by Jess Bentley
But standing in the hallway, I notice that he has left his door open a crack. That's different. He usually doesn't do that.
I wonder if he's asleep. Maybe I woke him while moving around and getting ready. I should probably check.
I push his door open slightly with my fingertips and stand there, almost holding my breath. He is still asleep, his forearm over his head, one knee lifted. He's wearing boxer shorts — charcoal gray, of course — and no shirt. I watch his abdomen rise and fall slowly, staring at the light dusting of hair that spreads out over is thick pecs. His jaw is almost blue with beard stubble and I want to touch it, to run my fingers against the rough texture. Instead I gnaw on my thumb knuckle, glad to have something hard in my mouth.
He definitely looks different than the guys in the videos. Those guys are practically hairless, and they seem somehow smaller in every way. Even the guy with the soup can.
Their muscles are tight and sort of different. Daniel’s muscles look thick, solid. I guess there's a difference between young men muscles and older men muscles. This is the sort of body I could lay on top of without worrying that I would crush him. This is the sort of person who would stand in front of me if something bad ever happened. I could climb him like a tree.
As he is breathing, I notice the way his jockey shorts tent out at the center and remember that men get erections in the morning sometimes. Totally normal physical response. But it has me overwhelmingly curious.
Padding over to the bed, I bite my lip hard. I can't stop looking at it. With each slow breath, his cock strains against the cotton fabric of his jockey shorts. Taking a chance, I drag my fingers along the waistband of his shorts, just slipping my fingertips below the fabric. It's so warm there, and his skin is so soft, yet firm.
I hear his breathing change and realize I have woken him up, but he doesn't say anything. I slide my hand the other way, pushing my hand deeper below the fabric, feeling the wiry patch of hair, following it down to the base of the shaft. He draws breath sharply with a shuddering sound.
Emboldened by this, I reach even further and loop my fingers around the base, squeezing lightly to feel the pulsing veins, the velvety smooth skin. Just like in the video, I hold it in my hand and drag slowly toward the tip, exploring every ridge and bump.
He moans softly as I stroke him. When I use both hands to pull the jockey shorts off him, he pushes his hips up to release the fabric.
There it is. It's so much more beautiful than I expected, with a fat, dusky tip glistening at the slit. The shaft is paler, crisscrossed by veins and proudly jutting toward me. His balls nestle underneath, moving slightly under the roughly textured skin there.
I'm fascinated, but I don't want to just stare at him like some idiot.
“A little harder, please,” he says in a low rumble. His hand covers my hand and exerts more pressure. “Like this.”
I nod, thrilled by the instruction. Under his hand, he draws mine up to the tip and then back down with this slightly circular motion. The glistening jewel thickens, the dome so big it looks like it's going to slide right off.
Without even thinking, I dip my head down and touch my tongue to it, slurping up the thick liquid. It tastes like salt.
“Oh my God, yes,” he groans and I feel his hips buck underneath me.
He begins to thrust toward me, his other hand sneaking around through my hair to the back of my head. I concentrate on his instructions and hold the shaft in my hand as the thick head stretches past my lips and fills my mouth.
Nature just takes over, and we find a rhythm together. I pump the shaft against my palm and work my tongue in circles around the head as he presses in and then withdraws. If I relax the back of my tongue, he can press even farther into my mouth, emitting moans that rise quickly in urgency.
Just like when I saw him in alone in his bedroom, his whole body flexes as he's guiding his cock to the back of my throat over and over again, working like a smooth, mechanical piston. His fingers dig into the back of my scalp firmly, but not painfully as he thrusts into me.
Then suddenly his taste changes. He withdraws for a moment, clutching my hand against his cock at the base, pinning me there. His member slips out of my mouth and stands straight up, veins bulging. I hold my breath and watch his beautiful, shining shaft as it explodes, sending streams of pearlescent cum arcing out that land on my chin and slide down my neck. It is an unbelievable sight, like nothing I've ever seen before.
“Oh, baby, baby,” he groans as I take my T-shirt off and use it to wipe the semen from my skin. “What a beautiful surprise,” he continues. He holds his arms out. “Come here, come lay with me.”
I crawl up under the covers with him and he flings them over us, drawing me close as he shudders a few more times. Our skin is sticky, but he doesn't seem to mind. I guess this is just how people are. Sort of sticky, sort of sweaty. It's nice.
“That was such a wonderful surprise,” he sighs into my hair, kissing my head and stroking my shoulder. “What time is it? Are you going to be late?”
“I'm really glad you liked it,” I whisper against his neck, rubbing my nose along his stubbly, strong jawline.
He nods, sighing again. I love how our bodies just fit together, how we are just so comfortable like this.
“I wish you didn't have to go,” he continues. “When is your first class?”
I just shrug.
“Kita?” he repeats, pulling away from me so I have to meet his eyes. “What time is your first class?”
“I'm not sure I want to go,” I finally admit. “I feel like —”
“— come on, let's get up. I'll drive you.”
He whips the covers back, sitting up in one smooth motion. I curl onto my side, not wanting to leave our warm nest.
“No… I think I just need a little break or something.”
Pushing his hands through his hair he scowls at the wall for a moment before turning back to me. His hazel eyes are intense and serious.
“Kita, those girls… they’re just trying to intimidate you. You can't let them do that. The best way to show them is to just continue on with your life.”
“This is not the only college in the United States,” I pout, suddenly irritated that he's bossing me around like this. “And there's no deadline either. I can get a degree when I'm fifty. There's no rush, right?”
“That's an evasion, and you know it,” he counters. I'm surprised at how his eyes flash at me, like he's actually angry about it. Why does he even care so much? It's not his college degree, is it?
“I can decide if I want to evade something or not,” I snap back, startling myself. Normally I would try to be polite, but I also know what I want.
“That was our deal,” he reminds me. “Just a reminder, the deal is: free room and board while you're in school. Isn’t it finals week or something?”
I shrug one shoulder and roll my face toward the pillow.
“Then you're almost done,” he says more reasonably. I can hear that he is trying to soften his tone. “I’ll tell you what… we can renegotiate our deal, okay? But I need you to keep going to class. Finish your finals, and then we can talk about some other arrangement. Online classes or something. Maybe a transfer.”
I don't say anything for a long while. I haven't had anybody to boss me around for a long time, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Part of me wants to resist, but part of me knows that he's right too. And part of me just wants the comfort of submitting to him.
He leans back over to me, taking both of my hands in his big hands. I stare at the union, sort of liking it in spite of sort of wanting to be super-pissed off at him.
“Kita, you know that I only want what's best for you, right?” His voice is soft and low now. It’s loving, but also…strong.
I nod slowly.
“And do you believe me when I tell you that I'm going to take care of Lizzie too?”
I look up at him, shocked. “No… I don’t want you to do anything about that. That's over,”
I say in a rush. “Let’s just let that one go, please?”
He opens his mouth as if he is going to say something, but then he doesn't. Instead he draws my hands up to his lips and kisses the backs of my knuckles. Then he leans forward and kisses the top of my head, before getting up and leaving the soft bed to take a shower. I watch his butt muscles clench with every step, somehow wanting him even more. All over again.
Chapter 15
Daniel
The admin looks up from her desk when I enter. A vague, polite smile crosses her lips, and she gestures to one of the leather seated chairs positioned against the wall across from her. I'd rather stand, actually.
I can hear voices behind the closed door to the Dean's office and try to appear interested in the framed documents on the wall. Doctor of Education. Master in Business Administration. A photo of him and the governor. A picture of a boat that I presume must belong to him.
Honestly, I have to wonder, why do some men take pictures of their boats? This will always and forever remain a mystery to me. I have ten cars and I don't think I have ever photographed any of them. What’s the obsession?
Compensation?
The admin clears her throat behind me, and I turn around. Her eyebrows are raised in a hearty, direct stare. She's attractive… some would even say beautiful. But she does nothing for me. I've got work to do here, and her light flirtation would not do anything but irritate me.
I turn back around and glance over the bookshelf, preferring not to antagonize her with my mission-focused attitude. It's not her fault, and I don't mean to insult her, but I'm afraid my tone would come off as rudely abrupt. Other women just do nothing for me but present obstacles. There is only one woman on my mind now.
Kita. My kitten. I can still feel her small, soft body against mine. I force my mind away from her. I don’t want to talk to the dean with a hard-on.
Finally the voices get closer to the door and I hear it open with a creak. Dean Kravitz shakes a man's hand warmly, clapping him on the opposite shoulder and nodding.
“Well that's just fine, just fine, Tony,” he's saying, grinning as his head bobs up and down. I know that expression. That's a man who's grateful for the large donation he just received. “Thanks so much for coming in and say hello to Carolyn for me, won't you?”
“Oh I will,” the other man smiles, “See you and Marisol on Sunday? Brunch?”
“Wouldn't miss it!” The Dean chuckles affably. It’s almost comically typical of what a Dean is supposed to do.
He gently guides the donor toward the door. Not until the other man is safely in the hallway does he even turn to look at me. His expression is not quite as eager now, and I watch him narrow his eyes almost imperceptibly as he looks me over.
“Daniel Lockwood,” he says, for no reason. It's not a very warm greeting. I suppose he's letting me know our meeting won't end in a brunch invitation.
I don't say anything, and he strides back into his office. I follow him, closing the door after me and standing between the two leather club chairs that face his desk, my feet shoulder-width apart and my hands clasped behind my back.
He scowls slightly as he settles back into his overstuffed leather chair, the springs squeaking beneath him.
I take in the whole room without looking: more pictures of boats, books in neat shelves. An oil painting of someone who looks like another Dean from another time. Abundant houseplants lined up under the window. It's a nice office, a pleasant space to spend a few decades—if you're into that sort of thing. Which, suffice it to say, I’m not.
Finally he sighs, stretching a fake smile across his lips.
“You requested a meeting,” he says to open the conversation. “So, tell me: what can I do for you?”
I nod for a moment, letting the silence simmer in the air. I can tell that he's dreading this conversation, and dread is sometimes a very useful emotion. I'll let it escalate for just a little while longer. There’s power in silence.
“Are you familiar with the Chi Rho Pi sorority?” I ask finally.
His mouth twists into a scowl. Our last conversation was also about the sorority. I'm sure he remembers it.
“You know that I am,” he grumbles. His hands shift papers around on his desk pointlessly. “Are they interfering with one of your properties again, Mr. Lockwood?”
“No, I can handle that sort of activity. This is a more recent incident. Just a couple of weeks ago, they attempted one of their bake sale events at the Crow Bar, were you aware of this?”
He shrugs, pushing his glasses down his nose so he can stare at a piece of paper in his hand.
“Were there arrests?” he asks.
“Not for this incident. I believe you have already addressed whatever underage drinking that the police escalated to you from that night.”
“Indeed,” he nods, acting bored and busy. “Are you aware of other arrests?”
“No. This was not immediately apparent to law enforcement.” I keep my eyes on him, not letting him escape my gaze. He shifts.
“We don't track all off-campus activities, as I'm sure you know, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Understood. Is the sorority house on campus?”
His eyes flicker back up to me, his lips pressed into a line. “It is,” he confirms. I wonder if he knows I have him.
This is approximately the level of stress I want him to experience. If he were a cartoon character, there would be a small dial above his head indicating how close he was to blowing his top. I don't want him to get all the way there. I just want him to burn a little bit.
“Do you mind if I sit?” I ask him. He gestures to the chair and as I lower myself into it, I see his posture relax lightly. Perfect.
“Last week, I was doing some security check up… nothing serious, mind you… simply addressing some issues for a financial institution tangentially related to some of my philanthropic interests. I came across some… information. Some disturbing information. And I thought you needed to be aware of it.”
He pushes himself back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin and taking deep breaths. Obviously, he is as aware as anyone of the Chi Rho Pi reputation. As the Dean, he is responsible for student safety and he understands that whether he answers yes or no, things are starting to look very bad for him. Either he does know what Lizzie is up to and is letting it happen, or he doesn't have a clue what Lizzie is doing, and he's bad at his job.
“What kind of information?” he finally asks me in a low voice.
I take a deep breath, casting my eyes downward so that eye contact is not too aggressive. I have to play him properly. But I can still see him and gauge his reactions.
“Well, to put it directly, it appears that some of the younger members of the sorority, pledges even, have been surveilled, if you know what I mean.”
His eyes flicker over to me and I can feel the change in his breathing. He's alarmed. As he should be.
“Surveilled? As in pictures?”
“Pictures, yes. It would seem so. As well as videos.” I look up again. Some part of me is definitely enjoying watching him squirm like a fish on a hook.
“Christ,” he sneers, dragging a knuckle between his eyebrows. This is bad, and he knows it.
I decide to press further, so that there's no misunderstanding. “These pictures… and video… are being procured without authorization. Without consent. And then offered for sale. Do you understand what that means?”
I let the question hang in the air. The fact is, I don't have very much information on this. I need his imagination to run a little bit wild. Pictures of girls in the shower? In the rooms? Video? I need him to wonder just how bad this is.
“I don't suppose you have a name for me,” he says in a hoarse whisper.
“Elizabeth Whitmore,” I declare.
“Fuck,” he spits. I can tell from his tone of voice that he is not surprised at all.
I lean forward, placing my forearms on my knees. “You remember her?” I ask him, but I kno
w he does. She was the topic of our last conversation, which apparently he did not take very seriously, because she is still enrolled in school.
“Oh, I know the Whitmores. Everyone here knows the Whitmores. Did you perhaps drive past the Whitmore Sports Pavillion on your way here?”
Oh. That makes sense.
But I have to continue.
“According to my source, the sorority house itself is the nexus of the surveillance. If this should get out and the authorities began an investigation… the public would be, well, I'm sure you already know…”
He scrubs his hand over his face, grumbling deep in his chest.
“What you suggest I do, Mr. Lockwood?” he finally asks me. He is weary now. Looking at me like I’m his savior.
“Well I'm sure if the sorority’s charter was removed, the fallout could be minimized. No charter, no need for an investigation, right?”
I hate that I'm saying this. I hate thinking that Lizzie will get away without formal charges being pressed against her, but my priority is merely to have the operation shut down. Justice will come to her in other ways, I'm sure. And swiftly. But for right now, knowing that there are videos or photographs of Kita out there, going to God knows who… It must be eliminated.
“Remove the charter,” he repeats slowly, mulling it over. “I suppose I don't have a choice, do I?”
“It does seem to be the best option.”
For a few long seconds, we sit there in silence. I want to nudge him back toward this decision in case he wants to backtrack, but I feel that his mind is already made up. Finally he looks at me and cocks his head to the side, a gesture that indicates he's accepted my proposal.
“How did you find out about this, Mr. Lockwood? The information just dropped into your lap? Just like that?”
I straighten slightly. “One of the young women came to me,” I answer, repackaging a version of the truth for him. “An exceptional student, perhaps you know her? Nikita Sokolov?”
