Page 107 of The Longest Shot
“Morgan, holy fuck?—”
“Next question,” she says against my mouth, and I realize with dawning horror and arousal that we’re nowhere near done. “Define social capital.”
“Are you seriously?—”
She pulls back, one eyebrow raised in that way that makes me want to either argue or surrender unconditionally. “Do you want your reward or not?”
“Social capital is…” My brain feels like melted ice cream, useless and sticky. She’s straddling my thighs, naked, her wet heat close enough to my cock that I can feel the temperature difference, and she expects sociology? “It’s networks of relationships that provide value.”
“Good.”
She rewards me by wrapping her hand around my cock, and I nearly lose it right then, dignity scattered to the wind. “What about cultural capital?” she says.
“Jesus Christ, Morgan?—”
“That’s not an answer.”
Her hand starts moving, slow and torturous. “Cultural capital is… fuck… it’s knowledge, education, and cultural competencies that give status.”
“Very good.”
She shifts, sliding down my body with fluid grace. When she looks up from between my legs, her gray eyes dark with intent, I forget basic respiratory function. Her breath ghosts over my cock, warm and teasing, and it takes every inch of willpower not to lift my cock towards her.
“Here’s your next test,” she says, her tongue darting out to taste me, making my hips jerk involuntarily. “Explain social mobility while I do this.”
Then she takes me in her mouth, and my entire worldview reshapes itself.
Her mouth is hot and wet and devastating. She knows exactly what she’s doing, tongue swirling before taking me deeper into her mouth. Again, I fight the urge to thrust up, hands gripping cushions hard enough to potentially damage the fabric.
“Social mobility is…” How am I supposed to think? “It’s movement between social classes. It can be intergenerational or…”
She hollows her cheeks and sucks hard. I see stars, possibly entire constellations. My head rolls back, and I just feel nothing but her for a minute, any thought of study or sociology or anything butmouthandcocksuddenly clear of my mind.
Until she stops.
“Or intragenerational,” I gasp, desperate for her to resume. “Happening within a lifetime. Fuck, Morgan, please?—”
She kisses my tip, lips barely brushing the end of my cock. “What factors affect it?”
“Education.” The word comes out strangled. She’s stroking me now, maintaining perfect pressure to keep me balanced on the edge.
"Not enough…"
"Tell me about it…" I bark out a laugh. "Economic opportunity. Social networks. Discrimination. Systemic barriers—fuck.”
She rewards my answer by taking me deep, so deep I feel her throat working. And I decide right now this is how I’m going to die, getting the best blowjob of my life while being quizzed on sociological theory. They’ll have to put “Death by Academic Stimulation” on my headstone, and my parents will besoconfused.
“What’s Foucault’s theory of power?” she asks, pulling back, and the visual of her like this nearly ends me.
“Morgan, I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can.” She strokes me slowly, maintaining just enough stimulation to keep me desperate. “I know you can. Tell me about Foucault.”
“Power isn’t just… repressive,” I manage between gasps. “It’s productive. It creates subjects, knowledge, discourse. It’s everywhere, not just in institutions.”
“Perfect,” she murmurs, and takes me in again.
This time she’s relentless, using mouth and hand in perfect coordination, taking me deep then pulling back to focus on sensitive spots, her tongue doing things that should require licensing. The wet sounds, her hum of satisfaction when I involuntarily thrust… it’s too much…
