A Good Student

A Good Student

by Dr. Mabeuse

Chapter 1

Writing fiction doesn't pay much, and you give up a lot when you try to be a writer. Money, the things other people have, even family—you can pretty much kiss all that goodbye. But there are compensations. Your life's maybe not as wide as most people's, but it's deeper, and sometimes it’s more interesting. You're always trying to explain and describe things to yourself, and so you see things other people miss and feel things most people are too busy to bother with.

I know, because when this story takes place, I was living in an unconverted loft in a seedy part of the city, right smack up against the L tracks. So close that I could stand at my window in my underwear and stare eye to eye with the people riding to work in the morning and coming home at night, and I could see their eyes didn’t go very deep. I was writing mostly porn at the time, and I knew they were reading it, but you couldn’t tell from their eyes.

I was also teaching a survey course poetry at Crane Community College to pay the bills, and that’s where I met Emma. It was a summer session, a small class of maybe 20 students in a funny kind of miniature lecture hall, a semester's worth of work crammed into six weeks, and I was just there as temporary help—an adjunct instructor—because none of the real faculty wanted to waste their summers teaching kids who were just trying to blow their way through a survey course. Emma was a returning student in her mid- twenties. She'd dropped out of her regular four-year college for whatever reason before graduating, had done whatever she'd dropped out for for a few years, changed her mind and now worked in an office during the day and took courses at night to finish her degree.

I liked returning students. They know why they're in college and they take it seriously. They've also been out in the real world long enough that they come into the classroom with some real questions, but they’re still naïve enough to think that they'll get some real answers.

 

Still, I never expected to connect with Emma. She seemed a bit too vain, a bit too good-looking and fashionable to have any intellectual ambitions, and her glowing tan didn't inspire a lot of confidence in her academic dedication. She was tall, very nicely built, with a lush and sumptuous woman's body—long brown hair and brown eyes, and she always dressed well. She took care of herself. She looked like a girl whose main interest was men, and who knew her own worth and thought pretty highly of herself. I had her pegged for an upper middle-management husband in a year or two, two kids and a McMansion, and incipient alcoholism starting about age 40 when she learned about her husband’s affair.

That is to say, she seemed like a perfectly normal suburban girl to me. In light of what happened between us, that's important to keep in mind. She wasn't a freak, or a loser or a geek, or neurotic in any meaningful way, and in fact the work she turned in was very good. She knew how to use semicolons, which is a rarity these days bordering upon the freakish. She was a very smart girl and could have coasted through the class but she really wasn’t interested in being smart and apparently had never found much use for it. What she was was something else that I still don’t know how to define. Sensual? Sexual? Feminine? Submissive? Obsessed?

Some of my former students tell me I'm intimidating at the beginning of the semester, and I do like to start out pretty tight and relax as I go along, so maybe that's what got her. Or maybe it was when we started talking about Beat poetry and the sexual license and drug-use of the Beats. Maybe my own acceptance of these kinds of behaviors came through. But soon Emma was coming down the steps of the lecture hall after class to hang around the lectern with a few other students to continue the discussion or just schmooze as I put my notes away. Sometimes I'd end up walking her out of the building.

By that time she knew I wrote and was published, and when she asked me one night after class what kind of stuff I wrote, I stopped wiping down the white board and told her: "Romance"

That wasn't entirely true, because as I said, what I was really writing at the time was pornography, BDSM mostly, savage and passionate and very graphic, pouring all my own sexual frustrations into it. I wasn't proud of this, and normally I avoided the question altogether, but that night's lecture had been about Kerouac and Ginsberg and Burroughs, drugs and sex and homosexuality, and Emma seemed to have a breathy, spellbound look about her that I wanted to be a part of, so I told her. A community college poetry instructor doesn’t get many chances to impress his students.

Then she asked me if I published under my own name and I did the unthinkable. I gave her my pen name—my porn name—and I told her my stories were on the web. I even told her where to find them

It was an idiotic thing to do and I'm not sure why I did it. I guess I knew that I was an adjunct instructor at a crummy community college and would never have the money and prestige someone like Emma would respect, but I wanted her to know who I was inside. I wrote porn, but when I wrote it I poured my heart and soul onto the page and I knew it showed. It was powerful stuff. I guess I wanted her to know that about it.

And on top of that, I had to admit I was attracted to her. That's not uncommon when you teach college, but this was an unusual attraction. I'm a sexual dominant by nature. That doesn't mean I walk around with a whip and Nazi jackboots on, but I have a special sensitivity for women who are attracted to my type. Emma gave no sign of being submissive, but those labels are misleading anyhow. There was something about her, something I felt—maybe the way her pupils dilated when I grew stern or irritated, or the way she toyed with her hair during lecture—but I felt it.

In any case, I was there for the summer only, so what did I care? If she read my stuff and got shocked, then the hell with it. At least I'd have the pleasure of scandalizing her. Odds are she wouldn't even remember my pen name or wouldn't bother looking up my stories anyhow.

There happened to be an hourly exam during the next class session, so I really didn't get to talk with her before then. I just passed out the blue books and they got to work. She kept her head down and began writing, and I leaned against the lectern and kept a casual eye on the kids, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off those long legs now, or the heavy thrust of her breasts against her cotton tee, the way she twisted her hair in her fingers as she concentrated. One time she looked up and caught me staring at her, and she seemed to hold my eyes a bit longer than necessary before returning to her test. There might have been a slight smile on her lips or I might have imagined it.

The students turned in their bluebooks one by one and filed out, and Emma kept her eyes down discreetly as she slid hers onto the pile, but when I got back to the office I was using, I turned to hers first, and on the second page, outlined in a square of pencil with hearts in the corner it said. "I read your cheerleader story! It was incredible!!! Is it for real??? –Curious!!! M."

The "curious" was underlined three times.

I sat there in the office with my heart in my mouth. I knew the story she meant, of course. It was a toss-off—no real plot, written for a BDSM site: a teasing college cheerleader is abducted and tied up in the deserted gym by the football coach who slowly strips off her clothes and does all sorts of thoroughly rude and nasty things to her, which she of course loves. It wasn't my greatest piece of work, but the parallels to our current situation gave me chills.

I graded the other tests quickly, hardly concentrating as I turned over various responses in my head. By the time I got to Emma's test, I went to her little message, and where she'd written, "Is it for real???" I wrote in red pen, "As I've been telling you all semester, one writes what one knows."

It was a good test but no better than a B. I gave her an A minus and, with my hand almost trembling, wrote. "This grade is negotiable."

I left the tests outside my office where the students could pick them up

The next class she came in wearing a short sleeve blouse that was a bit snug and opened perhaps just one button too low, revealing the slopes of her breasts. She was wearing a skirt too. That wasn't unusual—a lot of the kids came to class straight from work, as did Emma. Maybe I’d just never noticed before?.

She didn't sit in her usual place either, high up near the aisle. The lecture hall was a miniature auditorium that had seats and tables bolted to the concrete floor, rising in steep tiers, and Emma slid into a seat in the center of the fourth tier up so that her knees were on a level with my eyes. Her placement was so blatant it was almost comical, and I might have laughed had we been alone or further along in our relationship, but at this point there was nothing between us, and when I'd look up from my lecture and see her knees casually apart and the hem of her skirt up as she idly scratched her thigh, I'd actually start to stutter.

She wasn't taking notes though she pretended to be. I could tell. She'd doodle on her pad, or lean back and stretch and push her shoulders back, straining the buttons on her blouse. She’d cross her legs and pull her skirt up, and her knees and the bottom of her thigh seemed to itch a lot. Whenever I’d look up at her, her head would be down, but she did everything except fellate her pen put her hands between her legs.

When the class ended, I said, "Emma? Could I see you for a few minutes?"

She had to wait while I explained some other students' grades to them, and then she gathered up her books and slid out of her chair and came down to the podium. Maybe my description of her behavior and clothes made her sound cheap, but I assure you, she didn't look cheap. She was beautiful—perfectly made up, just the faintest hint of perfume.

"Yes, Mr. Devlin?"

I collected my notes. "So you read that story?"

Her eyes lit up with a smoldering glow. "Yes. I read more too. You have a lot. That beach one and the one about the girl in the basement, and the clothes, and the one with the girl who gets kidnapped…"

I nodded, then looked her in the eye. "You know, I only told you about those stories because I trust you."

As I said, people tell me I'm an intimidating guy. I don't notice it. I'm big and strong, and I know I have a lot of anger inside, and maybe that shows when I'm being serious. But I'm not mean, and I don’t mean to scare people. But something inside me felt Emma starting to respond. I couldn’t say what it was—whether her breathing changed or something in her eyes or the attitude of her body, but she seemed just a little bit scared.

"Of course," she said. "I wouldn’t tell anyone else, Mr. D. I mean, I don’t think anyone else would understand."

"No. They wouldn't." I snapped my briefcase closed and gestured for her to follow me. "But you understood, Emma? What did you think of them?"

We walked up the stairs of the lecture hall. She was just behind me. "Well, they're very good stories. I mean, your know. They're very good. I just wondered… I mean, they're not real, are they? Those things the men do in there, the things they do to the women…"

We were at the head of the stairs now, at the exit. I snapped off the lights, leaving just the spotlights shining down on the empty lectern.

"They're real enough, Emma. They're all based on things I've done. Things I do. I've changed the settings. I've changed the characters—their names, their ages. But why do you ask?"

We were standing by the open door to the corridor. It was late, almost ten o'clock and there was no one around. Even the parking lot was deserted. Emma was standing with her back to the cinderblock wall, not knowing where to put her eyes.

"Darkness stirs my soul," I quoted. "Desires whose name I cannot speak. His flesh is within me, his raging lust upon me. I am his anger and his joy, his sickness and its cure. He shames me with my pleasure and tames me with his rage, till all dissolves between us and he sees me as I am."

"Who wrote that?" she asked nervously.

I ignored her question. "Is that how it is?"

She didn't answer. In the darkness I saw her breasts rising and falling.

"Is it?" I repeated.

Again, no answer. That was answer enough.

I put down the briefcase and swung the door closed. The hydraulic door-closers hissed softly and then the lock caught and clicked firmly shut. I knew no one would be coming in here till after midnight, and suddenly we were in this enclosed space together, a magical circle of sexual threat. Things began to work in our bodies we had no control over.

A certain amount of light still spilled from the glass panel in the door into the darkened auditorium, but that just made the real world feel that much farther away. I put my hand on the wall next to her head and leaned over her. I had no doubt about her now, and I knew my eyes were glowing as I stared at her. A knew who she was like a fox knows a rabbit.

"You've been like this all your life, haven't you?" I asked. "The things that were in those stories, they’ve been exciting you since before you even knew what sex was."

The rabbit looked at the fox and saw there was no point in lying. "How did you know?"

“Because I’m the same way.”

I took the books from her hands and tossed them on a table.

"Come here. Away from the door."

I led her a few feet into the auditorium, away from the square of light from the door. She was still standing with her back to the wall and I leaned over her again, keeping her trapped. Here eyes were shining with something between fear and excitement, her lips parted and glistening.

"Lift up the front of your skirt," I said.

"What?! Mr. Devlin—!" She looked shocked.

"Just do as I say. Lift it up and it hold it at your waist."

There was a moment where our wills collided and we just stared at each other, but I knew in my heart that she wanted this. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I felt my will overcome hers and felt her give in, like a fist closing over her. Her hands went to her skirt and she began to gather up the fabric.

"All your life you've been dying for someone to know," I said to her. "You've needed to tell someone, you've prayed for someone to treat you like this. You've ached for it, Emma, haven't you?"

Her skirt was gathered above her panties now, and my right hand made contact with her bare thigh, midway between knee and groin, smooth and warm as the summer sun. She closed her eyes. Her nostrils flared.

"No," she said. "No."

"You've dreamt about a man who would show you what you are inside, who would make you feel what you're capable of feeling, because you know there's so much inside, don't you? You know there's so much more…"

My fingertips slid up her thigh, slowly working around to reach the inside as I approached her crotch, stroking first one leg, then the other, petting her as if she were a frightened animal. My body was very close to hers now, almost touching her. I could see her breasts rising and falling in the dim light.

Suddenly she put her hands on my shoulders and her skirt dropped over my wrist like a curtain. I kept my hand where it was between her legs.

"No," I said quietly. "There are rules here, Emma, and the first one is: you don’t touch me. Not without permission. I touch you, but you don't touch me, understand? Now pick up your skirt."

She took her hands off my shoulders and lifted her skirt again, revealing her snug panties and the smooth plane of her belly, tanned as dark as her legs. I brought my hand up and stroked her pussy through the smooth synthetic of her panties and she shuddered. I felt her legs quiver. Her cunt was warm and soft and humid and I could feel her anatomy perfectly through the thin fabric—her swollen labia, the bump of her clit..

"It's good to be touched, isn't it?" I asked her. "It feels good to have someone else touch you, someone who knows what he's doing. She likes me. She likes being touched. I can tell because she's getting wet. She's getting wet and she's opening like a little flower."

I pushed my finger against her and felt the fabric give over her hole. It was warm in there and hot, and a thick, sticky oil began to moisten the thin fabric. Emma leaned against the wall standing perfectly still, breathing fast and shallow, holding her skirt up as I'd ordered, exposing her pussy to my depredations. She had beautiful hands and elegant nails, but now they were squeezing the skirt so hard they were almost shaking. It was so quiet I could almost hear her clothes move as she breathed.

"What are you going to do?" she asked nervously. "What are you going to do to me?"

It was fairly obvious what I was going to do standing there with my fingers on her pussy, but I knew she wanted to hear the words. That's no problem., Words are my specialty.

I slid my fingers up and down her slit, forcing the fabric against her cunt. I found the bud of her clit and bore down on it, then eased up and let my fingertip flicker against it like a little flame. Emma moaned and then took a deep, shuddering gasp.

"Oh yes!" she hissed. "There! Right there!"

"Who's giving the orders?" I asked, pretending to be offended. I stopped flicking and started a slow, gentle massage of her clit, alternating it with stroking the length of her pussy.

"This is between me and your pussy, Emma," I said. "You're just along for the ride, because you’re attached. But me and her, we have an understanding. She likes what I'm doing and she knows I'm going to make her come, and she wants to come very much. She wants to come right in my hand as I play with her, and that's what we're going to do, right here, right in this class room. I'm going to play with that little whore pussy and make her come, Emma, and make you come too, understand?"

"Oh God!" she moaned, clenching her teeth against the pleasure as I rubbed her clit.

It was terribly lewd, just filthy, this beautiful young woman leaning against the wall of the darkened classroom with her legs apart, holding her skirt up for me as I masturbated her. I pushed the crotch band of her panties to the side and my fingers touched her naked flesh, soft and dripping. Emma was panting now, and I could feel her buttocks flexing unconsciously in a reflexive fucking motion as I fingered her clit and teased the inside of her cunt.

"Take your right hand, " I said, "and unbutton your blouse."

Her fingers were shaking as she did as I said.

"Another button."

The second button was at nipple level. The inner slopes of her breasts were visible now, full and ripe, encased in a smooth, sexy bra. My fingers were still playing in her pussy, holding the crotch of her panties aside with my ring finger while my middle finger played in her hole and my thumb and first finger slid around her clit. I leaned my head down so I could smell her perfume and began to lick the warm smoothness of her breasts.

Emma was perfect—perfect. She stood there and let me play in her soaking pussy and lick her tits, holding her skirt in her hands, either afraid to move or too enraptured—too thrilled by the way I toyed with and manipulated her. I'd been right. My feelings about her had been totally right. She was a woman who needed to be used, pleasured, violated, one of those women who can only give when it's taken from them—the kind of woman who drove me absolutely crazy.

"How is it, Emma? How is it?" I asked her as I slid my fingers into her cunt. "You're going to come, aren't you, bitch? You're going to come for me, right in my fucking hand."

"Oh God," she moaned. "No! No!"

But her hips were bucking up at me now as I fingered her and her thighs were flexing, pushing that soft hairless pussy onto my plundering fingers, giving it to me, a perfect whore for what I was doing.

"You love it, don’t you Emma! You love it!"

She looked at me in panic and I saw she was losing it. The excitement of being fingered and played with like a hot little whore was more than she could stand, and the hidden slut was coming out, wild, hungry and uninhibited.

It's magic when you have a woman like this—absolute magic. The hotter she gets, the more you want to do to her because you know it's turning her own, the shame, the loss of control. I wanted to give her more, so I reached behind her with my other hand and lifted the back of her skirt, worked my hand under the back of her panties and pressed a finger against her puckered asshole.

"Oh, Mr. D! Don't!" She gasped, pressing her head back against the wall, but I could feel her buttocks clenching on my finger as she fucked her pussy against me in helpless excitement.

"Give it to me, bitch!" I hissed as I leaned my weight against her. "Give it to me! Look at what I'm doing to you. Go on, look!"

I moved back enough to give her room so she could look down and see the way her hips were pushed out and pumping obscenely as my fingers slid in and out of her cunt. "Oh God!" she moaned, shamed by the sheer lasciviousness of her own degradation.

I grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, making her arch her back as my fingers stroked her cunt. I studied her face, seeing her lose it, seeing the look of raw animal lust on her features.

"Hold onto me now, Emma! Hold onto me as you come!"

Her thighs were trembling, her legs growing weak. She dropped her skirt and held onto my shoulder with one hand, while with the other she grabbed the hand that was fucking her pussy and used it like a dildo, fucking herself, far beyond self-consciousness or shame.

"Yes!" she screamed. "Yes! Yes! YESSS!!!!"

I was afraid her screams would attract attention, so I took my hand from her ass and covered her mouth as she shrieked out her obscene pleasure, her pussy pumping, her internal muscles pulling at me as she humped and jerked and came. And came and came and came.

Chapter 2

For a long, expectant moment Emma clung to me, in the darkened auditorium, her hips still writhing in the aftermath of her orgasm, her eyes closed and yet a look of unmistakable sensual satisfaction spread across her face. It was almost as if she were two different people, as if her pussy no longer took orders from her mind. I could feel her sense of relief, not only at her orgasmic explosion but that her secret was out at last, that I'd seen her most hidden needs, but covering that was a deep shame and quivering fear of what I'd think of her now that she'd revealed herself. Perhaps her pleasure had been worth it, but now it remained to be seen what I thought of her and how I'd treat her—whether I'd lost all respect for her.

She opened her eyes cautiously, her chest still heaving as she gasped for breath, afraid to look at me, afraid of what she'd see, and I knew that if I wanted to throw her down on one of the tables and fuck her blind like my body was urging me to do right then she could hardly stop me, but that would be the end of things between us. She'd see the whole experience as nothing more than a seduction and semi-rape and write me off as someone who saw her as nothing more than a slut and a whore and an easy piece of ass, and that was the last thing I wanted.

"Are you all right?" I asked her.

She nodded uncertainly. Her hand was still clutching her skirt up, and now I pulled it from her grasp and lowered it, then smoothed it over her thighs. I reached up and she flinched as I started to button her blouse, then she took over for me and finished it herself.

"Are you ashamed?"

She shook her head in denial, but I could see tears in her eyes.

To have said anything more at the time would have been wrong, would have seemed patronizing. To have held her against me and let her feel my erection and need would have been wrong as well, but to hold her protectively, to shield her from her own feelings—to at least try—that I could do, and I put one arm around her and cradled her head against my chest.

She was stiff and brittle and I felt her heart racing against me.

"This isn't the casual thing you think, Emma," I said. "You don’t know how long I've been thinking about you, wondering if you might be the one, if you had the gift."

"Gift?" Her voice was small and uncertain.

"Yes. Gift. What you gave me tonight was a gift, and you have no idea what it means to me. I don’t want this to be a one time thing. I don’t want this to be the last time."

She lifted her head away from my chest and looked at the floor. "No," she said. "It's wrong. There's something wrong with me and I know it. I shouldn’t be like this and I shouldn't want these things and I try not to. I try not to think about them because I know they're wrong."

"No," I said. I grabbed her head and made her look at me. "It's not wrong. It's not wrong at all. You read my stories, They're real Emma. Maybe not what happened in there, but the feelings are real. Like poetry. Is there something wrong with me too, then? Is there something wrong because we feel so deeply?"

"But no one else—"

"Fuck everyone else. What do they know? You've seen those zhlubs in class, how the words go right by their heads. What do they know? What do most of the people in the world know? You feel, Emma. You feel much more deeply than most of the people in the world do, and it's a gift. You think it's a sickness but it's a gift, and I want to show you how to use it. You don’t know what kind of treasure you have inside, but I do. Look— Grab your books and come with me. Come on…"

I picked up my briefcase and Emma took a moment to wipe her eyes and straighten her clothes, then retrieved her books and I held the door for her. We walked out into the hallway where the lights were already mostly off for the cleaning crew. Far down the corridor someone was vacuuming the carpet, and now that we were out in public our recent intimacy seemed to tie us even more closely together.

I walked her over to one the plate glass windows that looked out onto the woods beyond the parking lot and the glow of the suburbs, the strings of highways lights leading off into the darkness. The moon was up, looking pale and confused.

"You look at that and what do you feel?" I asked. I didn't wait for her to answer. "You feel the night inside you, something dark and delicious, full of secrets and beauty, something beyond words or your ability to express it, don't you, Emma? I know you do."

She stared out the window, her eyes large and luminous. "Yes." She nodded, then smiled privately. "But I've always been weird."

"Yeah. And I've always been weird too." I smiled back. "But those feelings are real, and I can show you how to reach them, how to experience them. I can bring the night inside, Emma. All those things you've dreamed of? I can make them real, and you know what? They're even better in reality than they are in your imagination. They're much, much better."

I took her arm and led her down the corridor to my office and unlocked the door. She stood in the corridor looking nervously inside, and I knew all I had to do was order her inside and she'd follow. I'd lock the door and keep the lights off and tell her to lean over the desk and she would, then I'd open my pants and take out my aching cock, push her skirt up over her hips and pull her panties to the side and thrust it into her. God, I'd go in so smooth! She'd still be wet and ready and she'd gasp. Her knuckles would grip the edge of the cheap metal desk and she'd start to rock back and forth as I fucked her, moaning softly, and she'd drop her head in female submission as I held her hips and guided her up and back, plundering her pussy with my thick tool before I threw my head back in rapture and shot my heavy load into her.

Yeah. I could have all that right then and there, and my dick was aching for it, but that's not what I wanted. I wanted a lover, not a piece of ass, someone who was in this as deeply as I was, and for that, I needed for her to want me too. I had to leave her wanting more.

I put my briefcase down on the desk and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind me, and saw the trace of disappointment on her face as the lock clicked shut. She wanted it even though she knew she shouldn't want it, and that was perfect.

"Come on," I said. "I'll walk you to your car."

"I'm parked right outside."

"That's okay. I just have something to tell you."

The lots were empty for the evening classes during the summer, so we were pretty much alone. Emma drove a nice car, white and sporty. The summer air was warm and balmy and the wind rustled through the poplars. It all looked so normal and suburban and collegiate.

"Next class," I said, "Wear a skirt and no panties, understand? If you want to go further with this, if you want me to show you what I know, wear a skirt with no panties and sit where you've been sitting so I can see. That's how I'll know you've agreed. Can you do that?"

She looked at me and I saw her nostrils flare slightly. "You're serious?"

"I'm very serious."

"But you don't know anything about me."

"I know enough. The rest I really don't care about. Who do you live with? Your parents?"

"No," she said. "Some girlfriends. We share an apartment."

"Well tell them you'll be late next Thursday. You're going out for drinks after class."

Emma opened her car and stopped. "I don’t know anything about you either."

"Like what?"

"Are you married? Have a girlfriend?"

"No and no."

"How can I get a hold of you?"

"You can't. I don’t want to be chatting on the phone and trading life stories, but here, I'll give you my address and cell number. Just don’t use them except in emergencies, okay?"

I write them down in her notebook as she watched.

"You live in the city?" she asked.

"Yes. In a loft. It's nice. Maybe you'd like to see it sometime?"

Emma closed her notebook and gave me flirty smile. "Yes. Maybe I would."

I watched her red tail lights as she drove away, then I went back into the building and into my office. I kept the lights off, spun my chair away from the door, unbuckled my pants and pulled down my zipper. The fingers of my right hand still smelled like Emma's pussy, and the memory of her soft, slippery flesh was still upon them. More, I could clearly see her face as she struggled to hold onto her composure as I masturbated her, see the female animal within her struggling to break through the inhibitions and the smooth, American-model California perfect make-up. I could see the dark female need behind that sunny artificial wholesomeness—the even white teeth that needed to bite, the painted and glossed lips that needed to suck and open in a scream of ecstasy, the sloppy, throbbing cunt beneath her cute, up-to-date clothes.

That was it—the savage, the wild, feral female, lust-crazed, dizzy with orgasm. That's what I wanted, and my hand pumped my cock as I thought of her arched in pleasure, tied hand and foot, surrendering to the sensations I caused her, pushing out her orgasms at me one after another like something she had to get rid of, and then the burning, tingling, ecstasy was on me and I spurt my come for her in hot, impotent bursts catching the jets in my other palm to keep it from splattering all over my pants.

Chapter 3

I wasn't really nervous about the next class session. It wasn't that I was feeling cocky or especially sure of myself. It was more like I was sure of Emma, sure of who she was and what she was like, and I knew that it was going to happen, maybe not then, but then next session, or the session after. We'd shared too much of ourselves, an intimacy that went beyond the merely sexual, and my acceptance of her bound her to me in a way that she couldn't easily walk away from. If I'd just played with her and then fucked her, she could have blown it off as a one-time affair, a kind of mistake, and used my own guilt against me. She could have expected I'd spend the rest of the semester avoiding her, and she would have cozied up to her own feelings of being sick and perverse and accepted my rejection as the price of her perversion.

At the time I met Emma I was in the second year of struggling with my Novel, my Big Project, a dry, overly-intellectual, over-thought pile of crap that got more and more discouraging and unreadable the longer I worked on it. What money I was making from writing came from writing porn—knocking off quicky romantica novels of sex and passion featuring dominance and submission, bondage and discipline, and the truth was, I was much better at writing this kind of stuff than I was at writing what I thought of as serious literature. When I wrote sex, I wrote it with my heart and soul. I discovered things, I remembered things, I imagined things. I wouldn't say I became obsessed, but I did become consumed with a special kind of need for a special kind of woman. I became attuned to the sexual flame that burned inside me and began to see everything by its light. I became a kind of antenna, and that's why I was so sure about Emma.

Emma came in. She was wearing a salmon pink tank top with the bra straps showing, which was the fashion that summer (although I doubted she'd worn it that way at work), and a black skirt. She was also wearing a big pair of sunglasses, which she'd never done before. The sunglasses made her look very mysterious, and the top did great things for her breasts. I wasn't the only one who stared, or, rather, who pretended not to. She took a seat in the fourth row up and crossed her legs so I couldn’t see if she'd followed my instructions or not.

It was the first indication I'd seen that Emma was adept at playing this game too, that maybe she wasn't the innocent victim of her own uncontrollable desires, but that she was entirely capable of inciting them in others. She knew what she was doing, and now that the game was afoot, she was showing me she could play it too. I knew then and there she had nothing on under her skirt.

It wasn't the longest lecture of my life but it seemed like it, and Emma said little, sitting there inscrutable behind her sunglasses as if daring me to guess what was on her mind, and I had to stay behind the lectern to keep from showing the incipient erection that began the moment I laid eyes on her and continued throughout the class. It was a great relief when, towards the end of the period, some of the kids got involved in a discussion of a Robert Frost poem and I could shut up for a while. I glanced at Emma and she slouched down in her seat and uncrossed her legs.

I was leaning on the lectern and the light was bad, and in fact, I couldn't see all the way up her skirt, but then, I didn't have to. There's no reason a girl would sit like that with her knees open under the table unless she were showing you something, and she certainly wouldn't choose that moment to take off her sunglasses and rub the temple slowly across her lower lip as she looked you in the eye, nor would she raise her skirt and rub her knee.

She apparently saw in the color of my face or the clench of my jaw that her message had been received and she pushed her skirt down and suddenly sat up in her seat and looked at her notes as if they were the most interesting things in the world, crossing her legs demurely upon her salacious secret.

I felt physically dizzy. All my blood rushed either to my face or my crotch and my cock sprang violently to life like a fist trying to tear through my shorts. I thought I'd wanted her before, that I'd been aroused just when I saw her, but now I felt like a charging bull who'd just caught sight of a matador's red cape and I had to dig my fingers into the side of the lectern to hold on against the rush of pure testosterone I felt.

The conversation continued but I had no idea what they were talking about. Emma studied her notes and put her sunglasses casually up on her head so that she looked typically suburban but, to me, even more devastatingly erotic for its plainness. Her arms were across her breasts (the lecture hall often got too cold from the AC) and I don’t know how she knew I was looking, but she spread hr knees apart again, her thighs straining the fabric of the skirt, and this time I could see her lurid nakedness, the shaved cleft of her pussy within the shadows of her skirt.

For a moment I had the insane idea of reaching down and masturbating behind the lectern, but that was sheer madness (although the idea of turning this class into a group of naked, masturbating, students had a certain erotic appeal) Besides, the object with Emma was to establish control. Yes she was beautiful and desirable and aroused the hell out of me, but without control this would be just another relationship, and I wanted more than that. I wanted much more than that.

At last the conversation drew to a close. I handed out the homework assignments. Some of the kids came down to talk to me and I got rid of them as quickly as possible. Emma stayed in her seat, writing furiously as if transcribing notes. I hustled the last of the kids out telling them I had to give Emma a make-up quiz and physically walking them out the door of the lecture hall so I could watch them go and be sure we were alone. Then I closed the door and turned off the lights. The dark seemed our natural element.

"Emma?"

She finished her writing, put away her pen, gathered up her books and stood up. She walked up the steps to where I stood, right where we were the other night, her face expressionless. I could see the pulse beating in her throat. Her eyes flicked up at me, then down. She was waiting. I let her wait. This was about control.

"Here," she said at last. "Do you want these?" She dug in her bag and took out a pair of tiny black panties and put them in my hand.

"Well, I couldn't very well go to work without them, could I?" she asked.

I held them to my face. They were so small. I'm always amazed at how women get themselves into things so small They smelled like powder and perfume and only faintly of her body.

"Turn around," I said.

She looked confused but turned around, and I straightened out the crumpled panties and pulled her hands back and slipped them through the leg holes, then twisted them till they tightened on her wrists like a tourniquet. I turned her back to face me, still holding her wrists trapped in her panties.

The sight of a bound woman is terrifically, almost unbearably erotic to me, even if she's bound only in play. It's been that way ever since I can remember, even before I knew what sex was. Emma was standing in front of me now with her wrists bound behind her, her breasts straining against the tight pink tank top. I pushed her back against the wall and leaned over her, my shadow covering her like a blanket. Her eyes were unusually white in the darkness

"Anyone ever do anything like this to you before?" I asked, tightening my grip on her bonds.

"Yes. Once. A long time ago. We were only playing, we were kids. We didn't know what we were doing."

With her arms behind her she was like a sculpture, all curves and defenseless softness, offering herself to me. I was already breathing fast and my cock was hard. I pressed it against her hip so she could feel very well what she was doing to me, then caressed her face with my hand, feeling the feminine warmth of her skin. I traced my way down her throat, her chest, and over the bulge of her breast, feeling the exact point where the edge of her bra confined the fullness of her flesh. I felt the firmness of her nipple under my palm.

"Did you like it?" I asked.

"Yes. I loved it. It still scares me how much I loved it."

I don’t know what else she could have said that would have aroused me so much or driven me so absolutely mad with desire for her. It was that mention of fear that did it, that told me she was the genuine article, because where we were going was scary, a place where you can lose yourself, where you can find out that you're not who you thought, a place where the night takes over and swallows you up and all you have is your lover to bring you back.

And as if that admission of fear were her last defense, she opened her mouth to my kiss and met me with a desperate, sucking hunger, giving herself and showing me how she wanted to be plundered and used. I held onto those twisted panties and felt her arms strain against them as she tried her strength against mine because she had to know I was serious. She had to know I wouldn't let her go and that she had no choice but to surrender, and I kissed her violently, making her take my tongue and teasing the inside of her mouth. My hand slid down and closed on her chest and I felt that maddening firm softness of a woman's gravid tit, heavy and filled with sensual comfort. I found her nipple through her bra and pinched it, and that seemed to set her off even more.

Oh yes I was right about her. I was right, I was right. She loved my roughness, my passion and hunger, the pleasure that bordered on pain. I held her wrists and played with her tits and kissed her, then pulled the neck of her top down till her breasts spilled over the top and I bit and licked them as my hand found its way down to her crotch and I began to lift her skirt.

"Oh no! No!" she moaned, but I knew she had to say that, just as I had to refuse to listen to her.

"Listen," I whispered into her ear. "This is Thursday and there's no one here. The cleaning crew isn't even in this part of the building on Thursdays. Understand?"

"No," she said. "No…" but her hips were already moving in a lewd and urgent invitation even though her skirt was still stretched several inches below her naked pussy.

I pressed my lips against her throat and continued to inch her skirt upwards, wanting her to feel every millimeter of thigh as it was exposed, until finally there was no need to go any higher. I touched her between her legs, an she turned her face to me, begging for a kiss, desperate to hide her emotions as my fingers slid along her exposed wetness.

"Please," she gasped. "Don't make me! Don't!"

A little plea for dignity, but dignity would be the first thing to go, was already gone. Emma's arms were tied behind her in her own panties, her top was pulled down and her tits were crowded together and almost popping out of her bra, her nipples peeking over the edge like rising suns, and her chest shining in the dark with my saliva. Despite her protests, her hips were humping and revolving against my fingers with obscene urgency as she tried to bring them into contact with her clit.

It was way too late to ask me to stop. Way too late, and I played with Emma's pussy like it was a handful of pearls, toying with her and strumming her like a harp. And if I needed any more proof of her level of excitement, I only had to bring my mouth close to hers and feel her feverish kiss, a kiss that begged and pleaded with me one minute, then bit me in savage impatience the next. Her tongue fluttered in my mouth like a little bird in a burning house, trying to get free and it drove me mad, because something was inside Emma trying to get free, and I wanted it. I wanted it with every fiber of my being. I wanted her to give it to me and me alone, and I wanted all of it.

And suddenly she gave it to me. She tore her lips from mine and cried out, then choked on her own breath and arched her body away from the wall, shoving her pussy out onto my hands. I saw a brief look of panic in her eyes, as if she couldn't believe this was happening to her, and I grabbed her panties tight and used them to press her body against mine with all my strength, as if she might fly apart. I shoved my finger into her deep, deep—deep and held it there as her thighs quivered and trembled and orgasmic spasms made her bear down on my finger in waves of peristaltic pleasure that made me absolutely dizzy with desire.

The sight of Emma coming was so intense that I felt my own orgasm start and only stopped it by sheer force of will, pulling my cock away from her body and just holding her as her body snapped like a whip with each convulsive release, trying not to think, trying to keep my mind a blank.

I held her up, let go of her panties and just held her against me as she shook and trembled and her orgasm faded like distant thunder. She worked her hands out of the crumpled garment and held onto my shoulders, panting.

"You okay?" I asked.

"God!" she said. "I was just so turned on all day, thinking about it. That was intense."

"Can you walk?"

"Of course. Yes. Why? Where are we going?"

"My office," I said. "It's my turn."

Chapter 4

Emma put herself together and got her books and picked up her panties from the floor, and we didn't say much as we walked down the hall to my office. The corridor was deserted, and only every fourth light was left on, making the place look especially forlorn.

I'd originally thought about taking Emma to a motel, but that seemed wrong somehow, and my place in the city was too far. Besides, this was not a simple love affair or sexual tryst. There was a wrongness about this and a transgressiveness that was a deep part of the very fabric of this relationship at this point. Maybe we could have done it in a car, or behind a dumpster, or in some basement boiler room, but that's the way it had to be, furtive, secretive, perverse and illicit. My office would do nicely.

As an adjunct instructor at Crane, I didn't have my own office. I had a desk in an office used by two other, full-time instructors but that was all right. No one was around after 3 PM anyhow—ever—so the office might as well have been mine. The narrow window in the office door had been covered with construction paper by one of the full-timers so he could sleep in there unobserved, and although one wall was all window with a view of the parking lot, if the office lights were off you couldn't see in.

I'd already brought in what I needed before class in a box and left it under my desk, and now, as Emma stood uncertainly in the darkness, I set about my business.

"Take off your clothes," I said as I spread a blanket over the top of the steel desk.

"What?"

"Come on. Take off your skirt and your top. No one's coming in."

Despite the darkness, I could see her uncertainty. Fear of the Teacher's Office dies hard, even in adults. Besides that, I realized I was being rude, ordering her around like a paid prostitute. That’s not my way and that’s not how I wanted her to feel.

“Here,” I said gently. “Come here.”

I reached into the box and pulled out a length of white nylon rope, finger-thick and soft as silk. I turned her around and began to wrap it around her wrists.

“I’m not going to tie you,” I said. “I’m going to lash you. There’s a difference. Lashing doesn’t use any knots. You can always work your way free with enough effort. I don’t want you to panic.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said. “I’m not. I trust you.”

Somehow she knows just what to say to bring me to the boiling point. I quickly finished lashing her wrists with the thick white rope and spun her around and took her in a bruising kiss, crushing her against me, one hand n the back of her head, the other on her ass. I was devastated by her trust and her willingness, by the gift of herself. I’d often heard other doms talking about the gift of trust but I’d never felt it like this, this intensely. The other women I’d played with had to be coaxed and reassured, were nervous and skittish.

Emma wanted it. She wanted to be helpless for me, and the realization just destroyed me. I could have fallen to my knees at her feet at that moment, conquered by her submission.

I held her face in my hands and kissed her feverishly, her mouth, her cheeks and eyes. It was so incongruous yet so beautiful, standing in that dark and ugly office with this woman tied up for me, letting these waves of carnal excitement wash over me in this place of intellectual dedication.

My hand went to the waist of her skirt and I fumbled about, looking for the zipper. It was in the back, and I opened it and unbuttoned the button and tugged the skirt down her thighs till it puddled around her ankles like a shadow and she was naked from the waist down. At that point I was overcome and I pushed her back until her ass his the edge of the desk. I got on my knees and held her ass and began to lick and kiss her hips and thighs and belly, tasting the salt of her sweat and her female musk. Emma gasped.

“Mr. Devlin! Oh, Mr. Devlin!”

“Conner,” I said. “Conner.” Though this was no time to exchange names, and I didn’t care what she called me.

“Please! What are you going to do?”

“What am I going to do?” I asked, dragging my tongue up her thigh. “I’m going to eat you, my dear. I’m going to suck that pussy till you come in my mouth, till you turn into a pile of quivering female jelly, and when you do—when you simply can’t stand it any more, when you can’t live another instant without my cock inside you—then I’m going to fuck you, Emma. I’m going to fuck you hard and deep like you’ve never been fucked before. Do you understand?”

“Oh God!” she moaned

I stood up and lifted her onto the narrow side of the desk and Emma leaned back on her bound hands. I lifted up her tank top and pulled it over her head, but because her hands were lashed together, I had to leave it hanging from her wrists. Her bra opened in front (clever girl!) and that met the same fate, hanging from her bound wrists, and I began to suck and kiss her tits as I opened my own shirt. We were both in a fever of excitement and Emma’s head fell back in pleasure as I sucked her nipples into aching hardness and lashed them with my tongue, then peeled my shirt off and threw it aside.

I got to my knees and took her ankles in my hands. She still wore her shoes, smart little sandals, and I left them on, and as I lifted her ankles she started to fall back on the desk and I stopped and helped her lie down.

“Put your hands under the small of your back,” I said. “That’ll help raise your hips too.”

Emma twisted around on the blanket until she was reasonably comfortable and I got back down on my knees and took her ankles again. I love holding a woman’s ankles. It feels so possessive and powerful, not to mention absolutely sexy, and you can squeeze hard without hurting them. Emma had beautiful ankles and I held them tight and bent her knees up and she raised her head to look down at me with a deliciously fearful look on her face.

I must have been fearful to behold. I was aflame with lust, absolutely afire, and I hovered above her pussy like a lion above his kill. The mere proximity to her sex had the hormones gushing in my body and the muscles in my arms and shoulders were swollen and tight as I lowered my face and licked the insides of her thighs, all the way up to her pussy. Emma whimpered and twisted her hips and her scent drove me mad. I stuck out my tongue and dragged it up her slit and her juice was like honey on my tongue.

“Ahhhhh!” she arched her back and I felt her toes curl as I circled her clit with my tongue and began to suck. I already knew her most sensitive spot and I threw her thighs over my shoulders and began to suck her clit in and out as I finger-fucked her. She squeezed my head with her strong thighs and began to pump obscenely, hungry for another come, and I let her use me, reveling in her female lust. She rose to it quickly, and suddenly her hips were shaking against me, vibrating against my face as her clit twitched and pussy squeezed my fingers and she choked and gasped, writhing on the desk.

I slowed and stopped, giving her time to come down, not yet knowing how much she could take or how much recovery time she needed, but she’d barely caught her breath when her hips began moving again, twisting and rocking, shyly asking for more, more.

“Hot bitch!” I snarled. “You got more for me?”

“Oh yes, baby. Please! Please, it’s so good!”

I smiled as I reached over her thigh and spread her cunt apart, exposing her hot little clit in its little nest, I fluttered my tongue against it and sucked the sweet inner tissues of her pussy, tongue fucked her then spit on her clit and licked it off. Looking up at her I could se those gorgeous tits rising like islands in the moonlight, crowned with stiff rosy nipples that seemed to pointing at the ceiling. They trembled with each shuddering breath.

I was like a satyr, a devil, sucking her between her legs, feeding on her cunt like a humming bird at a pool of nectar, and Emma seemed to come and come, one orgasm blending into another in an endless stream till finally she was gasping and moaning,.

“Oh God, no! No more! Fuck me! Please. Just fuck me!”

I got up and stood over her, my eyes burning, my face smeared with her pussy juice. I must have looked like a madman.

“You want to get fucked, Emma? Then you’re going to have to agree to my terms. I want you, Emma. I want you to be mine. I want to train you and have you and use you and fuck you. I want you to be my slave and my lover and I want to teach you to do all the things I’ve always dreamed of doing. Do you agree?”

She looked at me fearfully, alarm breaking through the spell of lust. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re something very rare, Emma. Something rare and precious, something I’ve been looking for for years now and I don’t want you to get away.”

”I don’t understand.”

“Okay, listen. I don’t care about your life outside, about who you see and what you do, if you have a boyfriend or not and all that crap. But I want you two nights a week at least. I want to show you what you have inside, what you’re capable of feeling. I’ve never seen anyone as sexual as you, Emma. I don’t want you to just think this is a couple nights of fun and that’s it, understand? There’s something here. Something deeper than just sex.”

She looked at me as if no one had ever said these things to her before, as if she really believed that the desires she had inside were sick and perverse and something to be ashamed of and had no idea of what they would do to a man—or to the right man.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You don’t have to do anything now," I replied. "I’m not a stalker and I’m not going to chain you to the radiator, and this is something you have to enter into of your own free will. But I need for you to know that this is more than just some quickie student-teacher affair, Emma. This goes deeper than that”

She didn’t know what to say so I saved her the trouble. I leaned over and kissed her. I dropped my tongue into her mouth and fucked her with it until she began to suck on it and caress it with her own, responding instinctively to having her body penetrated. Everything she did was so maddeningly female, so giving and accepting. Her nipples pressed against my bare chest and her legs closed reflexively around my ass, pulling me against her. She was still horny. She was still ready for more.

I broke the kiss and smiled down at her, knowing we had an agreement.

“Back to business,” I said. “Now let me show you something.”

I went to the box and got more rope, then tied several turns around each ankle as she watched me from the desk, her breasts heaving with excitement as I bound her. I turned her on her side and unlashed her wrists, then pulled off the tangle of her tank top and bra and tossed them on a chair and tied cuffs of rope around each wrist. I strung lengths of rope through each cuff and down to the corresponding ankle and pulled them snug so that Emma’s arms were drawn down and her ankles pulled up against her ass, her knees forced open in an obscene, froglike position, totally exposing her sex, leaving her open and helpless.

“You’ve heard of hog-tying?” I asked as I tied the ropes tight. “Well this is called frog-tying and it’s one of those things I talked about wanting to show you.”

Emma whined. She tried to close her knees but the ropes were too tight and the strain too much, and her legs trembled and then fell lewdly open again as she panted from the effort. I reached out and caressed her breast, then ran my hand down her body and roughly massaged her pussy. I stuck my finger inside her and began to finger fuck her and there was nothing she could do. It was like I owned her totally now—my own private little cum-slut, unable to do anything but lie there in the ropes and take it. She began to pant, excited by her own helplessness, and her pussy seemed to suck greedily at my finger.

At the heart of the BDSM experience there is always a moment like this, at least for me. There's a moment when woman as icon—all the attraction and longing and desire she inspires—has been stripped away and the man feels, however rightly or wrongly, that he's reduced her to his level—to that of a sexual beast, a creature of pure sensuality. That's something he understands. That's something he feels he can master. He'll never conquer his longing for her or the weakness she makes him feel when he looks at her, but in conquering her body and in taking charge of her sensations, he at least feels he's gained some control of his heart again. He feels like a man again.

Or at least that's the way I felt with Emma tied and exposed on that desk—something primal and primitive and more basic than even love or affection, a kind of deep sexual polarity of male and female, blind and biological.

“This is the way I keep a bad girl exposed,” I said in a hoarse whisper as I caressed her pussy and studied her face. “This way I can fuck her or play with her or eat her or do almost anything to her. Like spank her when she needs spanking. When she's a greedy little cum-whore and needs spanking”

I slapped her lightly on the clit and Emma jumped. I spanked her again with the same result, and now she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“Ever come from having your clit spanked?” I asked. “Too bad I didn't bring a whip. I could make you come like that. Emma. Sounds pretty nasty, doesn’t it?”

I stood up and at last I began to take off my pants, opening my belt and pulling down my zipper. I kicked off my shoes and socks, then stripped off my pants and threw them on a chair. My shorts were soaked with pre-cum, a wet spot the size of a dollar bill covered the fly where I'd been leaking during our play. From her awkward position, Emma raised her head to watch me undress and see what was in store for her. I didn't care. It just felt so fucking good to let him loose at last.

I won’t lie. I’m no Johnny Wadd and don’t sport a ten-incher, but I was harder then hell and those veins were pumping and he was red and drooling like a rabid cobra, straining to get inside her like a mastiff on a leash. He looked like I felt—mad, evil, and swollen to bursting with power and lust.

“You ready, Emma?" I growled. "You ready to get fucked?” I pulled her ass to the edge of the desk and pushed her knees apart . My cock arced like a missile over the open trench of her cunt.

She didn’t say anything, just tugged at the ropes and mewled, so I stuck my thumb in her pussy and started fucking her with it as I thrummed her clit, giving her one last tease.

“Come on, baby. Are you ready? Do you want it? Or do you need to come some more?”

“Oh please,” she said. “Just do it! Fuck me!”

“No. I think you’ve got more. I think you’ve got more for me, don’t you? You’re holding out, Emma. You’re holding out.”

I pulled my thumb from her cunt and spanked her clit with the back of my hand, just flicking my fingers against it. Emma groaned and tried to close her legs, but I had one hand on her knee and there was nothing she could do. did it again, then again, and again, setting up a regular rhythm, my fingers splashing down in the wet trough of her pussy, rudely spanking that turgid little nub. She was hypersensitive by now, and every spank made her jerk and twitch, made her thrust her cunt up and made her asshole contract. The muscles on the insides of her thighs trembled and she moaned feebly, too ashamed to admit that even this crude punishment felt good.

“Come on, baby,” I hissed at her. “Give me that come, Emma! Give me that one last come. I want to shove my dick into you while you’re spitting out that hot juice. Look at you all tied up like a fucking slave! You can’t even move, can you? I’m going to stand here and slap that hot little cunt till you give me that come, bitch, till I see the juice running down your ass. So come on. Give it to me! Give it to me, Emma!”

“Oh! God! No! No!” she grunted as I spanked her pussy. Her hands twisted desperately in the bonds, her stomach tightened convulsively and her tits quaked on her chest as spasms of painful pleasure wracked her body.

I grabbed my cock in one hand and opened her cunt with the other and began to slap the head against her clit. My dick felt like it weighed a ton and the sound it made as it splashed into her wet trough was like a log splattering into a muddy swamp. I beat her cunt with my prick and each blow was a jolt of pleasure for us both

Splatt!! Whapp!! Smackk!! Shplapp!!

I bent over and grabbed her hair as if I could pull the come out of her, pulling her head to the side till she opened her teeth in a grimace of pain.

"Give it to me, bitch! Give it to me, you hot cunt!"

Slapp!! Whackk!! Splatt!! Plapp!!

Faster and faster I beat her with my cock, and Emma wailed and screamed so loud I was afraid they'd hear her at the other end of the hallway, so I quickly grabbed her rumpled panties from the chair and stuffed them into her open mouth. That seemed to be the last straw, the final indignity she needed. She wailed behind the black gag of her panties and arched her back and started to come again—the big one this time, the soul-killer—and at that moment I stopped slapping her with my dick, pushed the head dick down with my thumb so it found her hole, and shoved the whole length into her with one thrust of my hips, right at the height of her climax.

"Oh Jesus Fucking Christ!" I moaned, throwing my head back in ecstasy. She was coming hard inside, her pussy clamping down and fluttering around my shaft, her thighs squeezing me convulsively as I invaded her. She was all soft and tight inside, and slick and hotter than hell and I could feel those secret feminine muscles milking and pulling at me as she howled through her panty-stuffed lips.

I grabbed hold of her tits and held them like handles as I started fucking her, swinging my ass like a wrecking ball against her, using the big muscles in my ass and thighs to send my cock thundering up into her against the resistance of her spasming pussy again and again, the lewd squelching sounds of cock in pussy and the sharp violent slap of loins against thighs like pistol shots in the room. With her hands pulled down almost to her feet, Emma was able to just reach my thighs as I fucked her and she scratched and clawed at me in her frenzy as I fucked her with savage power. I let go over her tits and grabbed her thighs so I could hold her steady because I was shoving her across the desk from the force of my thrusts.

"Ugh! You fucking bitch! Do you like this cock, Emma? Do you like this fucking cock?"

I reached up and pulled the panties from her mouth and threw them aside, but all she could do was wail, head back, eyes open wide and sightless as I fucked her, tits sloshing on her chest from the force of my blows. She seemed stunned by the force of her last orgasm, out of it, in a state of semi-shock and limp, but when I slid my thumb against her clit and started playing with her, she suddenly came alive, her head jerking up to watch my thick cock sluicing in and out of her pussy.

"Oh God yes! Yes!" she cried. "Make me come! Make me come! Make me come!" She chanted it like a breathless mantra as her body rocked on the table and it drove me mad. I felt my orgasm start and I grabbed her ass in my hands and squeezed, holding her buttocks and cramming that dick into her, fucking her so fast that I was like a jackhammer, fucking her so fast I couldn't even breath. All there was was the feeling of her cunt on my dick,. that pressure in my balls, that feeling of her body in my hands.

"Oh fuck yes!" I cried. "Gonna come, baby! Gonna come in you, Emma! Jesus! Jesus, baby!"

I loomed over her now with a look of absolute rage on my face, muscles swollen, fingers digging into her ass—the rage of orgasm, the helpless gush of seed. Emma was hysterical, squeezing me, twisting her hips, trying to pull it out of me. I rose up on my toes as I felt it start, trying to cram the last inch of dick into her as the thunder shot from the soles of my feet and blasted from my balls and the come blew out of my dick with the force of a fire hose.

"Fuck!" I cried, "Fuck, Baby! Take it! Take my hot come!"

I leaned back, hips out, fingers clawed into her ass, holding her against me like some come-receptacle as my ass flexed and body twitched in powerful contractions, sending my semen shooting in hard, heavy gouts deep into her quivering belly, one after another, each one accompanied by a burst of mind-shattering ecstasy. I could picture the hot white seed splattering into her soft pink insides and dripping from her tissues, coating her with my thick ejaculate, and the image just brought fresh bursts of come boiling up from my balls.

I came so hard my legs started to tremble, and then my arms, and my belly—all of me, wracked by a post orgasmic weakness like I'd rarely known. The girl had sucked it all out of me, had made me come like a hydrant. With trembling hands I untied the ropes that held her wrists to her ankles and her legs flopped over the desk.

"Can you move?" I asked.

"I don't know," she replied. "I don’t think so."

I laughed. I moved to the side of the desk and grabbed her waist and pulled her up till she was lying on the desk. It was big enough that I was able to climb up there with her and put my arms around her. She seemed uneasy.

"You don't have to," she said.

"Don’t have to what?"

"Hold me."

I looked at her. "What if I want to?"

She made a face and shrugged. "Most other guys don't."

"You've done this before?"

"Not like this. Not so… elaborate. But I told you, there's something wrong with me. I like it too much. Men don't like girls like me, so I seem to have a lot of one-night stands. They always think they have to hold me afterwards, but it's okay if you don't."

I stared at her now as she lay there. I'd left bruises on her tits and the rope was still on her wrists. She was full of my semen and more of it was even now leaking out between her legs and drying on her thighs.

"It's a fucked-up world," I said, "Filled with fucked-up people. But I don't think you're one of them. I think these other guys were. I want to hold you because I want to hold you, not because I feel sorry for you. We have an agreement, remember? This is only the start."

Emma looked at me and brought her hands up over her breasts, as if to protect herself. Her eyes in the dark were luminous. "You're serious?" she asked.

"Yes. Dead serious."

I slid my arm under her head and pulled her to me and she rolled partway so that she was pressed against my side. I kissed her shoulder and caressed her hair and she put her leg over mine.

"It feels good, being held," she said.

"It feels good holding you."

Outside the office and the dull, plain community college building the parking lot ran down to a patch of grass, then a copse of trees separated the campus from the highway that led to the dreary grid of suburban streets and fast food places, most of them eerily empty at this hour. I had promised her connection and intimacy, and instead had delivered sexual pleasure, with ropes and violation and overt perversity.

There'd be time to find out if they were the same.