Thanking God for that smallest of mercies, I reached down and began touching myself through that shield. Of course, I should have anticipated his next move.
When he shifted in his seat, I half-expected him to pull his cock out of his pants, even though I was under no illusion about how gross I was to him, and how this was simply a power play. But when I looked up, he’d moved only to open his desk drawer.
When he pulled out a pair of scissors, my eyes darted to his, and I felt fear at his move as I looked at him, then he passed them over to me.
“Cut them off.”
“Cut them?” I choked out, and he narrowed his eyes at me once more.
“Your repeating everything I say is doing nothing more than irritating me, Phoebe. Do as I say, please.”
My hand was trembling as I reached for the scissors and, pulling them taut at the waistband, I cut through one side with a single snip.
When the fabric fell down, I bit my lip and moved to the other side, not stopping until they were nothing more than two flaps that were barely hiding my virtue from him.
His chair squeaked as he shifted back, and when I looked at him, it was easy to envisage him watching a movie. His arms lay relaxed at his side as he lounged at a comfortable angle, but his hands were on his belly, bridged as he rocked back and forth to the show going on before him.
He really was going to make me do this.
Not one single aspect of his features displayed guilt. Nor did he look grossed out anymore.
He looked satisfied.
Like a cat who’d dragged in a particularly irritating bird that he was going to enjoy torturing until its death.
I was that bird.
And I was way too young to die.
Closing my eyes, I sucked in a shaky breath, parted my legs, and reached down to touch my clit. The angle wasn’t right, and I felt awkward. Not only that, I was bone dry.
This was the exact opposite of a turn on.
“You won’t leave here until you climax.”
I didn’t open my eyes, because if I did, I’d just want to shout at him, and damn him, he held the cards here.
So what if it was weird what he wanted from me? He wasn’t going to tell my boss about my stealing, and things would return to normal—him glowering at me from his desk, making me feel insignificant with his grades and the notes he made on my papers.
God, how I longed for our relationship to revert to my simply dreading his lessons every morning.
Sucking in a breath, I settled back on one hand, spread my legs wider, even letting one fall to the side of his desk so I could part them more.
Was I embarrassed?
Yes.
Did I think I could come?
No.
But I had no choice. I had another class soon. Crazy though it was, I had to get going.
Licking my lips for the gazillionth time, I tried to calm my breathing, tried to imagine I was in my bed at night, playing with my clit, and gently fingering myself until I climaxed. My orgasms were never all that fulfilling, never all-encompassing, but on the rare occasions I felt the urge, they were a nice way to calm down after a busy day, a great way for me to tumble into sleep.
Breathing deeply, I focused on anything else but him and touched myself exactly how I did on those nights. I thought about a sexy man fucking me hard and fast, maneuvering me about the bed as though I were as lithe and slender as a little doll. I imagined his rough hands on my body, his firm tenet on my sexuality.
I thought about being pinned down and bitten, marked with his fingers and teeth, and I thought of his hand on my clit. I imagined he’d know exactly what to do with my pussy, would know how to make these tiny little poofs of an orgasm manifest tenfold.
Since my usual fantasies worked me over, I felt myself grow into the correct rhythm. With my eyes closed, I could forget I wasn’t alone, could forget that a man who loathed me, who’d blackmailed me just to have power over me, was sitting there observing. Judging every move I made, probably critiquing me so he could fucking grade me.
Ridiculous though it was, my eyes popped open at the thought, and I wasn’t surprised to see he hadn’t moved.
Not by an inch.
His eyes had narrowed to the point that he was either asleep or he was watching me through the slits he’d made with them.
As that would be the most ultimate of humiliations, I chose to believe he watched me through his narrowed eyelids, because him falling asleep was somehow worse.
My mouth trembled again but I bit my lips to stop it, and carried on working myself up, but I’d lost momentum. Lost it and was desperate to get it back.
Panicked, I studied him, replaced the blank face of the man who fucked me in my dreams with his mean one, imagined that snarl of his being put to better use as he gritted his teeth while he screwed me silly to hold off his orgasm. I pictured those hands, so strong and sure, stroking over my curves, making me come alive with each brush of his fingers.
I regained some control by using him to fulfill his demands, but it backfired spectacularly as the more I imagined him, the more power rattled through my bones like my body was a beat-up truck going down a driveway riddled with potholes. I shivered and shook, quivered and quaked, and all because I thought about those beautiful lips, lips that were capable of curving into the most gracious of smiles, curling about my clit, sucking me, slurping on the nub, and like that, I was done.
The orgasm came out of nowhere.
It hit me square between the eyes as I used my tormentor to get off.
I rode my hand, used the finger I’d slipped inside my gate to mimic his thick fullness to rock higher and faster. The heel of my wrist bumped against my clit, and my head tipped back as I allowed the climax total autonomy over my body.
It was, sickeningly, the best orgasm I’d ever had.
I could feel the heat sliding through my veins as the languor of release diffused into my system, making me relax when I should be tense in this man’s presence. When the tension in my body released, and my breathing began to settle, he reached into the drawer once more and pulled out a pen and a pad of paper.
My cheeks, already red, burned hotter as he pushed the pad between my spread legs, not stopping until it was scant inches from my pussy.
“Write down your number.”
His command had me frowning, and the lack of inflection in his voice extinguished any heat inside me.
He sounded like he was asking his waitress for his steak to be medium rare instead of well done.
Was that how little I’d affected him?
The question had me wincing.
What was wrong with me?
Why did I want him to be affected, period?
The man had just forced me to…
I gulped.
What?
Come?
I shuddered because, in the end, I’d come hard and fast.
Jesus, how pitiful and pathetic was I? This wasn’t about my pleasure, wasn’t about enjoyment. It was his power-play over me, and I’d just fallen into his trap like a mouse who’d scented that creamy piece of cheese and who thought with his belly rather than his mind.
Not only hadn’t I affected him when I didn’t particularly want to, but my pride was also pricked and, to be quite frank, I was disturbed on a base level. Alone in my bed, the most powerful orgasm I could achieve was sparkler-level. What I’d just felt with this bastard’s eyes on me? It was more like July Fourth had gone down in my body.
Trying to steady my hand, I reached between my legs and grabbed the pen. As I scrawled my number on the pad, I knew one thing and one thing only—this wasn’t going to be the first and last time he forced me to do his bidding.