A college student who sometimes forgets to eat.
A college student bored in bed while she studies and draws idly on her own skin.
In classic Zenny fashion, she is a mix of fearlessness and uncertainty, squaring her shoulders and hiding nothing from my hungry gaze while she bites nervously at her lower lip.
“Perfect,” I rasp, and I see how my praise affects her. Good. I plan on praising her lots over the coming month. “Now finish eating while I look at you.”
“I—what?”
“Finish eating. I know you went to the shelter after your classes today, and I’m going to guess that you haven’t put anything in your stomach since maybe some coffee you had this morning.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Maybe.”
“And how often is that the case? That you’re doing so much between school and the shelter that you miss your meals?”
One of her hands comes up to rub at her shoulder as she looks away. “Often,” she admits.
“That ends tonight,” I say sternly. “Eat.”
There’s a moment when I think it’s coming, the inevitable asshole, the moment she tells me to stop. She doesn’t need some white guy playing Daddy with her, she definitely doesn’t need someone treating her like she’s not capable of caring for herself. But Carolyn Bell was a social worker until her cancer diagnosis, one Bell brother was a priest, another Bell brother burns a candle at both ends like his wick will never run out. I’ve seen what happens to busy people, and I know it’s much, much easier to justify losing a night’s worth of sleep for the cause than it is to justify taking ten minutes to make a sandwich. The most selfless people, the most driven people, they need permission to take care of themselves, they need someone who will put them first, because they won’t do it for themselves.
The word asshole never leaves her lips. Her eyes flash with irritation, then they shimmer into some internal struggle that leaves her lower lip trapped between her teeth and her hand hovering over her fork.
After a short silence, she picks up the fork and takes a bite. And another. And another, until her plate is clear. I watch her the entire time, stretching out in my chair and thrilling in this new feeling that’s a potent mixture of desire and a caveman-like satisfaction at tending to someone’s needs. The combination of seeing her eat the food I provided and the promise of all that smooth skin slowly pebbling into goose bumps.
She pushes her plate back and sets down her fork, giving me a look that says well? And also giving a little shiver of anticipation, because she thinks that was it, that I had my bossy fun and now we’ll move on to the part where I fuck away her sort-of virginity.
I do really, really want to do that. But I have plans first. Because if she really were my girl, there’s a certain way these things would unfold and since I’ve officially committed to Project Doubt, I’m going to give this experiment everything in my considerable power. Seduction, affection, bossiness, fun—everything.
I stand up, not bothering to adjust the thick penis pushing against my slacks; I’ve been hard for so long tonight that I’ve stopped caring if it shows. Zenny’s eyes follow my body as I clear the table and set the dishes in the sink, and more than once, I see her gaze linger over the ridge of my erection.
I resist the urge to smirk, but only just, coming back after washing my hands and helping her out of her chair. Then I trace a finger down her belly, circling her navel until she shivers.
“I’m going to unbutton these jeans, Zenny,” I tell her. “I’m going to unzip them. Then I’m going to slide my fingers inside your panties and play with what I find there. Yes?”
“Yes,” she breathes, her stomach quivering under my fingertip, and I make good on my word, slowly working the metal jean button through the buttonhole until it pops free.
Zenny gives an answering exhale—shaky but determined. I keep my eyes on her face as I tug the short zipper down, keeping tabs on her expression, on her comfort. Some embarrassment is normal, nerves are to be expected—but there’s a razor-fine balance I need to maintain between giving her what she wants and pushing her too fast. A month just isn’t enough time to do this properly, to cultivate and tend to her blooming lusts. To awaken her body.
If I could ask for anything right now, it would be a year with her. A year of tutoring and teasing and bossing and savoring her.
Even a year wouldn’t be enough.
That thought pings through the rest of my musings, loud and resonant, and I’m not sure where to put it, so I ignore it for now. I need to focus on what’s important, which is the girl trembling all pretty and eager in front of me.
I run my fingertips along the scalloped line of her panties, which match the color and the filmy material of her bra. I know without asking that this is probably the most daring lingerie she owns, and despite how modest it actually is—there’s no straps or mesh or cut-outs or any of the usual trimmings that makes women’s underthings into confections of fun—it makes the entire effect more delicious somehow, more sinful. My sort-of virgin, my almost nun, trying to be naughty and instead looking more innocent than ever.
I look down to where my fingers toy with the top edge of her panties, then back up to her face.
“Are you nervous, baby?”
“Yes,” she confesses, her hands going up to my shoulders and fisting in the shirt there.
“Fun-nervous or bad-nervous?”
She thinks for a minute, which I appreciate, because I need her to be sure. I need to be sure. I wasn’t bullshitting her when I said I was worried about our age difference, because the things I want to do with her are not just dirty, but like, dirty dirty. The kinds of things you don’t admit to wanting in the harsh light of day, the kinds of things that make even a man like me blush.
Keep her safe.
“Fun-nervous,” she says. “If you would—” she stops.
“Tell me, Zenny.”
She takes a breath, pins her eyes on mine. “I’m ready for more. I’m nervous, yes, but it’s excitement, not fear.”
“Good.”
“So,” she swallows, “give me more. It’s fun and I like it, and I’ll call you an asshole when I’m ready for you to back off.”
It’s my turn to swallow. Her green-lighting more in that signature combination of careful and bold is almost enough to make me throw all my plans out the window and just kiss the hell out of her until we end up on the floor in a hungry press of hips and mouths. To fuck the soft split between her legs until I’ve fucked away this fierce infatuation, the alarming affection and possessiveness I already feel for her after such a short time.
Sean, I scold myself. Fucking stop it. I was the one who was all I’m doing this for you earlier, and I’ll hold myself to that if it kills me.
this is for her
this is for her
this is for her.
“Okay,” I say, finally gathering myself. “I’m trusting you to call me out on being an asshole. Now take off your jeans, darling. It will make it easier for me to play with you.”
She kicks off her flip-flops and wriggles out of her jeans with a perfunctory kind of shimmy, and I find myself strangely drawn to the sight. I’ve paid lots of women lots of money to undress for me, I’ve fucked society wives determined to show off every expensive stitch of their La Perla or Agent Provocateur—but I’ve never seen a girl undress like this, artlessly and quickly, without performance. It feels intimate, somehow, and it makes me wonder what else I could get hard watching her doing. Brushing her teeth or putting on lotion. Tying shoelaces.