by Henry, Jane
“You send it to my email listed on the syllabus by this evening,” he says. “It’s a precursor to the work we’ll begin tomorrow.” He drums his fingers on my desk. “Any questions, young lady?” His voice is as seductive as if he just asked me to strip for him. He’s testing me out, seeing how far he can push me.
Two can play at this game.
I take a step toward him and lower my voice to demure. “No, sir. I understand. Is there anything else you need from me?”
“No,” he clips, sharp and acerbic. I bite back a smile. He’s no fool.
He pushes away from the desk and marches back to the front of the room. “You are free to leave,” he says. “But remember what I said, Giada.” Lifting a stack of papers in his hand, he straightens them, eyes coming straight back to me. “Be here on time tomorrow.” He pauses. “Or you’ll answer to me.”
My body clenches of its own accord, and I know right then what I need to do.
Chapter Two
Geoffrey
I watch her leave the room and mentally berate myself.
Don’t watch her ass. Don’t look at those legs. And for God’s sake, no more gaping at her breasts.
She’s a fucking goddess and she knows it. I want to grab her arm as she sashays out of my classroom, pull her back to me, then bend her over my knee for being so damn beautiful and sassy. She ought to be punished. I could tell by the gleam in her eyes she’s already planning on pushing me to my limits.
Students shouldn’t look like that, and she’s toying with me.
Part of me hopes she comes late to class tomorrow so she gives me a reason to punish her. Damn modern laws prohibiting me from bending her over my desk and paddling her ass.
But I don’t need to spank her to correct her. Wield my power over her. Teach her a lesson.
I’ll find a way.
I gather my things together and head to the gym. I need to burn off some of this energy, ground myself in sweat and pain. I lift until my muscles ache, bench pressing a record high, and when my body is covered in sweat and my mind able to focus on things other than the curves of the barely legal student in my classroom, I head home. I take a quick shower, down a protein shake, then make myself a quick sandwich I eat before I check my email.
There are exactly nine students in my class, and exactly eight paragraphs in my inbox. Nothing from Giada.
I read each one dutifully, as if trying to make up for the fantasies I’m playing out in my head about fucking my student up against the blackboard in our room. I’m a fucking pervert for even fantasizing about it and need to be the good professor now. I read about one student’s fascination with Shakespearean plays, and how Shakespearean tragedies influence his writing, another student’s love of the Byronic hero drawing her to explore the Brontes. I sigh in boredom scanning a paragraph about another student’s visit to Walden Pond after a thorough exploration of Thoreau.
Did none of them actually listen to the assignment? I’m not looking for them to brag about esoteric literary pursuits. This is a creative writing class, for Christ’s sake. I asked them how literature influenced their imagination.
Rolling my eyes after reading another paragraph as dry as sawdust detailing one student’s obsession with Hemingway, I shut off my laptop, frowning at the clock on my wall that tick-tocks in mockery at my frustration, and make up my mind.
I haven’t been to Club Verge since my sub broke up with me in April. Her mom, still living in a tiny village outside of Greece, was ill. Philippa quit her job and decided to move back home to take care of her siblings. She found another dom in her hometown last month, and even though I still get a little pang thinking about her, I’ve moved on.
I need to go back to Verge. Maybe part of my frustration tonight’s because I haven’t gotten laid in weeks. Hell… months? And haven’t topped anyone in even longer. I need to tie someone up, cause a little pain, see someone squirm under my authority and control. Then maybe I can banish the thought of the girl with a too-short dress, spankable ass, and legs that go on for days out of my damn mind.
I take one final glance at my email before I close my laptop, and remember she was supposed to have the assignment in my inbox by tonight. Let’s see if she does what she’s told.
Something tells me she won’t. And a part of me hopes she doesn’t.
I get ready to go, hail a cab, and head to Verge.
When I get there, the night’s darkened to ebony, the streetlights reflecting on the shiny black entrance. The last time I came to Verge I wasn’t alone. I miss coming here, where my friends are. It will be good to see them again. I have no idea who’ll be here, but suspect at least the club owner Tobias will make an appearance.
I open the door and nod to Braxton, who’s working as bouncer tonight.
“Geoff,” he says, fist-bumping me in greeting. “Man, haven’t seen you in forever. Where the hell’ve you been?”
I shrug. “Eh, haven’t been into coming for a while. Just needed a little space.”
He looks at me with sympathy and nods. “I get it. Still, dude, good to see you back.”
I give him a chin lift. “Thanks, man. What have you been up to?”
A pretty, lilting female voice comes from behind us. “Attempting to keep his submissive in check, which, I might add, is what I’d call an exercise in futility.” I turn to face the woman addressing us.
Brax has a sub? Looks like I’ve missed some action.
I look over and see a pretty, curvy woman with short black hair approaching us. She’s looking at Braxton like he hung the moon. Brax loops an arm around her shoulders and gestures to me.
“Zoe, meet my friend Geoff. Hasn’t been around in a while. Geoff, meet my girl Zoe.”
Brax was one of the floaters, a guy who never settled down with anyone and mocked those of us who did. And now he’s got a girl? The pang in my chest returns as I force a smile and shake Zoe’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say. “Keeping that guy in line?”
“Nope,” she says with a grin. “Runs wild most of the time until I feed him.”
He gives her a playful ass smack. She laughs, then turns to him, and on her tiptoes kisses his cheek. I look away. I didn’t realize how much I miss Philippa. I hope the dom she’s with now treats her right, knows how to take care of her and nurture her. She needs a daddy.
Then I shake my head. That’s in the past, and I don’t need to focus on that now. Her needs are no longer my concern.
“Later,” I say, curter than I mean to, as I turn and enter Verge. The main lobby area is right across from club owner Tobias’s office, where members agree to terms before entering. Only club members are allowed beyond these doors unless they’re with a guest. I steel myself. Beyond those doors are my friends. People who understand me. And women who want to be dominated.
I need that.
I push past the entrance and enter the club area. To the left lies the bar and to the right, an area that almost looks like a normal club: pool tables, circular tables, comfortable chairs. It would look like a normal club, if the life-stylers here were dressed in civilian clothing. Some are, but the abundance of leather and studs makes for a unique setting.
“Hey, Geoff.” Travis, the bartender, jerks up his chin in greeting while pulling a round of beers. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Get you the regular?” He’s the youngest dom here, in his early twenties, his signature southern drawl setting him apart from the rest of the New Yorkers. He’s a Texas native and moved here for college. Now that he’s graduated, he’s here more often, and the reminder of how young he is reignites the guilt I have for getting hard over my student.
“Travis.” I nod, taking the cold, frothy beer from his outstretched hand. It’s hard to be back here, but the recognition from my friends and familiarity are setting me at ease. “Good to be back, man. All good?”
“Hell, yeah,” he says. “All good. Broke up with my girlfriend but she was moving west for grad school anyway.” He shrugs. “I d
efinitely like to do more than pull drinks here.” He gives me a wink. So his last girl wasn’t into the club scene.
We shoot the breeze for a while, and I take a cursory look around the place. I don’t like to linger too long. There are many here just for a hook-up, many looking to play, but I’m not sure what I want tonight. Now that I’m here, just sitting with a beer and talking to my friends seems to fill a need I didn’t even know I had.
My phone buzzes, an email notification lighting up my screen. I frown. I forgot I even had the damn thing set up to show me email. I only did that temporarily over the summer when I was waiting for my course selections. I’ve been an associate professor for three years and was hoping to land the creative writing class for a while. Now that I’ve got it, I need to shut off this feature on my phone.
Out of curiosity, I pull down the screen notification. My pulse spikes when I see the name.
Giada Romano
My skin’s all prickly like a fucking teenager’s. Christ, I need to get this under control.
She’s a student, douchebag, I chide myself. I swallow hard, pretending to be all cool and chill, and tap the notification that opens up her email.
As requested:
Assignment: Write a one-page, personal entry on the influence of literature on your imagination.
Literature has fueled my imagination from a very young age. My earliest memory is of sitting on my daddy’s knee when I was a little girl, while he read me a bedtime story. He passed on his love of great literature, and I have fond memories of the imaginative worlds we shared: from Narnia and Middle Earth to the prairie of early America and later, battles that forged our nation. He never shielded me from the heartache in the pages of those books but used them as a tool to teach me about life, history, hopes, and dreams.
It wasn’t until my teen years that I discovered my love of romance. What began by dipping my toes into the historical greats affectionately termed ‘bodice rippers’ took on a different tone when I was a senior in high school. I discovered the world of erotic romance. I’d always been taught that literature was a gateway for the imagination so I never dreamed that some people would frown on the romance genre as lower quality literature. After all, with a history of such utter trash like Wuthering Heights and The Old Man and the Sea being named classics, what’s wrong with Fifty Shades of Grey?
I sputter on my beer. Some of my colleagues would take issue with what she calls trash. I read on.
The writing was atrocious, but that wasn’t why I read it. Fifty Shades opened up my eyes to a world I never imagined existed: the dark, sensual world of dominance and submission.
I swallow another gulp of beer.
So how does literature influence my imagination? As a child it fueled my dreams. As an adult, it does the same. I long for a stern dominant to take me in hand, and my own literary pursuits now include reams of books dedicated to the erotic pull of dominance and submission in romance. I write fantasies with vivid detail, allowing my imagination to set no limits. In my mind, I am that woman collared by a man who loves her. I am that woman who surrenders to a powerful dominant strong enough to discipline her, to mold her, to help her reach her full potential by freeing her mind and heart from the worries of the world. My imagination revels in the fantasy of giving utter control to the one dominant who treasures me.
I want to be tied up and spanked, pushed to my knees and made to submit. I want to hurt, in all the good ways. And more still, I want to sit on the lap of a sexy, dominant man, and call him daddy. Be his babygirl.
I’m long past being ashamed of what I crave, thanks to the books I’ve read that have made me accept who I am, and the staunch belief that there’s freedom in sexual exploration. I applaud the writers who’ve brought these fantasies to print, and now write the fantasies that lurk in the dark recesses of my mind.
Literature not only fuels my imagination. It’s given me space to dream. And now, a purpose.
“Geoff? You alright, man?”
I blink in surprise at Travis, who’s wiping down the bar but looking at me in concern.
“Yeah,” I stammer, putting the phone down. “Got an email that distracted me. I gave my students an assignment and read all but one before I came here tonight.”
“Hey, I heard someone say you got a new job, but I forgot you were teaching again,” Travis says, and I think we talk about classes and time frames and books, but my mind is somewhere else. I’m not really thinking about what I’m saying. I need to read her email again.
She’s just handed me a confession. Part of me wonders if she’s playing me. Is she trying to get me focused on her? Does she want me not able to focus during class, eyes on her as I fantasize about pulling her out of her chair and bending her over her desk? Is she trying to get me fired? I frown, turning from the bar when Travis begins serving other customers, and look out at the large room in front of me.
Her little essay on her imaginative exploration of dominance and submission’s got me hard as a fucking rock. I need to read what she’s written, see for myself what dark fantasies lurk in her beautiful, depraved mind. What kink’s her flavor. When I got to the ‘daddy’ part I about dropped my phone. I haven’t had a baby girl since my last submissive left the country, and I didn’t realize how badly I craved it until I read it here, in this little wicked essay.
She ought to be punished for putting something so bold out there like that.
But hell, I invited her to.
I take a pull of my beer, scanning the crowd. For what? I don’t know, until my eyes rest on a beautiful, tall, graceful woman who’s standing by the pool table. She’s talking animatedly to a couple, but there’s a man behind the couple who’s eyeing her. I can see the scroll of musical note tattoos along her neck and know exactly who this is: Sasha. She’s the CEO of a medical supply company located in New England, and only comes here for the kink. She has no interest in anything serious or long-term, and would kick the balls of a guy who demanded her submission outside of a scene, but she comes here for a top.
And tonight, I need to scene.
I finish my beer, slam the empty mug on the counter, and stalk to the pool tables before someone claims Sasha. She sees me prowling closer before I get there, her caramel-colored eyes warming as I approach.
“Master Geoffrey,” she says, bowing her head like a good little sub. “I hear you’re free, sir.”
I reach for her neck and wrap my fingers around the back, feeling the tremor that courses through her.
“I am. Are you?”
“Of course, sir,” she responds, eyes cast down as she’s been trained to do. I need to dominate her and cleanse my mind of the depraved thoughts of the sassy student who’s baiting me.
I move my fingers to the hair at the back of her neck and tug hard. Her mouth falls open but the corners of her lips quirk upward as her eyes flutter closed. I put my mouth to her ear. “Will you be my dirty little sub tonight?”
“Mmm,” she purrs. “Hell, yes.”
It isn’t satisfying, though. It’s empty and weirdly unfulfilling. I miss the surge of adrenaline, the chase. This is too easy.
I release her neck and take her by the hand, pulling her with me to the dungeon. If I had a chain I’d snap it on her neck and make her crawl, but tonight she’ll walk. Beyond the bar area lies the dungeon, outfitted with everything from spanking benches and horses, to exam tables, restraints, harnesses, and implements.
I’m feeling like the St. Andrew’s cross tonight.
The rooms are crowded with couples and singles, dungeon monitors prowling around making sure everyone’s following rules. Verge is the most respected kink club in all of NYC, and we keep things tight here. Club owner, Tobias, has rules everyone must follow, and those who don’t comply are promptly escorted out. It helps that some members are also officers on the NYC police force.
“Hey, Geoff.” Still holding tightly to Sasha’s hand, I look to my right and see my friend Zack with his wife and submissive Beatrice on
a leash beside him. She’s wearing nothing but a skimpy leather outfit, the thick collar around her neck, attached to the chain Zack’s holding.
“Hey,” Beatrice says, as if we’ve just run into each other at the grocery store and she’s not half-naked standing next to her husband wearing a chain. “Haven’t seen you in forever. How’ve you been?”
“I’m good,” I say. “Busy.” Not in the mood for chit-chat, I force a friendly smile and move past them. “You good?”
Zack gives Beatrice a little tug and she squeals. “Never been better,” she says with a grin, her eyes on Zack.
My stomach tightens. As the years pass and Verge grows, the couples who find their way to each other grows in number, though many couples are still here for the kink and not looking to hook up beyond a scene or two. I never thought I’d be that guy looking for a quick lay, yet here I am. I eye the St. Andrew’s cross, thankful it’s free for the moment, release Sasha’s hand and point.
“Take your position,” I say without preamble. There’ll be no foreplay tonight. I need to get my hands on a sturdy implement, need to mete out measured pain and pleasure, to drink from the cup of power and control.
Like a good little sub, she obeys, walks with her head held high to the cross, spreads her legs and lifts her arms up so I can restrain her. I cuff her wrists, then gently but firmly kick her feet a little further apart so her taut ass stretches the fabric of her skirt tight. “Good girl,” I say in her ear when she’s properly restrained. “It’ll be leather tonight. Pick a safeword.” I love striping a woman’s ass with leather when we’re playing.
“Mmmm,” she moans, stretched spread-eagle on the cross with her back to me. I can smell the heady scent of her arousal from where I stand. “I can’t imagine I’ll need a safeword with you, sir, but I’ll pick one if you insist.”
I give her ass a light slap. She comes up on her toes in surprise, then smiles. “Alright,” she says. “Red.” I feel a bit disappointed. It’s the most commonly used safeword ever, one I’d think a newbie would reach for, and I was hoping for something a little different. I guess I could’ve given her one myself I if I wanted to. So, fair enough.
