing what she’d asked him to do last night—take the choices away from her, and at the same time give her what they both knew she wanted.

  Why did that make it so much easier?

  And yet, for her, it did. It felt so much more instinctive to act dismayed at the words than show her delight. She even managed a gasp and drew her knees up, closing her legs tight.

  Their eyes met and she realized he understood—all of it. That it was her natural, normal reaction, even when she desired sex. That all her life, it had felt easier to make a guy part her legs than to do it willingly. And that’s what felt better now, too—as he placed his hands firmly on her knees to briskly pry them open.

  She let out a breath of excitement, surging with still more moisture when his gaze dropped again to where she’d shaved for him.

  His palms skimmed swiftly up her inner thighs, coming to rest where they met, framing the part of her that glistened wet and open there. It was another way in which she’d never quite seen herself, but like him, she was looking. His expression made her feel obscenely beautiful. And she almost wanted to beg. Please, please touch me. But she didn’t. Because she couldn’t. Because it was just like everything else—so much easier if the guy just did it, if she never had to worry about letting him know her desires.

  That’s when Brent stroked two fingers down through her moist folds—thank God—making her whimper and quake. He smoothly pushed the same fingers into her drenched opening and a low sob left her.

  Rather than move his fingers in and out then, he instead began to turn them in a slow and more circular motion, as if reaching around inside her, exploring her inner walls. The odd sensation gave her chills, despite the room being comfortable, and she breathed unevenly, audibly. With his free hand, he reached to undo his pants, his zipper, and she bit her lip when his erection burst free.

  Oh—oh God. She’d not seen it last night, only felt it. Long and straight and undeniably hard, the straining veins along its length made it look like a powerful, dangerous tool. Even having taken it into her already, the sight made her nervous now—because he looked bigger than any other guy she’d been with.

  “Get ready to take your punishment, Jenna,” he said, his voice low and threatening.

  In response, she lay back more completely on the desk and shut her eyes.

  Yet as Brent’s hands closed tight over her bare hips, he leaned over and rasped, “No. Open your eyes and watch me fuck you.”

  She forced them wide in response, but focused on the ceiling.

  And then felt him waiting—waiting for her to do what he’d said.

  So she lightly clenched her teeth and drew her gaze slowly, uncomfortably downward, until she met his—and he said, “Lower. My cock.”

  She sucked in a breath, felt her chest heave. Dragged her gaze downward, over the priest’s collar and the black fabric of his suit. Until she again saw the large male appendage jutting from it like a steel girder.

  She watched him close his fist around the base. She watched him guide the engorged head, a dot of shimmering moisture at its tip, to where her pink folds lay parted, ready. She watched him p
ush the head inward—her body braced for the impact, which came, hard.

  As his length drove slowly, deeply, into her, they both let out long, low groans, and Jenna continued witnessing the amazing way her body swallowed that part of his. Until her eyes fell shut again, out of pure pleasure, fullness—and this time he didn’t insist she open them just yet.

  With his big hands back at her hips, he began thrusting in earnest. He didn’t go slow like last night—instead he found a brisk, hard rhythm, and she felt every stroke at her very core. Each made her cry out as it jolted her body—her breasts jiggled within the tight lace still outlining them, and she found herself gripping the bottom edge of the desk with both hands to hold herself steady.

  “Open your eyes, Jenna,” he said, his voice warm, dark.

  She obeyed, meeting his as their bodies collided, again, again.

  Then he released one of her hips and reached down for her hand, removing it from the desk’s edge. He drew it up over where he entered her—hard, so hard—and pressed her fingertips to her clitoris, holding them there. “Touch yourself while I fuck you,” he said, his gaze still steady and commanding on her.

  Impulsively, she tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t allow it. He pushed her fingers back down, even moving them over the sensitive nub to send an unbidden pleasure expanding outward.

  “I don’t want it to happen that way,” she protested as he continued to pound into her flesh below. “I want you to do it.”

  He simply gave his head a short, definite shake. “Rub your clit,” he insisted. “Do it!”

  But the second he began to remove his hand, she did, too—so he shoved her fingers back down, rougher this time, forcing her to feel her own wetness.

  She bit her lip, their eyes still locked. “This . . . doesn’t . . . make me . . . feel good,” she managed between the hard strokes of his erection.

  “It will if you let it,” he assured her. “You can even close your eyes if you want.” He suddenly sounded a little more like Brent than Father Powers, and she immediately accepted the offer to shut her eyes, shut out all the shocking, erotic images assaulting her. But she still didn’t want to touch herself. It wasn’t that she never did—she did sometimes; it was that she couldn’t bear to do it in front of someone. Even during sex. It felt so . . . private, personal.