Much to his utter and complete dismay. Honestly, I’ve never seen anyone go from lascivious to horrified in so short a time. His heavy-lidded eyes go wide. An outraged breath chuffs out of him. And of course his hand comes down over my wrist.
‘No, Hetty,’ he says.
But I have an excellent answer for it.
‘That seems like rather a double standard.’
‘How do you mean? What are you saying?’
God, his tone is so clipped. So strained.
It makes my stomach flip.
‘Well, you are apparently allowed to fondle me in a public place. But I’m not allowed to fondle you. In fact, it’s starting to feel like I’m not allowed to fondle you at all.’
‘There was no fondling. Don’t use that word “fondle”.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because it sounds –’
‘Like you want it?’
His eyes roll up to the heavens.
But he admits it, from between gritted teeth.
‘Yes. All right, yes.’
‘You’re as hard as stone.’
‘That’s not a reason to just give in.’
‘Even though you clearly liked me saying all that.’
‘Of course I like you saying all that. I like you doing all the things you’re doing. I like you being so unbearably turned on that you almost masturbate next to me and have to open a window to cool off and come so hard all over my face that I can still taste you hours later. But that’s not the point.’
‘It feels like the point.’
‘I wanted to go slowly, Hetty.’
‘And I was willing to, until you start kissing me and touching me and generally riling me up to such an extent that all I can think about is sucking your cock in the bathrooms here, until you come all over my face and tits in thick hot ribbons.’
His eyes search my face when I’m done, as though trying to impress on me how bad I have just been or see if I feel any regret. Or, at least, that is what I think he means.
But then he takes hold of my hand, and I realise.
I see it before he even says it, then thrill when he does.
‘Very well then. Come along,’ he tells me.
Before towing me to the nearest bathroom.
He checks no one is inside the ladies before going in – something that astonishes me enough on its own. But then there is the way he goes about, all brisk and businesslike. Every move he makes is far quicker than anything I’ve ever seen him do before. Usually he is deliberate, even slow. He plans things. He measures each gesture out, as though saving them up for a later date.
Here he is the opposite.
He all but pulls me in after him, and when the door swings oh, so slowly shut he puts an impatient hand on it. He slams it closed and holds it there for a second, before snapping the lock with one sharp twist of his hand. As though he hadn’t quite decided prior to sealing us in, but he has now. It’s why he takes a step towards me, too quick. And why he looks at me even more briskly than that, eyes obviously and nakedly trailing all over my body in a way he never let himself before.
Suddenly I can see that he likes my breasts, my hips. His gaze lingers there, almost lovingly – and maybe with a kind of relief. As if he knows he can now. He need not hold back or pretend. I want him to enjoy my body; I love that he enjoys it; it makes my breath come quicker and my heart flutter in my chest.
Though that might be down to the step he takes towards me. He was too fast before; now he’s much too slow. It doesn’t make me think of someone taking their time. It makes me think of a predator, stalking his prey. He turns his head to one side as if assessing me, and once he’s done he says five words that make me shiver: ‘Get on your knees then.’ Just like that, without any softening. No attempt at being polite, or asking my permission. He even starts unbuttoning his trousers.
Much to my great and utter delight. That shiver becomes a constant trembling at the sight of him doing this. And it gets more violent once I do as he says – quite possibly because he puts a hand on the side of my head. He pushes his fingers into my hair, half-stroking and half-doing something else. Holding me there, I think, then almost lose my mind. I never in a million years thought he’d really do it. And even if I entertained the notion, even if I thought he might, I expected hedging and tentative touching and my hands on his trousers. I thought I would be the one getting his cock out, near fumbling and obviously desperate for it.
But he is. He is the one.
His hand makes something close to a fist in my hair, tilting my head just ever so slightly up, so the angle is good. And then he just eases it out – the whole thick length of it – and rubs it over my lips. Tells me to open for him, in a tone so low and insistent it reverberates through my body. It makes my clit jerk and pulse and my cunt clench tightly around nothing, and that’s before he works his way into my mouth.
After that, I can barely think straight. Every inch of me feels feverish and flushed, and not just because I’m on my knees in a bathroom sucking Professor Halstrom’s cock. There is also the sheer sensation of him doing it to me. Of him rocking in and out of my willing mouth, slow at first but then less so. Or the sheer size of him, so solid and heavy I have to strain a little to take him. I have to open wide, and even then I can barely accept more than half.
He makes sure I don’t accept more than half. He keeps one hand around the base of it, as though he knows what I’ll do given half the chance. And he’s right to think so. The second he starts to falter a little, I push forward. I take him until I gag and he groans, and not just because it feels good to do it. I take him because I know one thrilling thing well.
He’s close to coming.
His whole body is shuddering with the effort of holding it off. When I swirl my tongue around the head he almost steps back – and probably would have done, if I didn’t have hold of his thigh. I grip it tight, tight, as I work on him, licking and lapping until his legs start to tremble. His breathing goes from harsh and fast to something guttural, something more like moans of pleasure, and when it does I redouble my efforts. I make my mouth sloppy and greedy on his cock, tongue flicking back and forth over the bursting slit at the tip, everything slippery wet with my spit and his precome.
And when that doesn’t seem like enough I push my hand inside my top. I push my top up, in fact. I let him see me teasing and toying with my sharp red nipples; I let him know that teasing and toying with them is not enough. I want to frig my clit as I suck him off – and I do, I do, I do. I stuff my hand inside my jeans in a way I know is much too lewd. I get that I’m pushing past some limit.
Yet somehow I don’t expect it to work.
I don’t imagine him suddenly telling me that he’s going to fill my mouth. But that’s what he does. In fact he goes further than that, so much further, oh, God, I never knew he could go as far as he does. He pulls away just far enough that I can see his hand moving on his cock, firm and fast and determined. And then just as he gets to breaking point, just as that fat, gleaming head swells between his working fingers, he tilts my head back again. He tells me, ‘Get ready to take it.’
Like some filthy fuckboy I once dated – only better, hotter, sweeter because it’s him saying that, it’s him doing it, it’s him jerking his thick prick until hot ribbons of come burst from the tip and over my tongue, my lips, even my tits. Oh, God, I think he actually aims for my tits, too. I think he wants to see that sticky liquid dripping from the tips of my breasts.
And it does. He all but covers me in it. By the time he leans back against the stall door, trembling and spent, I’m an absolute mess. A filthy, dirty, electrifying mess, of the sort that makes my body stutter and my clit jerk against my still working fingers. I feel the slipperiness sliding over one sensitive nipple, and taste it sharp and tangy on my tongue, and everything just starts to go.
I even tell him so.
‘Oh, God, I’m coming,’ I say.
I’m coming.
And ma
ybe it’s me moaning that aloud. Maybe it’s the sight of me, striped with his come and still on my knees. But either way, he has one final treat just for me. He waits, it seems, until I’m shuddering with pleasure. Waits until I’m calling his name. And then he hauls me to my feet with one hand and kisses me.
He kisses my come-covered mouth, as I lose myself in this bliss.
Chapter Thirteen
He barely speaks on the walk back to his flat, but I think nothing of it. I barely want to talk, either. Every part of me is still aching from that encounter. I need time to marvel over it all: that he did it, that he did it in a public bathroom, that I can still taste him on my tongue. Hell, I can still taste him on my lips. I lick them and get just the barest hint of his come – though the barest is more than enough. It makes my clit pulse with an echo of that pleasure.
Or a desire for more.
I think I might need more.
Though somehow I doubt I’m going to get it. The second we enter his flat he just goes directly to the bathroom, and does not come back out. Not after five minutes. Not after ten. Not after I apologise for ruining his plans to hold hands. I tap on the door and tell him I never intended to go that far – though afterwards I can’t help wondering if I really did. It was him who started the kiss. Him who fondled my breasts. He didn’t have to take me into the bathroom if he didn’t want to.
And he certainly didn’t have to come in my mouth.
He could have stopped short. Or at least not kissed me.
But he did. He did, and the more I think about it the crosser I get. Several times I almost bang on the door instead of tapping on it. I think about saying that I’m not sorry at all, and I don’t care if he ever comes out. However, in the end, I manage to just go with a medium-voiced:
‘Are you going to hide in there every time you have a sexual feeling?’
Though I don’t expect an answer when I do. It almost knocks my heart out of my chest to hear his voice come back at me through the door.
‘I think what I did constitutes more than a sexual feeling.’
Now what, I think.
But I plough on regardless.
‘So you are ashamed then?’
‘Don’t say it in that tone.’
‘I don’t know what tone you mean.’
‘The one you use when you think I’m being an impossible fool.’
‘I have a tone for that? Does it sound like the one you use when I’m being an impossible fool?’
I think I’ve lost him then. All I can hear is the plink-plink of water into the sink, and maybe the faint undercurrent of someone breathing. So when the door suddenly swings open I briefly lose my footing. I do little more than stare at him – even after he answers me back. ‘No. Mine is eminently reasonable and employed in a decent fashion,’ he tells me, and I just stand there accepting this for a second. I mean, he does look eminently reasonable and utterly decent. You would never know he just did something weird. His hair is still neatly side-parted and his jacket is buttoned.
He could be about to deliver a lecture on being rational at all times.
Apart from all the things he just did.
He needs to be reminded of all the things he just did.
‘Oh, yes, it definitely seems that way. Right now you look like the most rational man alive, hiding out in a bathroom because your girlfriend gave you a blowjob.’
‘Did you just refer to yourself as my girlfriend?’
‘Well, what would you rather I go with? Associate?’
‘No, of course not. I merely thought that –’
‘Maybe partner would be better.’
‘We are not about to embark on a business venture together.’
‘The only other option is lover.’
I say the last word half-laughing, as though maybe if I do I can head him off at the pass. He can’t dismiss the idea if I do it first – though to my surprise he doesn’t even try.
He nods, instead. He nods over ‘lover’.
Then just in case it wasn’t clear:
‘That would be acceptable.’
‘Even though you kind of hate sex with me?’
He sighs, but not too heavily.
Softer than that, I think. Sweeter.
‘I don’t hate sex with you. I told you – I just want the other things. And what we just did was the opposite of those other things. In fact, it was so far towards the other end of the spectrum that I struggle to think of it without wondering what on earth overtook me. To behave in so base a manner! To stray so far from the affection and love I wish to feel and engender in you. It is beyond the pale.’
I let him pace back and forth after that little outburst. He seems to need it. He seems to need to pinch his brow and search for his cigarettes too – though when he finds them he doesn’t light one. He puts it between his lips and strikes a match, before seeming to think better of it. As though he knows how it looks: like someone not coping very well with the current situation, and desperate for relief from it.
Relief that I want to give him, if I can.
‘Yeah, but you get that you still engender those things in me while coming in my mouth, right? That they don’t go away because you did an electrifying sex thing to me?’ I ask, and when he stops, and turns…when he looks at me like a drowning man reaching out for the rope I just tossed…that’s when I know I should continue. It takes a deep breath and a bit of sitting down, but I continue. ‘You need to stop separating love and sex. Duty and passion. It doesn’t have to be that way. Do you think fucking me in a bathroom erased you saying you loved me? That if you are only ever affectionate towards me or polite or restrained, it somehow makes what we have more real? I don’t. To me, it never felt more so than when you said those filthy things to me as you filled my mouth. Or when you kissed the come from my lips. Those things make us real, because those things show that you do view me as your lover, and not just a student or some weird ideal you think you have to protect.’
He opens his mouth to say something when I am done, but nothing comes out. All he can really manage is a sort of strained lift of one brow – but that’s all right. It says everything I need to know. It tells me that the idea I just expressed is something that hasn’t completely occurred to him, and that it is now sinking in.
The only thing I need to do now is really drive it home.
‘So if you want to agonise over it and try to plan how our relationship – yes, I said relationship – plays out, you can. But I’m going to carry on enjoying the hell out of every filthy sex act you accidentally fall into, regardless. In fact I think I’m going to spend most of my time from here on in trying to persuade you to do as many of them as possible.’
‘Oh, yes, and how do you expect to go about that, exactly?’ he asks, in a tone I think he intends to be challenging. When it emerges, however, it seems faint and far away.
Unlike mine. Mine is sure and straight as an arrow fired from a crossbow, when I tell him: ‘You’ve been locked up so tight for so long that a simple frantic kiss made you fondle my tits in a museum and then fuck me in the bathroom. It shouldn’t be too hard.’
Though I think I might come to regret it.
Partly because of the sudden glint in his eye.
And the way he sits, suddenly comfortable, with his hands in his lap.
But mostly because he finishes our conversation by saying this:
‘Well, I suppose you can go ahead and try.’
In a voice that has all the challenge that his previous words failed to supply.
I start with something small. Something that he might not even register as an attempt at seduction. Just a hand on his back as we walk by a river – and yes, maybe I put it under his jacket. It could be that I almost touch bare skin. But still I expect it to be a little more effective than it turns out to be. I barely did anything in the museum and he practically fell all over me. I opened a window and he couldn’t resist eating my pussy. This doing-but-not-really-doing-anything should work like a
charm.
Instead, as soon as he feels it he steps away, and suggests we get lunch.
Though I can tell by the look on his face that lunch isn’t really on his mind at all. He has that ghost of a smile on his lips, like he knows he’s getting one over on me. He’s probably even aware that he just has to wait my time here out – I have another two weeks before I have to leave. And once I do we can go back to letters and dates that he arranges and barely any being together in bed unless he specifically says so. I might never be able to persuade him to do anything filthy again.
I can barely persuade him now, with him lying next to me night after night. I wear my tiniest nightie and press against him in the sultry, sleepy mornings, and try steering conversations around to sex. But when I do manage to get him talking, it barely seems to work. He just absorbs it, the way he used to in his office. He has all of this practised resistance, and he deploys it with incredible skill. I tell him about my deepest fantasies, and he simply nods. I disguise the filthiest things as story ideas, but he just urges me to write them down. To type them up, on his rattling old typewriter, as he watches over my shoulder.
Even when I go one further, he still manages to head me off at the pass. I tell him I need to come so badly, after a night spent saying all these filthy things. I push my knickers down to my knees – just like he did. And, as I whisper that I just can’t help it, I start to play with myself. I spread my legs and let him see my fingers rubbing around and around my clit, a million filthy words still on my lips.
Words designed to persuade him.
‘I want you to come in my mouth,’ I say, soft and urgent. ‘I want you to come in my mouth then kiss me like you did before. Taste yourself on my lips – because you did, didn’t you? You could taste yourself on me, and it thrilled you to do it. So do it again. Do it all over my face.’
Though honestly, I don’t expect it to work.
‘Why stop at your face?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I could come all over your quim.’
The Professor Page 12
