Her glutes flex and twitch in my hands, and my pulse revs. She’s so soft and firm, shivery and warm. So goddamn responsive.
I want to rip her panties off for this, but a glimpse of her * would make it impossible to keep my dick in my pants.
Listening for the door, I step back. The sight of her ass trimmed with lace and the pull of the cotton cupping the titillating shape of her cunt threatens to buckle my knees.
“Four strikes,” I say gruffly and strengthen my voice. “Two on each cheek.”
She stares at the wall, her fingers curling against the bricks as a series of twitches ripples across her buttocks.
With a deep breath, I let my hand fly, applying more force this time, but I still hold back. The slap echoes through the room, and her body responds like a guitar string, stretching, vibrating, her vocal chords humming exquisitely. Then she settles, becoming stable and still.
A pink hand print blooms across her flesh. I massage the heated skin, and she wriggles her ass, only slightly, but it speaks volumes. She’s scared, probably terrified, but she’s not running or screaming or pushing me away. She’s rubbing her ass against my touch, ready for me to take her where I want her to go.
Stepping to the side, I fire off the next three smacks in rapid succession, each one harder than the last while alternating cheeks. She whimpers softly, bows her back, rocks her hips, raises up on her toes. And never lets go of the wall.
She likes it rough, wants to be humiliated, needs to be dominated. If she’s aware of this, she would never admit it. Probably because she’s never experienced it in the right environment with the right person.
In a classroom with her teacher…still not right. Yet here she is, hanging onto that wall, with her feet spread and ass out, because I gave her an order.
She’s made for me, to be instructed and punished and enjoyed. I want inside her with such agonizing intensity my body quakes. I want in her mouth, her cunt, and her soul. I want to rip her apart with my shaft, piece her back together, and do it all over again. Fuck, I need this girl.
And I can’t have her.
Her forehead rests against the wall, and with a heavy sigh, the tension drains from her muscles.
I crouch behind her and straighten her panties, gently rubbing the pink skin and thrilling at the way her legs tremble with each of my strokes. I adjust the skirt with the same care, kneading my fingers across her ass and thighs in a soothing motion. When I return to a standing position, I turn her to face me, my hands on her hips to steady her.
She blinks up at me, eyes unfocused, and grooves crease her forehead.
“Where did you go, gorgeous girl?”
“Somewhere deep.”
Endorphins, adrenaline, fear, and arousal make a heady cocktail, and she looks absolutely breathtaking in her discovery.
I grip her chin, lifting it higher. “The gum.”
She covers her mouth and whispers behind her fingers, “I just swallowed it.”
Next time I’ll remind her to keep it so she can pass it back to me while my tongue is between her lips.
I scoop her up, hooking arms behind her knees and back. She appears so sturdy and solid with her height, curves, and full tits, but with her cradled against my chest, she’s feather-light, barely a buck ten.
Sitting on the piano bench, I hold her sideways on my thighs and drag a finger down her arm.
She shivers and squirms in my lap, wreaking havoc on my throbbing erection. But she doesn’t scoot away from it and instead shifts to face me.
“That thing you just did with your finger?” With one arm trapped between us, she glances at the other, where it bends in her lap. “Will you do that again?”
A touch? That’s what she wants?
She wants affection.
I move my mouth an inch away from hers and steel my gaze. “Beg.”
Her chin drops, jaw clenching, but she doesn’t look away. After a heartbeat, two, three, her face relaxes, and her lips part. “Please.”
A wave of warmth circulates through me. I’m a slave to that word on her breath.
Touching my fingers to her shoulder, I trail them over her short-sleeves, down the satiny skin of her slender arm, and linger on the knuckles of her hand. When she stretches her fingers, I trace the length of them, marveling at how such fragile bones can move so ferociously over piano keys.
Her lashes flutter down, and her nostrils flare with long, deep inhales. She loves this, my hand on hers, giving her pleasure.
When her eyes open, enlarged pupils saturate the brown hues. “What else do you do?”
Christ, this girl is killing me. Her innocence, curiosity, precious submission, it’s all putty, begging to be shaped. But it’s not just that. Her authenticity and lack of privilege pinches something inside me. It makes me feel protective. Possessive. Maybe even…wishful?
“I can do many things, Ivory.” I touch the side of her face and push my hand through her thick hair, dragging fingers over her ear and cupping the back of her head. “But this situation…it’s delicate.” Sinful. Hazardous. Criminal.
I want to show you anyway.
I lean closer, so close our breaths meld.