by North, Paige
“Come closer,” I tell her, “and then get down on your knees.”
She walks toward me, her pert little tits bouncing, then kneels down in front of me. I stand up because as much as sitting at the piano sounds sexy in theory, I need to get the right angle on her to make sure I can get nice and deep down her throat.
“I’ve never…” She swallows and twists her hands nervously in front of her. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I’ll teach you.” I take my dick in my hand and brush it over her cheeks and lips, leaving just the tiniest bit of precum on her skin, watching as she fights against her reaction to pull away. I brush that soft honey blonde hair back from her face and over her shoulders, wanting to make sure nothing is impeding my view of my dick disappearing down her throat. “Open your lips, Addison.”
She parts them slightly, and I push the head of my dick past the resistance. I wanted to go slow, wanted to make sure I eased her into it, but fuck if her wet little mouth doesn’t feel amazing on my dick.
The next thing I know I’m pushing her head down on my dick, shoving my cock all the way into her mouth and forcing her lips to part.
She gags and then recovers, her eyes looking up at me, questioning, waiting for instruction.
I pull my cock out of her quickly and let her catch her breath, her chest heaving, her tits bouncing, those pert little rosebud nipples standing at attention.
“Take it in your hand.”
She wraps her hand around my dick and strokes it tentatively, and I put my hand on top of hers again, squeezing it around my dick, reminding her how to jerk me off like she did the other night. Soon, she falls into a rhythm.
“Like that?” she breathes.
“Fuck, yes, just like that.” I close my eyes for a second, because the sight of her on her knees, her ass up in the air is making me want to explode all over her face.
“Lick the head of my dick,” I say when I’ve recovered a bit.
She does as I say, her soft pink tongue swirling around the head, licking me softly and gently. I let her get used to it until she starts to get bolder, licking and sucking all up my shaft, her tongue pressing against the underside of my dick, varying the pressure.
“Fuck,” I groan. “Yes, baby, suck that cock.”
My words embolden her even more, and she begins to suck harder, taking me into her mouth, bobbling up and down, her lips and hand working together. I place my hand on the back of her head and push her further down, making her deep throat me.
Her blue-green eyes widen in surprise, but she takes it like a champ, her need to please me overtaking the shock she feels at the thickness of my dick choking her.
I groan as the head of my dick hits the back of her throat.
She bobs up and down, her tits still bouncing, her ass pushed high up in the air, her eyes on me, innocent and wanting to please.
“Just like that,” I groan. “Keep doing that and I’m going to come.”
She tightens her grip and goes deeper, and now her other hand is cupping my balls. It’s enough to send me over the edge, and I spurt down her throat. She sputters a little, but I hold her head until she relaxes and swallows, taking every drop of come that I pump into her.
“Holy shit,” I say, once she pops off my dick.
She smiles at me, pleased with herself, and I reach down and scoop her up, lay her down on the piano and pull at her panties, until they peel away from her skin. This time, when I push her legs open and bend her knees back, she doesn’t resist.
“So pretty,” I murmur, rubbing my fingers against her pink pussy. My mouth aches for her, the taste of her, and I begin to eat her. My cock tightens and hardens again as soon as my mouth hits her folds.
She groans and squirms beneath me, already dripping wet.
“You’re so wet, Addison.”
“Yes,” she moans in response. Her hands are in tight fists by her sides as she continues to squirms and wiggle around on the piano.
“Why are you so wet?” I slip a finger inside of her, and her pussy sucks me in, the walls of her fitting snugly around my finger.
“From what we just did.”
“What did we just do, Addison?” I press, needing to hear her say it.
“I sucked you.”
“Sucked what?” I push another finger inside of her experimentally, and she sucks in a breath, a hissing sound escaping from between her clenched teeth.
“Sucked your cock.”
“Did you like it, baby?”
“Yes.”
“What did you like about it?”
“I liked feeling you come in my mouth,” she says, and I lean down and put my lips on her pussy, sucking her whole clit into my mouth, placing my hand on her lower stomach and holding her down on the piano.
She tries to squirm away from me, the sensation too much for her to take, but I keep her pinned down until she stops trying to fight, until her legs relax and her body succumbs to my demands.
I push her legs further open as I eat her, harder and faster, kissing, sucking, tasting, pushing my tongue into her, fucking her sweet little channel.
“I’m going to come,” she breaths, her voice a breathy little innocent whisper.
A second later, she comes on my tongue, her pussy contracting around me as I suck and lick and kiss. I don’t stop until every wave of pleasure has swept through her body.
When she’s done, I slide her down into my lap, sitting at the piano bench as I pull her onto my dick.
Her pussy slides onto my cock easily, and I suck one of her pink nipples into my mouth as I fuck her, pulling her hips up and down.
She arches her back, pushing into me, and I go deeper, kissing her neck and grabbing a fistful of her hair as we both come again, this time together, at the same time, as I empty my load into her orgasming pussy.
When she’s done, I hold her tight, and kiss her shoulder.
Then I take her to the bed.
And so it goes.
ADDISON
"I stared at my wrists. The blood. The beauty. Silence. Black."
Our table is quiet while Luna sits back down, until Emme, who's sat beside Luna every class session now, lets out a breath. "Wow. You're going to get a Pullitzer someday."
Oh, come on.
"Seriously," A.J, the guy with the ponytail, says. "That was awesome." The others agree, but I sit quietly, my mind processing this third piece of my life sucks, I'll kill myself writing. What exactly is so present in Luna's style that made Chase pick her for this course? Am I nuts for not seeing it?
He looks amazingly hot today, of course, in jeans and just a touch of stubble. It's all I can do not to just watch him the entire session. His presence is so distracting. He exudes power and masculinity just sitting there, and it’s a heady combination that makes my head spin.
If Chase is either amused or impressed-- or underwhelmed, like me-- he doesn't show it as he glances my way. "Addison? Thoughts?"
"Uh," I begin, digging for something positive to say. "I guess I was hoping she'd redeem everything in the end."
Luna looks at me like I clearly don't get it. "Not every story has a happy ending. That would have been too cliche."
"Would it?" Seven pairs of eyes snap towards me, but I can't help asking. "I just, um. There are a ton of tragic stories, too. Unless the ending goes something like she suddenly turns into an alien, or something, you could make the argument that it's cliche."
"It's a deep story," Luna says, giving me the evil eye. "I'm going for depth. Not feel-good anything."
"I get that. I just don't think a piece is necessarily cliche if it ends on a high note. That's all I'm saying."
"Emotion," Chase says. "Raw emotion. Addison, like I was saying the other day. You would do well to inject some emotion into your own work. And on that note, what do you have for us today?"
I read my piece, cognizant of my every syllable being scrutinized, and immediately after I finish, Luna nods to herself, like I've just proven som
ething to her. Chase gives me a look that borders on reproach. "See, you did it again. It's like a cross of being too literary, too intellectual and too academic. It's like you're trying to be Jeffrey Eugenides and an Oxford researcher."
Luna doesn't bother to hide her snort. Emme smiles at her, like she's in on it, and I peel my eyes away from my classmates and stare at my papers. "I do love Jeffrey Eugenides," is all I can think of to say.
"So does everyone. But Addison, really. You've got to get more visceral if you want readers to actually get invested and stay invested in your work. It's just not an option."
Would I be more visceral and worthy of investment if I wrote about how I hate life, like Luna? And for no real reason? I clamp my jaw shut to keep from making some smart-ass remark. Investment is an interesting word to use for this. I've heard about investments my whole life from my dad-- good ones, bad ones, returns on them. Part of the reason I love writing is because I can be free from words like investment.
I sit, not saying another word for the rest of class. Chase apparently notices and calls out as I'm heading out the door, "Addison. Can I see you for a minute?"
I sigh, turning around. His face, having been devoid of any emotion all during class, is now back to warmth and interest, his eyes searching me. "Don't take it personally. I told you this was going to be a tough class."
"Mmm-hmm." I meet his eyes, but I don't feel like forgiving him just yet. "Thanks for the tip."
Chase's eyebrows arch up. "I have to treat you like I would anyone else. You get that, I know."
I walk out of Chase's classroom feeling like... not even sure what I'm feeling. Rejected? He didn't reject me, exactly, just criticized me. And he continues to act like he doesn't have an intimate relationship with me. But then, what do I expect? Is he supposed to sit next to me with his arm around me? Obviously he can't. He’d get fired if anyone knew he was dating a student. If you can even call secret nights at his house and him teaching me how to give him a blow job dating while he fucks me on his piano.
I blush, thinking about the dirty things we did, how he rubbed his dick over my face. Oh. My. God.
In my darkest moments, when I’m being completely honest with myself, I have to admit that I know what Chase and I are doing can’t end well. There’s no future. And somehow, that makes his critiques hurt even worse.
Kensie's got her thongs drying on a clothesline across our room when I get back.
I shove my books angrily onto my desk. "Ugh," I greet her.
She looks up from her bed, where she's sitting cross-legged, reading her Economics book. Econ is a major my parents would have approved of, if I hadn't gotten into the business school here. My dad has already sent me a bunch of internship literature from True Threads to give to her, which I haven't yet. I'm not sure why. Maybe because he's blissfully unaware that Kensie only studies enough to stay eligible for swimming. Or maybe I don't want to steer my roommate towards what my parents hope for, since one of us is already doing that. "Rough day?"
"Just not the best class," I say. "Got ripped a little bit again for my story."
"But they ripped it last week, didn't they? Twice?"
"Yep." I kick my shoes off and flop onto my bed. "Maybe that's what I'm looking at, is a shredding every Tuesday and Thursday."
Kensie and I sit in companionable quiet for a little while-- I like that when she bothers to study, she does in the late afternoon, giving me some peace to just chill. I scroll through social media-- not much has happened since this morning, just more cousins posting baby pictures and photos of food-- and then a photo of Luna and Emme catches my eye.
Emme friended me last week, so her stuff comes up on my feed-- initially, I thought that was a good sign. But she hasn't been too friendly with me since, and looking at her picture, I recognize the other four faces flanking the two of them, all of them holding up their beer mugs for the camera. "Writers' Taco and Beer Night!" is the caption.
I recognize those kelly green barstools and the wall decorated with license plates. They're at the Green Tavern, one of my favorites, famous here in town for their killer tacos. And now some comments are already popping up on the post. "'Chase Brooks's bomb squad for the win,'" I read aloud. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"What?" Kensie leans over and reads over my shoulder. "That's your class? But you're not... oh."
"Yeah," I say, rubbing my forehead, which is starting to throb. "I guess not."
She lets out a hum of sympathy. "Want to go grab an early dinner? Since it looks like that's what they're doing? We don't have to go to the Green." An evil smile forms on her lips. "But we could, if you wanted to play the I see what you did there card."
"That's okay," I say, tossing my phone onto the floor. God, Kensie's a good friend. But I think Luna might take my showing up at the Green Tavern as a victory, whether I seem bothered by it or not. "I think I'm going to take a little nap."
And I stretch out and shut my eyes. But sleep doesn't come. So I listen to Kensie turning pages in her Econ book and think about Chase, and wonder if feeling shitty right now makes me more visceral.
CHASE
I hang up with my editor and stare at the phone.
Kinsey Millhone. That's the character Emily, my editor, mentioned today as a comparison when we started talking about exactly how far Bryce Bowker can go. Kinsey Millhone goes all the way from A is for Alibi to Z is for Zero. An entire alphabet's worth of the same detective protagonist.
I broached the topic pretty casually, so it wouldn't sound suspicious, wondering how open Emily would be to Bryce not living much longer. When she tossed that Kinsey Millhone series out there, I felt ill. I don't have eleven more Bryce books in me. I just fucking don't.
Plummeting to the ground? Sure, how? Falling from a building? Parachute won't open? Or maybe he just gets shot point-blank? It could happen. I scribble a few more ways Bryce can meet his end, then rip the paper from its pad, wad it up and chuck it into my home office wastebasket. I know damn well that this book will probably end with another woman on his arm and another villain disposed of.
Emily wants Bryce to win the fucking Nobel Prize in Chemistry. Fuck that.
It's a gray sky out the window, the first cool day of the semester. I'm told that around October, the Oregon weather will turn to shit, and as much as I'm looking forward to those rainy days, which are my favorite writing days, I can't get excited about leading Bryce Bowker, ace douchebag, though more close calls to ego-bolstering victory. He makes shit happen in his lab, he gets his dick wet (usually multiple times, with multiple women) and he sidesteps death. Lather, rinse, repeat. And nobody is fucking sick of him yet?
I need a distraction.
Addision.
She gave me her cell number, so I dial it and she answers on the second ring.
"I feel like getting out of the house," I inform her. "Let’s get a room at the Promenade."
"That's where my parents stay." Her voice is crisp, all business all of a sudden.
"Oookay," I say. "Are they staying there currently?"
"No."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I don't know." There's a pause. "I'm kind of busy."
"Doing what?"
"Working on being more visceral."
Aha. "So that's what the attitude's about."
"I don't have an attitude!"
"You sure?"
Another pause. "I just thought you were a little harsh. And then I saw that everyone else went to taco beer night, and it was just kind of like, 'oh, shit,' and I've been kind of bummed, I guess. Which maybe I shouldn't be because frankly, I don't want to ruin my love of Green tacos by eating them with Luna who probably hates tacos. I'm surprised she even went."
"Taco beer night?" I can't help smiling-- Addison's voice is cute even when she's ranting-- but it's concerning that the rest of my students are deliberately leaving her out. "So you just weren't invited, or what?"
"Nope. Just saw the pictures they posted."
"Fuck," I say, but my mind is already moving onto her naked, laid out in bed at The Promenade, her legs spread as I devour her sweet little pussy. “Don’t worry. We'll have our own little party."
"Wee-eelll..." I can hear her wavering, and I know she wants to. "But are you going to be nicer to me in class?"
Oh, God. A strike of something – anxiety – pulses through me. Don’t shit where you eat. But I’ve been very clear with her, I tell myself. She knows this isn’t going to lead to relationship. I don’t do relationships. If she’s upset about what happened in class, it’s about what happened in class. Not about us. "Yeah, sure. Just meet me there. I'll text you the room number when I check in."
An hour later, I'm turning on the shower in the giant slate and granite bathroom in my hotel suite when I hear Addison's knock, the soft rapping I've come to recognize from my rental house door. I wrap a towel around my waist, shuffle through the suite and open the door.
Addison’s standing there looking stunning in a black maxi dress and light jacket. She opens her mouth and doesn't close it.
"Well, come in before someone walks by," I hiss, tugging her elbow.
"I always dreamed of a hot guy answering the door in just a towel," she says as she steps into the suite, "But I didn't think it would be today."
"It's your lucky day," I say, pulling her close. "Or maybe it's an apology."
"Can't it be both?" Addison pulls back to lock her eyes-- more greenish, in this light-- on mine before sweeping her gaze around the suite. The king-sized bed is visible through a double doorway, and the floor-to-ceiling windows show the small town and the forest beyond, leading up to the mountains. "Definitely romantic," she says in a soft voice.
That same sliver of anxiety slides through me. It’s not supposed to be romantic. Romantic is not shacking up with your professor at a clandestine location so he can fuck you without anyone knowing.
"Sexy,” I correct her. “And it would be sexier if you were naked too. I slip her jacket down her shoulders. Our lips crash together as I finish pulling her jacket off and play with the straps on her dress, slipping them down over her soft skin. The dress comes down, revealing black and ivory lace-- nice, very nice. It'll be nicer off of her, but for the next twenty seconds, I can admire how gorgeous she looks in it.
