Page 70 of Lesson Learned

I yearn for more, my eyes pleading as they look upwards, begging for something deeper, something harder.

And he understands. “You want the rest, sweetheart?”

I nod, readying myself to take him further, to let him gag me, but instead, his hand catches me under the armpit, the burn increasing on my hair as he stands, lifting me past the row of seats to slam me face-first against the wall.

He drags my head backwards, reaching down my top and fondling my breasts, pinching my nipple until I moan, his mouth dropping to bite at the curve of my neck.

With a final twist, he lets go of my hair, grabbing each arm in turn and forcing my palms flat against the hard surface. “Keep them there,” he warns when I try to reach behind me. “Your hands stay where they are until I give you permission to move.”

His forehead presses against my cheek, the other driven hard into the wallpaper. One hand returns to cup my tits while the other drops to my arse, lifting the hem of my skirt as his fingers slide up the back of my thigh, then come to a stop between my legs, rubbing against my lace underwear.

“You’re in my class on Monday, aren’t you?” he asks, and I answer yes in a voice so breathless I’m surprised he can hear.

His hand slips inside the elastic at my waist, sharply tugging my panties down but just an inch. “These aren’t allowed in my classroom any longer,” he whispers into my ear. “If I check and find you’ve disobeyed me, you’ll be punished.”

His hand slides between the lace and my skin, fingers running along the outside of my pussy, pressing harder with each stroke until he glides inside.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs, and a shiver runs along my spine, making me arch my back, pressing my arse back against him to encourage him deeper. Not playing with my folds or teasing my entrance but plunging his thick fingers inside.

He chuckles, and the reverberation sends the soft hairs by my ear into a wriggle of ecstasy.

“If you want something, why don’t you ask for it?”

This time, his stroke is rougher, longer, exciting so many nerve endings that my clit jumps as though hit with a jolt of electricity.

I want to. I want my mouth to form the words. Want him to obey me as eagerly as I obey him, but shame burns in my cheeks, my forehead twists to face the wall.

The echoes of a hundred slurs rumble in my ears and I clench my thighs, this time not to increase the intensity of sensation but to close myself off from him.

“It’s okay.” His hand moves from my chest to my neck, resting on the innermost curve of my shoulder. “If you can’t ask, that’s okay.”

The lower hand tells a different story, withdrawing, wiping himself clean on my butt cheek as he does so, the other fingers now lightly pinching at my neck.

“But if you won’t ask for what you want, you have to be happy getting what you’re given.”

My dress is hiked to my waist, his hand wrenches my underwear lower, to my knees, before slipping his arm between my lower belly and the wall, this time plunging straight into my folds rather than easing, curling his fingers to harden the tips as he draws them back along the entire length, circling my clit, barely touching, then moving in the other direction, thrusting inside me, the penetration so perfect, so needed, so welcome that he scarcely gives two pumps before I come on his hand, muscles jumping and convulsing. His movements slow, coaxing me to ride out the full wave of pleasure while my clit pulses and flutters against his touch.

“Oh, angel. You’re so perfect.”

The praise lights up my brain, sending floods of endorphins to mine each touch until the veins are fully tapped, sieving out even the smallest specks of gold.

The pressure on my neck changes, his fingers gliding to encircle my throat, rubbing against my windpipe until I close my eyes, shuddering. His fingers withdraw from my pussy, raising to my lips and pushing inside.

I gobble at them, then he pulls them back with a soft laugh, “Leave some for me.”

And he goes back for more, the idea he needs to taste me sending another convulsion of pleasure arching through my body.

“Are you clean, sweetie?”

The phrase doesn’t translate for the longest time. I want to rebut the idea, insist that far from it, I’m dirty, absolutely filthy. Then I connect it with the growing insistence of his cock pressing against me and understand. “Yes.”

“You’re on birth control?”

I nod, making a hum when my mouth doesn’t work right the first time. “Yes.”

He takes my earlobe into his mouth, softly sucking, the noise loud and fresh and titillating. “That’s a pity,” he says, and I can’t fathom the answer. Then his fingers on my throat tighten, become more insistent, and he adds, “I wouldn’t mind putting my baby inside you and watching you grow.”

A prospect that would scare me to death in reality but seems lush and sexy when it’s spilling out in his voice, rough with lust.

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