by Linnea May
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in for another kiss. I moan with content as our lips meet, nibbling and teasing each other before he forces his way inside, his tongue searching for mine with desperate need. Kissing him feels so natural, so familiar, as if we’ve done it a thousand times before.
I sigh when one of his hands travels down my spine, caressing my skin with just the tips of his fingers. Warm flushes run through my core, causing me to roll beneath his touch, pressing myself against him.
When I reach up to touch him, he pushes my hand aside, growling a warning in between our kiss. I’m disappointed. I want to unwrap his marvelous torso and do what I didn’t dare to do last time.
“Please,” I breathe.
“No,” he simply replies, pinching my side.
The surprise pain makes me flinch, followed by a moan as he caresses the same spot softly. His other hand is at my back, going for the clasp of my bra and opening it within a second. The bra falls down at the floor and we pay no attention to it, our kiss not ending for even a moment. My breath accelerates even more when his hands move around my waist, stroking along my ribs until they reach my lower boobs.
He groans as he greedily cups them, kneading my flesh while I can’t help but sigh with lust. I’ve yearned for his hands to be on me, and now that they finally are, the sensation is even more than I expected. His touch is so erotic, so careful and hungry at the same time.
Until it turns into pain. While still holding my small breasts in his big palms, he pinches both my nipples between his fingers. Hard. A bolt of pain darts through my chest, causing me to throw my head back and ending our kiss with a desperate cry.
“Hush,” he warns, letting go of my nipples. “You can’t be loud in here, baby girl.”
I try to look past the fact that he just called me baby girl and the question of how I feel about that, and stare at him in shock.
“But it hurt,” I argue, my voice weak and hoarse.
He smirks at me, his hands still cupping my breasts. I shiver in fear when he takes my nipples between his fingers once again, threatening to repeat the painful pinching from before.
But he doesn’t. He squeezes them ever so slightly, observing the reaction on my face as he does. My nipples are still pulsating with a taste of pain, and I slowly realize that I like it.
Even more so, I want him to do it again.
“Do it again,” I whisper, looking at him with pleading eyes.
A triumphant smile spreads across his face. “You’re not the one giving commands here.”
Instead of twisting my nipples between his fingers again, he bends forward, planting kisses along my neck, my collarbone and my décolleté while he makes his way over to my left boob. I moan and tilt my head back when he lifts my breasts with his hands and wraps his lips around my left nipple. It’s a soft kiss at first, his tongue circling around my areola before he starts sucking on my nipple. I’ve always been sensitive in that area, but no one ever knew how to work it as well as Mr. Portland does.
He continues to suck while gently kneading my boobs in his hands. He moves over to the right and regards it with the same caring treatment as the left before, sucking and licking on my sensitive nub until I’m dizzy with lust. I close my eyes, trying to enjoy the feeling without the nagging questions that hammer behind my forehead. His touch is so forceful and so gentle at the same time, it does insane things to me.
I know he doesn’t want me to touch him, but it’s getting harder and harder with every minute. I yearn to tear his shirt off, to give back what he’s giving me, to ride on the wave of arousal that has gotten a hold of me. He’s getting me close to coming, without even touching me where I really want him to.
A sudden strike of pain yanks me out of my blissful vertigo. He straightens up, holding my nipples in a strong clasp, pinching and twisting so much that the pain is almost blinding.
I groan in pain, but make sure not to cry out loud. His mischievous smile is fixated on me as he literally pulls me up by the nipples until I’m standing on my toes, almost losing balance if it weren’t for the desk behind me, on which I seek support.
“Get up there,” he hisses, nodding toward the table pressing into my back. “Get up and spread your legs for me.”
I want to protest, but he’s still holding my nipples in a tight grip, pulling me upward and leaving no choice but to follow his command. I jump up on the edge of the desk, sliding backward just a bit so that I can place my feet on the edge.
He pinches my nipples extra hard one more time, causing me to let out a pathetic whimper before he releases them, cupping my breasts as he gently pushes me back.
“Lay down,” he orders.
I obey, breathing heavily as I lie down on the cold surface behind me. My tortured nipples are still screaming from the pain, throbbing as the ache slowly turns into a hot pulse. I’m lying on the desk, my hands stretched out next to my torso, and staring at the ceiling above me as I process the aftermath of the intense strain that Mr. Portland just put me through.
I’ve never felt like this. I feel drugged, dizzy, mindless with lust.
I want more.
I don’t even care about the awkward position he asked me to take. So far, every command he directed at me has only led to more pleasure. When he hooks his fingers beneath the seam of my panties and coaxes me to close my legs so he can pull them down, I don’t let shame overrun the intense thrill that all of this is giving me.
Mr. Portland removes my panties, leaving me with nothing on but my black skirt before he pushes my legs apart, exposing myself to his hungry eyes. A rush of heat spreads through my body as his gaze fixates on my entrance.
“Fuck, what a good girl you are. You’re dripping wet for me, so welcoming,” he assesses - and I almost die of embarrassment.
His eyes move from my center up to mine, dark with mischief.
“You know I must taste you,” he whispers.
Before I have a chance to process this particular announcement, he’s down on his knees, his face disappearing from my line of sight and his hands begin wandering along the inside of my upper thighs.
A few moments later, I can feel his breath on my wet entrance. I inhale sharply, paralyzed by his action and tense with anticipation.
He leans forward, his lips meeting mine. I arch my back, moaning as he starts to lick along my swollen labia, left first, then right, then left again. He starts drawing circles with his tongue around my throbbing nub, driving me crazy with need. I want him to move closer to the center, to touch my most sensitive spot, the pulsating center that concentrates all my longing.
His circles are getting smaller, drawing closer to my swollen clit. When he finally draws his tongue across that magical spot, I can’t suppress a loud moan of relief, arching my back and spreading my legs as wide as possible.
He hums with relish, working my throbbing center with his skillful tongue while I squirm on his desk, the hard surface pressing against my back as I bathe in his treatment. He adds a finger, gliding inside my wetness with ease, then another, stretching me gently while his tongue continues to work its magic.
I’m going to come. Soon.
Does he want me to come?
He bends his finger inside of me, finding another spot to increase my pleasure. I groan, hitting my elbow on the table as I lift my arms in a spasm.
“I’m gonna c-”
He stops. A mere second before my orgasm explodes, he withdraws his face and fingers at once, getting back up on his feet and looking down on me with dark and narrow eyes.
“No, you’re not,” he says.
I stare at him, my cheeks flushed with red heat and a sudden sense of shame overcoming me in light of my exposed position.
“Get up,” he says, reaching his hand out for me to hold on to.
I sigh and take his helping hand to sit up on the edge of the table, folding my hands in my lap and looking up at him expectantly.
He leans down and grants me a kiss on the lips.
A passionate but quick peck, nothing more. His face remains close to mine, looking at me with his characteristic attentiveness. I wait for the next command while staring into the darkness of his eyes.
Instead of telling me what to do, he holds me by the shoulders and helps me to sit up. His hands are back on my tortured nipples a moment later, and he regards them with a painful squeeze before he continues.
“Get down from the table and turn around,” he says. “Hands on the table, ass to me.”
I obey and reluctantly place my hand at the edge of table, turning my back to him.
“You can look prettier than that,” he says. “Arch your back. Show me that pretty ass.”
I blush as I follow his command.
“Good girl.”
His praise sends another wave of lust through my core and I flinch with arousal when I feel his strong hands on my bare behind. He caresses the pale skin on my ass cheeks, and just as I’m beginning to relax and lean into his gentle touch, he withdraws his hands and uses one of them to land a painful sting on my behind.
I yelp, biting my tongue a moment later. I can’t be loud in here.
“Hush!” He warns. “You deserve this.”
His hand lands on my ass again, and again, sending hot stings of pain through my entire body. It hurts more with every strike against my flesh, the fiery song of ache drowning out every other thought and sound. Yet, I find myself hollowing my back between every blow, my entrance wet with desire, begging for him to touch me again. To be inside me.
I have never been spanked before, and especially not like this. It hurts a lot more than I thought it would, and it feels a lot better than I ever imagined.
I’m panting and sweating by the time he stops. My body is processing the pain, while my mind tries to cope with the fact that I’m more aroused than I’ve ever been in my entire life before.
I’m burning, desire throbbing through my entire being. I feel as if I could come instantly, with just the touch of the tip of his finger.
But he has other plans.
“Get dressed,” he whispers from behind. “We’re done for today.”
A shock wave of horror unfolds through my body.
What? He’s sending me home like this? After all he did?
“I thought we were just getting started…,” I whisper helplessly as I stand up and turn around to him, ready to get down on my knees and beg him to finish me off. I’d do just about anything for a proper climax right now. He can’t leave things like this!
“We are,” he concurs. “You’ve a lot to learn, Lana. The first lesson being that you get punishments for bad behavior.”
I’m suddenly aware of my own nakedness and quickly fix my skirt to cover myself as best as I can, lowering my eyes in the process.
“And this is how you punish me?” I want to know. “By leading me on and then humiliating me by not stopping when…”
My voice breaks off. I feel so utterly ashamed. I never knew how crushing it could feel to be denied a climax when it was already within reach.
I flinch when his hand touches my cheek, softly caressing the skin along my jawline before he puts his index finger beneath my chin and lifts my head up to look at him.
“I did not lead you on,” he says. “But yes, this is how I’m punishing you for being such a condescending brat during our first encounter. For rolling your eyes at me and for failing to show me the respect I deserve.”
Asshole.
Tears are threatening to make their appearance. My vision blurs while I fight them. I’m not going to cry. How pathetic would that be? To cry like a baby, because I wasn’t allowed to come.
But it’s so much more than that.
Mr. Portland observes me with a smile. There’s nothing cunning or mean about it, no spitefulness. Yet, I can’t help hating him in this moment.
“You sweet, sweet girl,” he whispers. “You’ll learn. And you’ll be better next time, right?”
Next time? Is he going to do this again? Knock down my walls of protection just to humiliate me in the long run? So I could learn? Learn what?
To obey. To submit.
“Excuse me,” I say, evading his touch as I turn to the pile of clothes on the chair to my left. “I have to go.”
“Yes, you do,” he agrees.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JACKSON
My heart sinks every time the bell rings to end our math class and we’re released back into the dreaded hallways. I know this feeling is exclusive to me, as everyone else jumps up with relief and can’t wait to get out of the classroom.
For me, math class may not be fun either, but it is the only time of the day during which I feel safe and somewhat happy while I’m at school. It’s the time when I can bathe in Aileen’s presence and admire her from afar, watching her play with her hair or carefully lay out her pens and paper to take notes for class. She’s so organized, so controlled and calm. Everything she says is smart and polite. I’ve never heard her give a wrong answer or conduct in nasty gossip in or outside of class.
Unlike me, she’s not an outcast either. She’s not one of the cool girls, the really popular ones, but she’s not shunned either. I see her casually talking to other students, sometimes laughing with them, but never laughing about the misfortune of someone else. Her laughter is deeper and more restrained than those of other girls. It seems as if she never lets go, never loses control over herself in any way. I wonder what that would look like. What Aileen would look like if she completely lost it, if she broke down in an overwhelming laughing fit, her eyes tearing up, her cheeks turning red and her hair flying wild, losing its silky straight structure.
I wish I could make her look like that. I wish I could see her in a state that no one else has ever seen her in. The thought of her losing control because of something I’m doing to her feels like the most intimate thing I can imagine.
I’m in no hurry to pack my things after class and glance at her while she collects her things with her usual stoic motions.
When she throws her bag over her shoulder and walks out of class, I’m right behind, getting so close for a moment that I catch a waft of her scent, her hair.
I distance myself as soon as we walk out into the hall and watch her from afar as she strides over to her locker that is way too far away from mine. Talking to her would be so much easier if our lockers were right next to each other, but fate has never treated me well.
None of my mean classmates are around, so I enjoy the luxury of walking down the hall without nasty words being thrown at me.
But I’m walking in the wrong direction. Instead of heading to my own locker at the other side of the hall, I find myself walking toward her.
She probably doesn’t even know that I exist, and I want to change that. I can’t think what came over me, but my body decides it’s time to approach her before my brain can agree on a strategy.
Before I know it, I’m standing next to her, trying to casually lean against the neighboring lockers as I smile at her. With how inexperienced and nervous I am, I know that there’s nothing casual about my movements or my facial expression, but I hope that she doesn’t sense these things right away - or at least doesn’t point them out or pick on me.
Aileen shoves her math books inside the locker and casts me curious look from the side.
“Hi?”
I know it’s my time to speak, but I’m lost for words. I’ve never been so close to her and I’ve never seen her eyes directly focus on me. Their color is the deepest blue I’ve ever seen, so dark, that I almost mistook them for dark brown or black.
She raises one of her eyebrows and tilts her head to the side, looking at me with her eyes wide with expectation.
I have to say something.
“Hi, I’m… I’m Jackson.”
I secretly cringe inside. Where am I going with this? I should thought about a topic. Anything. Anything we could talk about. Or a purpose for me coming to her.
“Yes, I know,” she says, he
r voice soft and friendly. “You’re in my math class.”
She knows my name! She knows who I am!
“Yes, right,” I say, helplessly lowering my eyes. I stare at the tips of her shoes. She’s wearing ballerina flats, but still surpasses my height by about an inch or so. I have to look up when I talk to her, which I find appropriate.
“Can I help you somehow?” She asks. There’s nothing mean or impatient in her voice. In fact, I can’t remember the last time anyone has ever spoken to me in such a nice tone.
While I’m still struggling to find my words, I notice Kendrick and his awful little gang walking down the hall from the corner of my eye. I pray to God that they don’t notice me, but of course, that attempt is futile.
“Hey, Jackson Fatson!” Kendrick bellows in my direction. “Got a new girlfriend?”
Humiliation clenches around my heart like a stone cold fist, but what is even worse is the look on Aileen’s face.
She blushes and turns around to the boys, her mouth partly opened.
She looks horrified.
“Dumb and fat. You got yourself quite a winner there!” Kendrick yells directly at her.
He doesn’t even know her. Aileen has never caught his attention - until I pushed her in the limelight of my daily humiliation.
Her eyes go back and forth between me and Kendrick, her face expressing nothing but horror and fear.
“Yeah, I’d be ashamed, too!” Kendrick adds, and his entourage roars with laughter.
That’s it.
I let my bag drop to the floor and lunge at him, fiery rage burning through my insides as I strike out for him. He takes a step back and easily evades my attack, causing me to tumble to the floor.
I almost land flat on my face and barely manage to cushion my fall with my hands. The impact still hurts like a motherfucker, and I let out a pathetically girlish shriek on impact.
The laughter that erupts around me hurts even more than the fall.
“Jackson Fatson!” The chorus chimes, fingers pointing at me, kids dying with laughter.
I stare on the ground in front of me, incapable of moving. For years, I have endured their ridicule, hurtful words and chants, seclusion and loneliness. But this tops everything. I’ve never found myself on the floor.
