A Good Student


"You love it, don't you Emma! You love it!"

She looked at me in panic and I saw she was losing it. The excitement of being fingered and played with like a hot little whore was more than she could stand, and the hidden slut was coming out, wild, hungry and uninhibited.

It's magic when you have a woman like this—absolute magic. The hotter she gets, the more you want to do to her because you know it's turning her own, the shame, the loss of control. I wanted to give her more, so I reached behind her with my other hand and lifted the back of her skirt, worked my hand under the back of her panties and pressed a finger against her puckered asshole.

"Oh, Mr. D! Don't!" She gasped, pressing her head back against the wall, but I could feel her buttocks clenching on my finger as she fucked her pussy against me in helpless excitement.

"Give it to me, bitch!" I hissed as I leaned my weight against her. "Give it to me! Look at what I'm doing to you. Go on, look!"

I moved back enough to give her room so she could look down and see the way her hips were pushed out and pumping obscenely as my fingers slid in and out of her cunt. "Oh God!" she moaned, shamed by the sheer lasciviousness of her own degradation.

I grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, making her arch her back as my fingers stroked her cunt. I studied her face, seeing her lose it, seeing the look of raw animal lust on her features.

"Hold onto me now, Emma! Hold onto me as you come!"

Her thighs were trembling, her legs growing weak. She dropped her skirt and held onto my shoulder with one hand, while with the other she grabbed the hand that was fucking her pussy and used it like a dildo, fucking herself, far beyond self-consciousness or shame.

"Yes!" she screamed. "Yes! Yes! YESSS!!!!"

I was afraid her screams would attract attention, so I took my hand from her ass and covered her mouth as she shrieked out her obscene pleasure, her pussy pumping, her internal muscles pulling at me as she humped and jerked and came. And came and came and came.

Chapter 2

For a long, expectant moment Emma clung to me, in the darkened auditorium, her hips still writhing in the aftermath of her orgasm, her eyes closed and yet a look of unmistakable sensual satisfaction spread across her face. It was almost as if she were two different people, as if her pussy no longer took orders from her mind. I could feel her sense of relief, not only at her orgasmic explosion but that her secret was out at last, that I'd seen her most hidden needs, but covering that was a deep shame and quivering fear of what I'd think of her now that she'd revealed herself. Perhaps her pleasure had been worth it, but now it remained to be seen what I thought of her and how I'd treat her—whether I'd lost all respect for her.

She opened her eyes cautiously, her chest still heaving as she gasped for breath, afraid to look at me, afraid of what she'd see, and I knew that if I wanted to throw her down on one of the tables and fuck her blind like my body was urging me to do right then she could hardly stop me, but that would be the end of things between us. She'd see the whole experience as nothing more than a seduction and semi-rape and write me off as someone who saw her as nothing more than a slut and a whore and an easy piece of ass, and that was the last thing I wanted.

"Are you all right?" I asked her.

She nodded uncertainly. Her hand was still clutching her skirt up, and now I pulled it from her grasp and lowered it, then smoothed it over her thighs. I reached up and she flinched as I started to button her blouse, then she took over for me and finished it herself.

"Are you ashamed?"

She shook her head in denial, but I could see tears in her eyes.

To have said anything more at the time would have been wrong, would have seemed patronizing. To have held her against me and let her feel my erection and need would have been wrong as well, but to hold her protectively, to shield her from her own feelings—to at least try—that I could do, and I put one arm around her and cradled her head against my chest.

She was stiff and brittle and I felt her heart racing against me.

"This isn't the casual thing you think, Emma," I said. "You don't know how long I've been thinking about you, wondering if you might be the one, if you had the gift."

"Gift?" Her voice was small and uncertain.

"Yes. Gift. What you gave me tonight was a gift, and you have no idea what it means to me. I don't want this to be a one time thing. I don't want this to be the last time."

She lifted her head away from my chest and looked at the floor. "No," she said. "It's wrong. There's something wrong with me and I know it. I shouldn't be like this and I shouldn't want these things and I try not to. I try not to think about them because I know they're wrong."

"No," I said. I grabbed her head and made her look at me. "It's not wrong. It's not wrong at all. You read my stories, They're real Emma. Maybe not what happened in there, but the feelings are real. Like poetry. Is there something wrong with me too, then? Is there something wrong because we feel so deeply?"

"But no one else—"

"Fuck everyone else. What do they know? You've seen those zhlubs in class, how the words go right by their heads. What do they know? What do most of the people in the world know? You feel, Emma. You feel much more deeply than most of the people in the world do, and it's a gift. You think it's a sickness but it's a gift, and I want to show you how to use it. You don't know what kind of treasure you have inside, but I do. Look— Grab your books and come with me. Come on..."

I picked up my briefcase and Emma took a moment to wipe her eyes and straighten her clothes, then retrieved her books and I held the door for her. We walked out into the hallway where the lights were already mostly off for the cleaning crew. Far down the corridor someone was vacuuming the carpet, and now that we were out in public our recent intimacy seemed to tie us even more closely together.

I walked her over to one the plate glass windows that looked out onto the woods beyond the parking lot and the glow of the suburbs, the strings of highways lights leading off into the darkness. The moon was up, looking pale and confused.

"You look at that and what do you feel?" I asked. I didn't wait for her to answer. "You feel the night inside you, something dark and delicious, full of secrets and beauty, something beyond words or your ability to express it, don't you, Emma? I know you do."

She stared out the window, her eyes large and luminous. "Yes." She nodded, then smiled privately. "But I've always been weird."

"Yeah. And I've always been weird too." I smiled back. "But those feelings are real, and I can show you how to reach them, how to experience them. I can bring the night inside, Emma. All those things you've dreamed of? I can make them real, and you know what? They're even better in reality than they are in your imagination. They're much, much better."

I took her arm and led her down the corridor to my office and unlocked the door. She stood in the corridor looking nervously inside, and I knew all I had to do was order her inside and she'd follow. I'd lock the door and keep the lights off and tell her to lean over the desk and she would, then I'd open my pants and take out my aching cock, push her skirt up over her hips and pull her panties to the side and thrust it into her. God, I'd go in so smooth! She'd still be wet and ready and she'd gasp. Her knuckles would grip the edge of the cheap metal desk and she'd start to rock back and forth as I fucked her, moaning softly, and she'd drop her head in female submission as I held her hips and guided her up and back, plundering her pussy with my thick tool before I threw my head back in rapture and shot my heavy load into her.

Yeah. I could have all that right then and there, and my dick was aching for it, but that's not what I wanted. I wanted a lover, not a piece of ass, someone who was in this as deeply as I was, and for that, I needed for her to want me too. I had to leave her wanting more.

I put my briefcase down on the desk and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind me, and saw the trace of disappointment on her face as the lock clicked shut. She wanted it even though she knew she shouldn't want it, and that was perfect.

"Come on," I said. "I'll walk you to your car."

"I'm parked right outside."

"That's okay. I just have something to tell you."

The lots were empty for the evening classes during the summer, so we were pretty much alone. Emma drove a nice car, white and sporty. The summer air was warm and balmy and the wind rustled through the poplars. It all looked so normal and suburban and collegiate.

"Next class," I said, "Wear a skirt and no panties, understand? If you want to go further with this, if you want me to show you what I know, wear a skirt with no panties and sit where you've been sitting so I can see. That's how I'll know you've agreed. Can you do that?"

She looked at me and I saw her nostrils flare slightly. "You're serious?"

"I'm very serious."

"But you don't know anything about me."

"I know enough. The rest I really don't care about. Who do you live with? Your parents?"

"No," she said. "Some girlfriends. We share an apartment."

"Well tell them you'll be late next Thursday. You're going out for drinks after class."

Emma opened her car and stopped. "I don't know anything about you either."

"Like what?"

"Are you married? Have a girlfriend?"

"No and no."

"How can I get a hold of you?"

"You can't. I don't want to be chatting on the phone and trading life stories, but here, I'll give you my address and cell number. Just don't use them except in emergencies, okay?"

I write them down in her notebook as she watched.

"You live in the city?" she asked.

"Yes. In a loft. It's nice. Maybe you'd like to see it sometime?"

Emma closed her notebook and gave me flirty smile. "Yes. Maybe I would."

I watched her red tail lights as she drove away, then I went back into the building and into my office. I kept the lights off, spun my chair away from the door, unbuckled my pants and pulled down my zipper. The fingers of my right hand still smelled like Emma's pussy, and the memory of her soft, slippery flesh was still upon them. More, I could clearly see her face as she struggled to hold onto her composure as I masturbated her, see the female animal within her struggling to break through the inhibitions and the smooth, American-model California perfect make-up. I could see the dark female need behind that sunny artificial wholesomeness—the even white teeth that needed to bite, the painted and glossed lips that needed to suck and open in a scream of ecstasy, the sloppy, throbbing cunt beneath her cute, up-to-date clothes.

That was it—the savage, the wild, feral female, lust-crazed, dizzy with orgasm. That's what I wanted, and my hand pumped my cock as I thought of her arched in pleasure, tied hand and foot, surrendering to the sensations I caused her, pushing out her orgasms at me one after another like something she had to get rid of, and then the burning, tingling, ecstasy was on me and I spurt my come for her in hot, impotent bursts catching the jets in my other palm to keep it from splattering all over my pants.

Chapter 3

I wasn't really nervous about the next class session. It wasn't that I was feeling cocky or especially sure of myself. It was more like I was sure of Emma, sure of who she was and what she was like, and I knew that it was going to happen, maybe not then, but then next session, or the session after. We'd shared too much of ourselves, an intimacy that went beyond the merely sexual, and my acceptance of her bound her to me in a way that she couldn't easily walk away from. If I'd just played with her and then fucked her, she could have blown it off as a one-time affair, a kind of mistake, and used my own guilt against me. She could have expected I'd spend the rest of the semester avoiding her, and she would have cozied up to her own feelings of being sick and perverse and accepted my rejection as the price of her perversion.

At the time I met Emma I was in the second year of struggling with my Novel, my Big Project, a dry, overly-intellectual, over-thought pile of crap that got more and more discouraging and unreadable the longer I worked on it. What money I was making from writing came from writing porn—knocking off quicky romantica novels of sex and passion featuring dominance and submission, bondage and discipline, and the truth was, I was much better at writing this kind of stuff than I was at writing what I thought of as serious literature. When I wrote sex, I wrote it with my heart and soul. I discovered things, I remembered things, I imagined things. I wouldn't say I became obsessed, but I did become consumed with a special kind of need for a special kind of woman. I became attuned to the sexual flame that burned inside me and began to see everything by its light. I became a kind of antenna, and that's why I was so sure about Emma.

Emma came in. She was wearing a salmon pink tank top with the bra straps showing, which was the fashion that summer (although I doubted she'd worn it that way at work), and a black skirt. She was also wearing a big pair of sunglasses, which she'd never done before. The sunglasses made her look very mysterious, and the top did great things for her breasts. I wasn't the only one who stared, or, rather, who pretended not to. She took a seat in the fourth row up and crossed her legs so I couldn't see if she'd followed my instructions or not.

It was the first indication I'd seen that Emma was adept at playing this game too, that maybe she wasn't the innocent victim of her own uncontrollable desires, but that she was entirely capable of inciting them in others. She knew what she was doing, and now that the game was afoot, she was showing me she could play it too. I knew then and there she had nothing on under her skirt.

It wasn't the longest lecture of my life but it seemed like it, and Emma said little, sitting there inscrutable behind her sunglasses as if daring me to guess what was on her mind, and I had to stay behind the lectern to keep from showing the incipient erection that began the moment I laid eyes on her and continued throughout the class. It was a great relief when, towards the end of the period, some of the kids got involved in a discussion of a Robert Frost poem and I could shut up for a while. I glanced at Emma and she slouched down in her seat and uncrossed her legs.

I was leaning on the lectern and the light was bad, and in fact, I couldn't see all the way up her skirt, but then, I didn't have to. There's no reason a girl would sit like that with her knees open under the table unless she were showing you something, and she certainly wouldn't choose that moment to take off her sunglasses and rub the temple slowly across her lower lip as she looked you in the eye, nor would she raise her skirt and rub her knee.

She apparently saw in the color of my face or the clench of my jaw that her message had been received and she pushed her skirt down and suddenly sat up in her seat and looked at her notes as if they were the most interesting things in the world, crossing her legs demurely upon her salacious secret.

I felt physically dizzy. All my blood rushed either to my face or my crotch and my cock sprang violently to life like a fist trying to tear through my shorts. I thought I'd wanted her before, that I'd been aroused just when I saw her, but now I felt like a charging bull who'd just caught sight of a matador's red cape and I had to dig my fingers into the side of the lectern to hold on against the rush of pure testosterone I felt.

The conversation continued but I had no idea what they were talking about. Emma studied her notes and put her sunglasses casually up on her head so that she looked typically suburban but, to me, even more devastatingly erotic for its plainness. Her arms were across her breasts (the lecture hall often got too cold from the AC) and I don't know how she knew I was looking, but she spread hr knees apart again, her thighs straining the fabric of the skirt, and this time I could see her lurid nakedness, the shaved cleft of her pussy within the shadows of her skirt.

For a moment I had the insane idea of reaching down and masturbating behind the lectern, but that was sheer madness (although the idea of turning this class into a group of naked, masturbating, students had a certain erotic appeal) Besides, the object with Emma was to establish control. Yes she was beautiful and desirable and aroused the hell out of me, but without control this would be just another relationship, and I wanted more than that. I wanted much more than that.

At last the conversation drew to a close. I handed out the homework assignments. Some of the kids came down to talk to me and I got rid of them as quickly as possible. Emma stayed in her seat, writing furiously as if transcribing notes. I hustled the last of the kids out telling them I had to give Emma a make-up quiz and physically walking them out the door of the lecture hall so I could watch them go and be sure we were alone. Then I closed the door and turned off the lights. The dark seemed our natural element.


She finished her writing, put away her pen, gathered up her books and stood up. She walked up the steps to where I stood, right where we were the other night, her face expressionless. I could see the pulse beating in her throat. Her eyes flicked up at me, then down. She was waiting. I let her wait. This was about control.

"Here," she said at last. "Do you want these?" She dug in her bag and took out a pair of tiny black panties and put them in my hand.

"Well, I couldn't very well go to work without them, could I?" she asked.

I held them to my face. They were so small. I'm always amazed at how women get themselves into things so small They smelled like powder and perfume and only faintly of her body.

"Turn around," I said.

She looked confused but turned around, and I straightened out the crumpled panties and pulled her hands back and slipped them through the leg holes, then twisted them till they tightened on her wrists like a tourniquet. I turned her back to face me, still holding her wrists trapped in her panties.

The sight of a bound woman is terrifically, almost unbearably erotic to me, even if she's bound only in play. It's been that way ever since I can remember, even before I knew what sex was. Emma was standing in front of me now with her wrists bound behind her, her breasts straining against the tight pink tank top. I pushed her back against the wall and leaned over her, my shadow covering her like a blanket. Her eyes were unusually white in the darkness

"Anyone ever do anything like this to you before?" I asked, tightening my grip on her bonds.

"Yes. Once. A long time ago. We were only playing, we were kids. We didn't know what we were doing."

With her arms behind her she was like a sculpture, all curves and defenseless softness, offering herself to me. I was already breathing fast and my cock was hard. I pressed it against her hip so she could feel very well what she was doing to me, then caressed her face with my hand, feeling the feminine warmth of her skin. I traced my way down her throat, her chest, and over the bulge of her breast, feeling the exact point where the edge of her bra confined the fullness of her flesh. I felt the firmness of her nipple under my palm.

"Did you like it?" I asked.

"Yes. I loved it. It still scares me how much I loved it."

I don't know what else she could have said that would have aroused me so much or driven me so absolutely mad with desire for her. It was that mention of fear that did it, that told me she was the genuine article, because where we were going was scary, a place where you can lose yourself, where you can find out that you're not who you thought, a place where the night takes over and swallows you up and all you have is your lover to bring you back.

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bydr_mabeuse© 170 comments/ 946650 views/ 713 favorites

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