by Gabi Moore
“…And she could do something like take his hand like this…” she reached haltingly to my lap and grasped my hand. Almost hypnotized, I didn’t resist. Gently, she closed her fingers around my wrist and pulled the hand closer to her.
“…And he could touch her, you know? Just a little. Just to build the…” here, she cautiously placed my hand between her legs, nothing but the thin black cotton of her dress between my fingertips. She paused it there, waiting to see the effect this would have on me, her deep eyes still fixed staring at mine.
“Just to build the uh… the tension,” she exhaled and pressed my fingertips further against her body. “And he’d want to touch her so badly, you know? He’d be just dying to really touch her. By this point she’s soaking wet …but he doesn’t know that yet.” She smiled. “He’s wondering if she’ll let him… let him…”
My head was spinning. This was wrong. Disgusting, even. At any point, any one of the other students could come barging in and I was sitting here, rock hard with one hand on my student’s crotch. There was no coming back from this now. She was tiny, easily half my size; I could grab her right now, and fling her onto the table, and fuck her so hard she would never think of teasing me like this again. So what was stopping me? Was she really so sure I wouldn’t?
Suddenly, she stepped back and tossed my hand aside. Her entire attitude changed. “But nope, they won’t do anything. Not yet. Nope. Because of tension.”
I was stunned. She pretended to pick some lint off her skirt and cracked her neck from side to side like a villain in a mafia movie. She grabbed her folder from the chair and gave me a glancing look before moving for the door. “You’re a good teacher you know,” she tossed her hair flippantly, “You’ve taught me so much already. Later!”
Before I knew it she had left, slamming the door behind her. My dick throbbed in my pants. Bitch. I was going to teach her a lesson, all right.
Chapter 7 - Michelle
I had never felt so turned on in all my life. I raced home, drunk on my own brazenness, feeling sure that the people I passed in the street could see straight into my depraved soul, could somehow sense how soaking wet my panties were and how fast my thoughts were flickering from one dirty possibility to the next.
What had I done?
I hate being challenged. I hate when people underestimate me. Let’s call it a character flaw. But I was in hot water now. Now, I was committed. As I walked through my front door, the realization hit me like a ton of bricks: this was going to happen. Soon. Somewhere in my future I was going to let my Creative Writing teacher do very, very bad things to me. And now it was just a matter of time, a matter of playing it cool in these intervening moments.
Should I submit another story? Would he ask to see me again? Did the other students think I was a raging slut? I realized that their disapproval only seemed to add to the thrill of it. It was glorious. No longer was I just writing about these things, I was living them. He was right – words do have power. And the body can speak. And mine was saying, “more.”
The next class, I felt close to fainting, like some kind of maiden with a heaving bosom in a bodice-ripper. Mr. Cain acted like nothing had even happened. He was so bland and dismissive I almost doubted my entire memory of the class before. This, together with how painfully boring Linda’s piece was (even by her standards) and I was starting to lose hope as the end of the class approached. Maybe I had just embarrassed myself. Had I worn this tight little skirt for nothing? Had I agonized over which exact bra to wear just to go home and take it off again?
When it was my turn, I carried on with a reading from my short horror story, which seemed uninteresting to the other students in comparison to what had already passed; I couldn’t drum up any enthusiasm for it either. But as the hour petered out and everyone started to pack away their books and disperse, Mr. Cain cleared his throat and said to nobody in particular, “Michelle, could you please stay after class for a moment, please?”
In that split second, my entire body pulsed with an “oh god yes!” but on the surface, I tried to feign indifference and only muttered, “sure,” also to nobody in particular. He nodded once and the other students floated off.
As the last student left the classroom, he still had his back to me, fussing with some papers on the desk – that desk that I couldn’t look at anymore without my mind wandering. I sat deathly still in my chair, trying to will my heartbeat to calm down. Clasped in my lap was a new and updated story, longer by 2000 words and overflowing with tension, among other things.
Late into the night before, I had slaved on a new version of the story, one where the girl teases, and teases, and teases… She pushes too far, and she gets “punished”, her young body bearing the brunt of her sexual hubris, like some whore-ish character in a Greek tragedy. In other words, it was an amateurish hot mess. But, as they say, know your audience. I wanted Mr. Cain to read himself in those pages. And me. I loved the feeling of control I had over him, how I had immobilized him in his seat with just a look, just a suggestion. It was a power I was just feeling out the corners of; a power I did not intend to use wisely that day.
But something about the way he kept his back to me now was making me nervous. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, waiting. What was he doing? Should I say something?
“You’ve written another draft of your story?” he said, still not turning to face me.
I waited as long as I could before replying. “Yes.”
“Read it to me.”
The force in his voice sent happy tingles all over my body.
I waited again, not wanting to lose this moment yet, this sweet moment where anything could happen. I examined my fingernails with feigned boredom.
“Make me,” I said.
Slowly, he turned to look at me with something like a smirk on his face. His serious demeanor from the class was entirely gone, replaced with something much rougher, something I didn’t quite recognize.
“What did you say?”
He took a step towards me. He was genuinely surprised. I loved feeling that I had overstepped his boundaries. Loved the feeling that I could puncture his self-assured exterior and really shake him. I loved the feeling that this was all very, very wrong. Twisted, even.
“I said, if you want me to do anything, you’ll have to make me.”
I was proud of how womanly my voice sounded, and how firm. But inside, I was nothing but hot jelly, and if he had touched me at that moment I’m sure I would have exploded into a million pieces.
He riveted his eyes to mine, and they were two hard drills, boring deep into the core of me, challenging me.
“Ok,” he said, and before the word had left his lips he lunged towards me and snatched the folder from my grasp, flinging it in one smooth movement to the ground. The papers inside scattered onto the floor, the “All of me, twisted” title spinning across the polished floor. My useless hands still hovered in front of me, the rest of my body frozen in terror.
He turned to me and took one slow, searing glance all over my entire body. Could he tell that every part of me was humming and snapping with electricity …or was it fear? The thrilling rush moving all over the surface of my skin spoke so quickly I couldn’t tell whether it was oh god yes or just oh god. He stood in front of me, my eyes level with his belt and lightly freckled forearms hanging down loosely.
“Stand up. Or, if you like, I can make you stand up,” he said in a voice like iron.
Instinctively, I obeyed. I tried to look at his face, but it was as though there was a force field preventing me from meeting his eyes. I shuddered.
“Look at me.”
I looked. He returned a gaze so hard and penetrating that I turned away again, embarrassed by how much it embarrassed me.
“Take off your shirt” he said, easily. With shaking fingers, I worked each button, feeling as though his laser-like gaze was the reason for how hot I suddenly felt. With a nervous shrug, I let the shirt slip to the ground. The scars along my arms were e
xposed, but they seemed so faint now, nothing but pale ghosts from the past.
“And your bra,” he continued, and I did as I was told. The cool air on my breasts sent goosebumps all down along my back. With my gaze glued to the floor and a thick shield of hair hiding my face, I still felt his eyes crawling over every inch of me.
He grabbed my wrist and twisted me around, and in a second he had unzipped the back of my skirt and I felt the flimsy material flutter down over my legs and to the ground to join the rest of my modesty. Placing one heavy hand on my hip, he seemed to be sizing me up. I felt the warm air of his breath over my back as he caressed carefully, first one cheek and then the next.
“Go and pick up your story, now, and read it to me” he said, and his words were beginning to sound hypnotic. I stepped out of my clothes and went to the corner of the room where the papers had crumpled, completely naked but for my panties, and slowly bent over to pick them up. I gave him a full, slow view of my butt as my knees bent, briefly touched the floor and bounced back up again. I felt him watching.
Placing a page on the desk, back still to him, I started to read. I was desperately trying to conceal my shaking voice, feeling more exposed than I ever had in my life, and yet somehow relishing the sensation. I wanted him to see me. All of me. Twisted. I had gone no further than a few sentences before he stopped me harshly, “Don’t read that. You know what I want to hear.”
I took a deep breath and found the paragraph I knew he wanted. I wanted it too. In a faltering voice, I instead began reading about the heroine splayed open on the chair, legs spread, the hero violating her completely. As I read, I felt every last sliver of my resistance slipping away, till my mind had warmed to the idea.
From the very moment I had written those words, I had secretly wanted them all to come true, but it was only here, naked in front of him, reading them out loud that I truly realized with a deep, painful ache throughout my entire body that I wanted this. I wanted it badly.
Some part of myself had led me to this twisted moment, even though I myself wasn’t aware of it at the time. The realization of what was going to happen next sent a single bead of wetness rolling down the inside of my thigh. I was screaming on the inside. I reached the end of the paragraph, and let the silence close all around me; the words I had just spoken hanging in the air like an incantation that had conjured this dark, twisted moment.
“Is this how you want the story to go?” he asked. I could hear him breathing.
I nodded mutely, without looking at him.
“Then put your hands on the desk again.”
I did, and gingerly raised my rear into the air as I had done in the class before. But this time, the stakes were much, much higher. This time, I had skin in the game. I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on each of the sounds behind me – the rustle of fabric moving against warm skin, the sound of him unzipping his trousers, of his steps coming closer towards me.
Again, he placed a full hand against my ass cheek, holding it there as though to pin me down. I relaxed forward and let my forearms fall onto the table, exposing the most vulnerable parts of my body to him. I felt the hard tip of his cock gently touch the opening of my pussy, and wait there. It was a question, a suggestion, but he already knew that every part of me was responding yes; I squirmed with anticipation – I didn’t just want the tip, I wanted all of it.
But to my waggling hips, he only said, “That’s what you want? Hm. But that’s not how the story goes, does it?”
Oh, I knew how the story went all right.
I swiveled my head to see him easily thrust the length of his thick thumb into my pussy, right to the knuckle, and I arched my back in response. His dick bobbed menacingly against my ass, tracing wet trails on the skin there. I had never been so turned on in my life, and from so little. He slipped his thumb out again and dragged the moisture it had gathered slowly upwards, tracing a sticky line, anointing my ass with my own wetness. Just like that, he was a magician who had transferred the thrilling heat in my pussy to this other new, forbidden part of my body. A delicious warmth spread out over me. Nobody had ever touched me like that before.
Resting the pad of his thumb there for a moment, he then began to press tiny, insistent circles round my tight hole.
“But I’m scared,” I said, surprising even myself with how unguarded I sounded.
“I know,” he said after a pause, and resumed rolling and pressing. The warmth spread.
I pressed my cheek hard against the wood of the table and clenched my fists. I felt so small. Helpless.
I loved it.
“Is it going to hurt?” I asked, deliberately trying out my best damsel-in-distress voice. He took his time before answering; lovingly stroking my ass, as if doing so would help him figure out the answer.
“Hurt? Oh yes. It will hurt. A lot.”
My pussy pulsed around his thumb, and he smiled quietly at this, picking up the pace.
“But we’re going to stay true to the story. Don’t worry, if you don’t do it, I’ll just make you.”
Another pulse. With each passing moment, each stroke, he seemed to be bewitching my body, coaxing something dark and secret inside me to open up to him.
His cock was again between my ass cheeks, and now he took his time gliding the length of it all the way up, and all the way down again. And with each trip down, just as I was sure the swollen tip would catch and enter me, he pulled away and stroked once more, slowly, up and then slowly down again. The ache in my pussy was becoming unbearable – I reached around to touch my clit, but he swiftly slapped away my hands and then, on thinking about it for a moment, he grabbed both my small wrists in his left hand and pinned them against my lower back, the right hand still anchored against my butt, his dick sliding and teasing slowly up …and then slowly down again.
“Tension, Michelle,” he muttered, and pressed the weight of his body fully against mine. The feeling of his balls pressing into me was the only delicious relief I had; with my hands now pinned, I had to push my clit back against his body to soothe the infuriating pressure there. I needed the touch of his belly, something, anything. He playfully backed away, teasing me.
“That’s what you want?” he said, and positioned the tip of his hot cock against the quivering opening of my ass, sinking just the tiniest length into me. I gasped and melted into a wash of goosebumps.
“…Then come and get it.”
In those dizzying moments, my body was a whirring engine, rapidly working under wave after wave of pain, transmuting each thrill into deep, shuddering pleasure. He waited, sensing how I needed to adjust my body to him, around him.
My clit was longing again to be close to his body, to make contact with him and anchor myself against the waves. My elbows were beginning to hurt against the hard table. My feet were numb, a universe away.
“Come,” he said again, beckoning, but the moment I tried again to lean back into him, was the moment I became aware of the full heft of his cock blocking my path, finding only resistance in my overwhelmed ass.
All at once I understood. Tension. Every fiber in my body wanted to move closer and relieve my poor aching clit …but it came at a price. I took a deep breath, trying to gather myself. Sensing this, he leaned forward and showered my back with a sprinkling of soft kisses, kisses which seemed even more tender given that I was simultaneously impaled on his rock hard dick.
“Don’t rush. Remember, you don’t have to do it all at once. Go slow with me,” he whispered into my ear. His gentleness seemed to relax me, and I opened further to him, my body thrumming in this new altered dimension of pleasure, of how utterly filthy it was to be fucked like this, here, by him. I wanted his body to change mine, to reshape me. I wanted the pain.
Tossing my head back, I edged back a few millimeters, taking more of him into my body. It was though the corresponding amount of air was displaced from his lungs and he laughed, “Good girl!”
I felt my ass relax further, growing accustomed to its new life as a so
urce of pleasure, a vortex of sensation, an undiscovered thing that could be used. Or abused.
He ran his hand all along my sides and back, stroking out any threads of fear and resistance. We were pinned hard together, only the smallest of movements possible. In a moment, his thumb was in my pussy again, and my entire body responded joyfully. With easy strokes, he guided me closer and closer to an orgasm, but as I saw the edge of it, he pulled out, the tiniest tip of his thumb left touching me, teasing.
“Come,” he beckoned again, and I took another deep breath, wanting with all my heart to follow that thumb and finally come, releasing myself from this torture. I leant back further, taking more of his thick cock into my ass, but at the same time winning more of his thumb too. Waves of pain and pleasure flooded through me, and I gasped. No sooner had I thought I was close again to my orgasm’s edge, did he pull his thumb away again and plunge me again into desperation.
“Come,” he said, more insistently. Almost the entire shaft was buried inside me now, so that I felt like a millimeter more and I wouldn’t be able to breath anymore. Chasing his thumb had led me to the wide, painful base of his cock, and I realized with horror that I may not be able to go any further. I wanted so badly to come, but the pain in my wrists reminded me that I was going nowhere, and that if I wanted the sweet release of pleasure, I would have to take it with a hearty dose of pain.
His breathing seemed to deepen, and become irregular. I felt him throb inside me, seeming to grow and expand into every last corner of my body. I groaned at the thought of him enjoying it, enjoying my ass.
“You like this, you little slut? You like pretending to be all hardcore, but look at you now, huh?”
I tossed my hair. He wanted to hurt me, did he? Well, I could hurt him, too.
“You’re an old has-been who will never publish his stupid novel, and all you do is live vicariously through your students,” I said, the burning pain bringing hot tears to my eyes. Where the hell did that come from?
