Page 5 of Masters of Play

“Whaa?”

Alan turned the vibrator off and crossed his arms.

“Please, Alan, please let me come.”

Alan turned the vibrator back on. Just the sound had me jumping out of my skin. In my peripheral vision, I saw people gathering closer to watch. I didn’t care. Let them all see. I’d lick his shoes, the floor, anything for this orgasm.

“Please, sir. Please.” It became a chant. “Please, please, please. Please, please, please.”

Finally, he put the vibrator back on the ropes. My stomach fluttered. My panting diaphragm caused the ropes to rub against my skin. My heart pounded. I was breathless. I tingled all over.

Sparks flew like in a magician’s spell. It was like my body was liquid and the vibrator was an electric cord. I lost control of my limbs as they jerked in each direction in response to my clenching inner muscles.

The orgasm started at my clit, but then traveled down the rope to my labia. As I clenched internally, the twine between my ass cheeks dinged pleasure sensors I’d never known existed, which then zipped back down to my labia and back up to my clit. The cycle repeated on a loop until I blacked out.

Chapter Three

"There she is, Slut PhD."

The words were shouted out from a little grassy knoll on the side of the School of Psychology building on campus. The missive was hurled by Chad Hollinger. Yes, his name was actually Chad. Around said Chad, a few other coeds snickered at the insult. The thing they didn't get was that I was the one who came up with the nickname.

They certainly didn't know I'd coined the term months ago when I was with Chad. And when I say with him, I mean he was licking my boots, begging for a chance to get at my bare toes, all while calling me Dr. Slut. And groveling while wearing nothing but one of my lace thongs tight over the crack of his ass.

Chad was into degradation kink. And he had a mighty big foot fetish. He got hard when I put the heel of my boot right up against his testicles.

Again, I'm not judging anyone's kink. What I was judging was his reaction when I told him our play dates were done. I'd quickly gotten bored because I wasn't getting anything out of it. He wouldn't go down on me unless I left it messy down there. Like any self-respecting woman wouldn't take care of her hoo-ha just cause her dude liked to feel depraved.

"How goes your studies in ED, Chad?" I asked.

His face contorted. Chad was getting a doctorate in education. Yes, parents of America, this douche would soon be in a school near your little ones. All the smart graduate students, including Principal Chad, knew I wasn't referring to functional teaching methods. I was rather referring to a standing dysfunction.

"All my data points are fine," said Chad. "That's not what I hear about your entry points."

Whoa, that was a nice recovery. Totally unexpected of someone with his level of brain cells. But the douche was tussling with a master. Or rather, a mistress.

"I just came back from having my entry points double-checked, so I'm good to go, thank you."

A ruffle of unease and interest came around the group. I made a mental note to catalogue which coeds lifted a brow in curiosity. Only to quickly discard it.

I wasn't interested in playing with newbies any longer. From now on, I was keeping my dance card for the professionals. I would only be handing out professional business cards to old and new kinksters alike as a guide to sexual, emotional, and mental health.

I would've included Chad in that bunch. The man was clearly suffering from what we call subdrop. Subdrop happened when a sub, or in some cases even a Top, had trouble adjusting back to reality after coming out of a scene. It was an actual physical phenomenon because the drop in endorphins could cause fatigue, sadness, and actual aches and pains. It took some kinksters awhile to rebalance the endorphins and hormones in their body. If not addressed, subdrop could lead to depression.

The symptoms usually lasted a few hours, sometimes days. There had been a few extreme cases where the person was low for weeks. I'd cut Chad off months ago. I didn't think he was an extreme case. This was his normal temperament. He was, well, a Chad.

The truth was, no one was truly vanilla these days. Everyone had a kink. The only vanilla position left was missionary. Which always baffled me that that was the standard when human beings were clearly designed to do it doggie style. So weren't the deviants the ones who laid flat on their backs?

Anyway, I'd stopped listening to Chad's comebacks awhile ago. Having lost all interest in the back and forth, I took a step to walk away from Chad and his bunch of vanilla beans. That's when the fool grabbed my arm.

In a move that would've made my Taekwondo teacher proud, I twisted Chad's arm. The man dropped to a knee. I immediately let him go when he looked up at me from beneath a gaze hooded with desire clear in his eyes.

Exactly who was the slut here?

"Hey," he whispered low enough for only me to hear. "I am available if you need another test subject for your research."

"Did you know that fifty percent of women are into rape fantasy?" I asked him, my gaze still on that hand that had so offended me. I took a deep breath like I'd learned in martial arts class and tried to remember that I wasn’t supposed to use the art for ill will.

"What?" said Chad.

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