Chapter 22: Classroom Games
The fluorescent buzz was the only sound for a long moment after her request hung in the air between them. Jason was speechless, standing unmoving in front of her as his mind started reeling through ideas at her request to train her. The charcoal pencil skirt hugged the powerful curve of her hips and ass, and the simple cream-colored blouse, with its top two buttons undone out of habit, offered a glimpse of the sheer black lace he knew was beneath. Her stunning green eyes watched him, unblinking, from under the cascade of black hair that fell to the top of her chest.
A cascade of images, raw and unfiltered, flooded his mind.
The first fantasy seized him with visceral force: of fucking her on her desk while the class watched. He saw her body, toned and desperate, arched over the laminated wood surface. Her nails would scrape against the fake grain as he drove into her from behind, each thrust making the desk legs screech against the linoleum. The muscles of her back and shoulders would cord and flex, her long hair sticking to her sweat-slicked skin. She’d turn her head, her cheek pressed against a student’s forgotten essay, and moan, begging him to fuck her more, her voice cracking with a shameless need that would echo in the silent, watching room. The fantasy was so clear he could almost hear the wet sound of their coupling, see the rapt, shocked faces of every other student—a gallery of witnesses to her ruin.
The second scenario unfolded seamlessly: of her standing in front of the class while she’s sucking on his cock. In his mind, she was on her knees before the whiteboard, the hem of a tight dress stretched taut over her round, kneeling ass. Her head would bob slowly at first, then with hungry, practiced rhythm, her lips a slick, perfect circle around him. Her green eyes would gaze up at him adoringly, reflecting the cheap overhead lights, even as her hands gripped his thighs for balance. The entire room would see the most respected teacher in the school reduced to a mouth, serving him. He imagined the rustle of their uniforms, their held breaths, the absolute power of being the focal point of her worship.
Then, a third, darker image flashed, confusing him: of her kneeling on all fours on her desk while she’s behind him, mouth latched onto his ass. In this vision, her strong, toned body was twisted, her back curved like a bow as she leaned over him. Her tongue, wet and insistent, worming its way inside him while she grunted animalistically, her hands groping and kneading his ass cheeks. The position was one of total dominance, but she was the one administering it. He shook his head slightly, a hard twitch of denial. He’d never wanted to do something like that before. The thought was alien, a departure from every fantasy he’d ever curated. He had to talk himself down from considering something that crazy. Obviously, she’d never agree to that, right?
He decided he needed to ease her into things. Start small. Establish control.
“Okay,” he said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat. “I’ll train you.”
A flicker of something—anticipation, relief—passed through her green eyes.
He leaned back against the edge of a student desk, crossing his arms. “First rule. Whenever I drop my pencil off my desk,” he said, plucking a standard No. 2 from a nearby groove and holding it up, “I’m ordering you to come over and pick it up for me.”
Lydia’s face fell. The disappointment was immediate, a slight tightening around her mouth, a dimming of the fire in her gaze. It was too mundane, too childish. It wasn’t what she’d asked for.
He quickly continued before she could speak. “And you’re to turn that beautiful, fat ass to face me,” he said, his eyes dragging down the line of her skirt. “Stretching down to pick up the pencil without bending your knees.”
Her breath caught. A soft, sharp intake that filled the space between them. The implication was clear: the position would force her hips back, strain the tight fabric of her skirt, present her to him in a pose of deliberate offering.
He still continued on, pushing his advantage. “And stop wearing those old woman skirts.” He gestured vaguely at the conservative charcoal wool. “I want to see you in something… tight.”
As he said the word tight, he moved. Swiftly, he closed the distance between them, his body invading hers. His face was inches from hers, their mouths breathing the same charged, chalk-dusted air. His hand clamped down on her hips, his fingers digging into the meaty flesh of her sides through the blouse. With a firm, undeniable pressure, he thrust her pelvis into his, holding her there against him where she could feel the hard, insistent line of him through his pants.
Her body stiffened under his hands, every muscle in her toned frame locking for a split second as she gasped. But she didn’t move a muscle to push him away. Her eyes became lost in his, the stunning green depths clouding with a complex swirl of shock, fear, and a deep, pooling want. Her lips parted, soft and full, searching for his to latch onto.
He reveled in it. The power he now held over this strong, powerful woman, his teacher, was a drug sweeter than any he’d known. Her stillness, her captured breath, the electric tension of her body pressed against his—it was all a silent scream of surrender. He owned this moment, and he was just getting started.
He held her there, grinding himself against the rough wool of her skirt, letting her feel every rigid inch of his arousal. The heat of him burned through the layers of fabric, a blunt brand against her pelvis. Her breath hitched, a ragged little sound swallowed by the sterile classroom air.
She was perfectly still, a statue of conflicted desire. Her long black hair swayed with the faint tremor running through her body.
“You like that?” he whispered, his voice gravel against the shell of her ear. It wasn’t really a question.
Lydia’s stunning green eyes were glazed, fixed on some point past his shoulder. Her throat worked as she swallowed. A faint, almost imperceptible roll of her hips answered him, a fractional movement that pressed her back against him. It was an admission, involuntary and devastating.
He smirked, the expression cool and knowing. His hands loosened on her hips, sliding down to grip the tops of her thighs. “We don’t want it too long either,” he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing homework.
His right hand loosened on her thigh, his fingers slowly grazing down her leg. They traced a deliberate path over the dense muscle of her thigh, down past her knee, until his fingertips met the hem of the charcoal pencil skirt. The fabric was taut, stretched to its limit by the powerful curve of her ass as he held her against him.
Her chest heaved up as she gasped deeply when his hand slipped under the skirt. The sound was sharp, a puncture in the silence. His palm was hot against the cool skin of her knee, his fingers greedy as they groped the sensitive hollow where her leg bent.
He began moving his hand back up her thigh, underneath the wool, a slow, possessive ascent. His fingers spread wide, feeling and squeezing the solid, muscular length of her. The skin was unbelievably smooth, like heated silk over steel cord. He could feel the fine tremor in her muscles, the involuntary twitches as his touch ignited nerves.
His hand stopped midway up her inner thigh. He paused, his palm flush against the incredibly sensitive skin there, and began again: kneading, groping, squeezing with a focused greed. The feel of her bare skin, the overwhelming heat, the intimate scent of her—clean soap and something deeper, muskier—thrilled him. It electrified her, too; he saw her eyelids flutter, her lips part on a silent moan.
“Only down to about here,” he said, his voice low and steady, pressing his fingers in to leave a mental mark. He looked deeply into her yearning, pleading eyes. His hand continued its work, massaging the strong, muscular, unbearably sensitive flesh of her inner leg. “Do you understand?”
He could feel her whole body straining, a live wire of need. Her hips made a tiny, abortive thrust forward, a desperate attempt to guide his hand higher, to where the heat was a palpable ache and the thin lace of her panties would be soaked. He kept his hand exactly where it was, an immovable anchor.
She stiffly and jerkily nodded her head. Her chest still heaved, her breath ragged as if she’d been running. A strand of her black hair stuck to the damp corner of her mouth.
“Good,” he said.
He flicked out his tongue, a quick, wet stroke against her parted lips. He tasted the faint mint of her lip balm and the salt of her skin. Then he backed away, releasing her completely.
She reflexively leaned forward, her mouth desperately searching for his while her own tongue lamely flitted at her lips, seeking the taste of him he’d left behind. The emptiness where his body had been felt suddenly vast and cold.
He snickered, reached out, and stroked her heated cheek with his knuckles. “Good girl,” he said, the words a mockery of praise that sent a fresh shudder through her.
Then he turned, picked up his backpack from the desk with a casual swing, and left. The classroom door clicked shut with a finality that echoed.
Lydia stayed in exactly the same position, leaning slightly forward, her hands braced on the desk edge he’d just vacated. The fluorescent lights hummed. The distant city noise filtered back in. Slowly, her breath steadied, each inhalation a conscious effort that filled her lungs and made the cream blouse tighten over her breasts.
Thinking of his order, she didn’t know what he was going to do to her now. The thought of stopping, of walking away and reporting him, of disobeying him, never even formed as a coherent concept in her mind. It was simply absent, erased by the phantom pressure of his hand on her thigh.
She remembered his order about the skirt’s length. She could still feel the burning brand his hand had left on her leg, the precise point mid-thigh where his greedy fingers had dug in. The aching emptiness he’d left behind was a better measuring tape than any ruler. It needed to be there, that skirt hem, right at that border he’d drawn on her skin.
Shit, she thought, the first practical, mundane word to break through the haze.
She realized she didn’t own a skirt that short. Not for teaching. Not for anything, really. The ones in her closet were professional armor, knee-length or longer. They hid. They didn’t reveal. They didn’t stop at the midpoint of a desperate, aching thigh.
She decided, right then, to go shopping after work. She would find something tight, something short, something that would please… Mast…
She stopped in her tracks, physically freezing as she gathered her purse. The word had almost formed completely in her mind. She walked to her car in the emptying parking lot, the autumn sun low and harsh. Shock, cold and clean, washed over her.
Not Master. Jason. My student, Jason.
Keep it together, Lydia.
The engine of her sensible sedan coughed to life. She didn’t drive home. She guided the car through the creeping downtown traffic, her hands steady on the wheel, her mind a blank static. She drove until she saw the discreet, black-fronted boutique with the mannequin in the window wearing leather and lace. She parallel parked, checked her reflection—her green eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed—and stepped out onto the sidewalk.