Chapter 141: Comparative Education
The first grey light of dawn seeped around the edges of the blackout curtains, painting the room in muted shades of charcoal and slate. Leo slept on his back, mouth slightly open, one arm flung out across Margot’s side of the bed. The scent of their night—sex, sweat, spilled lube—hung warm and intimate in the still air.
Margot watched him sleep, a strange fondness curling through her. He’d been an eager student. But morning offered a final exam.
She slipped from the sheets, the cool air pebbling her skin. Her body felt deliciously sore, a well-used satisfaction deep in her muscles. She padded to the minibar, retrieved a bottle of water, and drank half of it watching him. Then, setting the bottle aside, she returned to bed.
This time, she didn’t wake him with a touch. She slid down, the sheets creating a damp, private cave, and took him into her mouth. He was soft, vulnerable. She worked him slowly, with a gentle, suctioning rhythm, her tongue tracing the velvety ridge. He stirred with a muffled groan, his hips twitching involuntarily as he hardened against her tongue. The taste of him, of them, was musky and primal.
“Wh… Margot?” His voice was thick with sleep.
She emerged, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Good morning.” She swung a leg over him, settling her weight onto his hips before he was fully aware. He was hard now, achingly so. She positioned him, notching his tip against her, still slick and loose from the night. Then she sank down, a slow, engulfing descent that made him arch off the bed.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, his hands flying to her thighs.
“Exactly,” she breathed, beginning to move. This wasn’t the exploratory rhythm of the night before. This was purposeful, a deep, grinding roll of her hips designed for her own climbing pleasure. The little bell on her piercing jingled softly with each downward stroke, a tiny, obscene metronome. She braced her hands on his chest, her curls a wild tumble around her shoulders, and looked down at his wide-eyed, overwhelmed face.
“This is how a real woman rides,” she said, her voice low and husky. She clenched around him internally, a firm, practiced pulse, and watched his eyes roll back. “Not the timid, missionary routine my husband thinks is adventurous. Feel that? That’s control.”
She increased her pace, the headboard beginning a steady, rhythmic tap against the wall. Thump. Thump. Thump-thump-thump.
“Do you think the people next door can hear us?” she whispered, leaning forward so her breasts brushed his chin. “Maybe they’re a married couple. Older. Lying in silence. And all they can hear is my cunt taking this young, hard cock. Pounding. They’ll think we’re newlyweds.” She laughed, a breathless, wicked sound, and rode him harder, the slapping of skin growing wetter, louder. “They’ll be jealous.”
Leo was beyond speech, reduced to grunts and grasping hands. His nails dug into the flesh of her hips. She could feel his climax building, a tightening in his belly beneath her.
“Not yet,” she commanded, slowing suddenly, drawing a tortured groan from him. “You don’t come until I do. You learn to hold it. You learn to serve.” She reached between them, her fingers finding her own swollen clit, the metal ring cool against her touch. She circled it, her breathing becoming ragged, theatrical gasps for his benefit. “Watch me. Watch me come on your cock.”
She worked herself faster, her movements turning jerky, desperate. The bell chimed a frantic little song. Her inner muscles clamped down on him in swift, violent waves. “God, yes… right there… you fucking beautiful boy…” She threw her head back, a silent scream on her lips as the orgasm ripped through her, contorting her body, milking him relentlessly.
The sensation was too much for him. With a broken cry, he surged up into her, his own release triggering, spilling hot inside her as she continued to shudder above him. She collapsed onto his chest, both of them slick and heaving.
For a long while, there was only the sound of their labored breathing. The headboard was silent. Somewhere in the distance, a city garbage truck beeped.
Eventually, she pushed herself up, dismounted, and kissed his sweaty forehead. “Room service will be here soon. I ordered pancakes.”
He just stared at her, a look of awe and utter depletion on his face.
They ate cross-legged on the rumpled bed, syrup dripping onto the duvet. He was ravenous, devouring bacon and eggs. Margot nibbled toast, observing him. The shyness was gone, replaced by a dazed, post-coital confidence.
“Your grandmother,” Margot said, swirling a piece of bacon in syrup, “is a visionary.”
Leo almost choked on his orange juice. “She’s… something. I can’t believe she… arranged this.”
“She wants you to step into the world properly. Not fumbling in a backseat. Knowledge is power, Leo. Even this kind.” She licked syrup from her thumb. “Remember what you learned. The patience. The attention. Most women aren’t as… direct as I am. But the principles stand. Listen. Respond. Prioritize her pleasure. It’s not a puzzle to solve. It’s a conversation to have.”
He nodded, sobered by the advice. “And your husband… you really do this to…?”
“To remember who I am,” she said, cutting him off smoothly. “And to give him a wife who’s alive, not just going through the motions.” She set her plate aside. “Now. One for the road.”
His eyes widened. “Again? I’m not sure I can…”
“You can.” She moved the breakfast tray to the floor. “On your feet. Against the wall.”
It was quicker, more visceral. She bent over the antique desk by the window, knocking the nude calendar aside. He stood behind her, his hands tentative on her waist at first, then gaining boldness as she pushed back against him, urging him on.
“Harder,” she grunted, the wood digging into her hips. “Don’t think. Just fuck. Remember the feeling.”
He did, his thrusts growing ragged, animalistic. She bit her own arm to stifle her cries.
This time when they finished, it was a true end. They showered separately, a business-like cleaning. He dressed in his crumpled ball clothes, looking impossibly young again. She wore the hotel’s robe.
At the door, he hesitated. “Thank you, Margot.”
She reached up and adjusted his collar, a maternal gesture belying everything they’d done. “You’ll be fine. Go be brilliant.”
He left. The suite was suddenly, profoundly quiet, empty except for the wreckage of the bed and the lingering ghosts of the night. Margot walked to the window, pulling the curtain aside. She watched Leo emerge onto the street below, blinking in the morning sun, walking with a new, slightly bow-legged confidence.
A slow smile spread across her face. The experiment was a resounding success.
Now, for the control group.
She picked up her phone from the nightstand. There was one text, sent hours ago, from Rupert: Hope you had a good time. Home late?
She typed her reply, her fingers tapping decisively on the screen: Home by lunch. Can’t wait to see you.
She sent it, then added another: Wear the grey sweater. The one I like.
She put the phone down. Her body thrummed with a spent, electric energy. The bell between her legs was still. Waiting. She could already feel the distance between this room and her living room collapsing, the ghost of Leo’s hands soon to be replaced by Rupert’s familiar, hesitant touch. The comparison would be exquisite. The silent scream in her mind as he moved over her would be the loudest sound in the house.
She began to pack, folding the green silk dress with ceremonial care.