Clean

Your phone rings while we're still in my foyer, its shrill complaint catching your mouth already on my neck and your strong hand at the small of my back. A sigh catches in my throat as the insistent electronic tones fill the space around us, where just a few seconds before there were only my breathy moans and your guttural growl. It has been a week since you were inside me, and that is seven days too long. The darker part of me wants to scream this at the phone, but I settle for pressing my body onto yours, a challenge of sorts.

"Fuck," you groan into my collarbone, and I can feel you stiffen against me. The phone gets louder.

"Don't answer it," I all but whine, sliding my hand over the hard bulge in your khakis. I look into your impossibly dark eyes, teasing you, daring you. In an instant, your hand is in my thick, red ponytail, threading your large fingers through it and snapping my head back. I shiver and try to hide my satisfied smile.

"Look who thinks she's giving orders," you grin, but the flash in your eyes is more menacing than amused. You pull my hair harder; your cock strains harder against me. Between my legs, the familiar warmth begins to spread and as if on cue, you pinch the inside of my thigh. My knees buckle at your punishing touch.

Before I am able to properly respond, you cross to the table and pick up the phone. I look at the wall and listen to your voice, a different pitch and cadence than I am used to, a phenomenon that has become no less fascinating to me over the many months we've been together. You speak this sweetly to me sometimes, of course, but only afterwards and in the dark, when we can't see each other's faces. It's easier that way.

"Yeah, I know," you cajole the voice on the other end. "I'm really sorry. Office hours are running late tonight." At this, your gaze meets mine, your eyebrows waggling comically at our private joke. I have been your office hours for the last three semesters. "Huh? Sure, which kind? Yeah, I'll do that."

You and I only communicate outside of my apartment through texts and emails. This has nothing to do with the banality of a garden-variety, illicit affair, but rather that we both tend to fetishize the written word. Your stern and sexy directives, my descriptions of how my body responds when I execute them—in our sillier moments, we refer to ourselves as the Henry Miller and Anais Nin of the digital age.

Earlier tonight was no exception.

You: No matter how hard I tried to focus all I could think about during my afternoon classes was your delicious taste and smell lingering in my beard. Thank god for tenure. Make yourself ready for me. Now.

Me: Your students' parents deserve a refund. Pervert. I'm at the gym. Still need to shower. Give me a half hour?

You: Fifteen minutes. And don't you dare shower. I'll make you clean.

The last line had sent a psychic bolt of energy through my spine, nearly causing me to lose balance on the elliptical. In the beginning, I used to wince at this sensation, disturbed by how your words displayed on a small screen could invade me physically. Even at the gym tonight, I am painfully aware of how my nipples harden underneath my sports bra, my stomach fluttering at the idea of you wanting me like this, at my most primal, with no adornments and soaked in sweat. There is something so inappropriate and animalistic about it, particularly for two people who live such cerebral lives, that it never fails to flip a switch inside me.

But now, in my apartment, I'm growing cold and impatient. Her voice, differently accented and higher pitched than my own, shows no signs of slowing. I think about walking over and kneeling in front of you while you discuss household minutiae, peeling my tank top and bra off and shoving your cock between my large, pale breasts as you stammer about a barbecue this weekend. I would never dare do this, of course. But the impudent idea leads me to form a less offensive one, and I head towards the bathroom, stripping off my workout gear as I go, like a trail of breadcrumbs designed to make you hungrier.

I run my hand underneath the stream of the shower, listening to the water pelt the tiles and drowning out what I hope is the last few seconds of your conversation. I leave the door open, so that there is plenty of audible proof that I am about to directly defy your order. I stand, small and naked, in front of the full-length mirror. My pale skin is still flushed in places from the gym, and on my neck are raw, red marks from where your beard scratched me. I shake my long, wavy hair out of its ponytail and square my shoulders, trying to see myself as you might see me, as Henry Miller might have seen Anais Nin. In the mirror, a petite redhead with big, pillowy breasts and a small waist spins around to reveal a gently round curve of ass. Her bright green eyes widen and mug for the mirror a bit wickedly, perhaps a little too pleased with herself.

My reverie is shattered instantly, however, with the slamming of the bathroom door. I couldn't hear your footfalls in the hall thanks to the shower running and now that we're enclosed, the room fills with steam that obscures my vision. This sudden deprivation of my senses causes a thumping in my chest, as I wait, breath held, for what you will do next.

"Wow," your voice is booming, reverberating off the walls. Hearing your tone shift once again from the sweet placation of the phone call causes me to shudder a bit, feeling somehow more naked in this moment than before you entered. "What has gotten into you tonight," you grumble. It's not a question; it's a prelude to a reprimand, and I should not answer. You are staring at my foggy reflection, your imposing, fully-clothed frame hovering behind me, mere millimeters from my exposed flesh-and I just can't stop myself.

"Well," I put on my best Mae West voice. "Certainly not you." I meet your gaze for a half-second before the mirror is rendered completely useless by steam. Knowing what happens when I mouth off to you, my survival instinct kicks in and I grope blindly for the sink in order to brace myself. My fingers have barely grazed porcelain before you sweep both my hands behind me, not gently, and pin them behind my back. One large, powerful hand is encircling both my wrists with ease and twisting.

"That is simply unacceptable," you say, tightening your hold until I have no choice but to relent and lay slack against you. This admonishment, delivered in the same clipped, curt tone you employ with your students, opens something further inside me. A loud moan escapes my lips as I use my last bit of resistance to writhe my naked ass against you, feeling you respond immediately. I am disappointed that you are still dressed; I want nothing more in this moment than to feel your skin on mine. Of course, I know better than to express an opinion on the matter.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Gale." The only proper response, and it's floating between us, mixing with the steam and my scent, turning my head light and your cock harder still. You release my wrists and spin me around roughly to face you. Reflexively I press my soft breasts against your chest, letting one hand wander towards your zipper. In an instant, your hands are at my waist, lifting me swiftly onto the edge of the sink, eliciting a gasp at how easily this all comes for you. Your physicality is not that of the typical academic's, and it pleases me to know that while the rest of the world may get the benefit of your gifted brain, this part of you is mine alone. At this second, I want all of it, mind and body, inside me.

"You certainly are," you mumble. Sinking to your knees, you pry my legs apart. The cool porcelain of the sink contrasts starkly with the increasing warmth between my legs. A bead of sweat forms, trickling down the inside of my thigh and your mouth is there instantly, tracing its path with your tongue. I shudder with pleasure at the proximity of your face, the rough scratch of your beard against my delicate skin, emboldened just enough to place my hands in your hair. I need to draw you in closer.

You snap your head back and rise to your feet. Malevolent laughter rings out, an acoustical assault that I will recall later and become excited by, likely at the most inopportune of times. "You know that you don't have a say in this, yes?" You grin widely, but there is another frightening flash in your charcoal eyes. "You gave up any rights when you decided to disobey me."

I nod in assent, biting my lip to complete the picture. You growl your approval and begin to undress, the teacher finally willing to meet the student on equal ground. You lift me effortlessly from the sink, and my body vibrates with the sensation of your naked skin touching mine. I've waited all week to feel this again.

"Time to get you clean," you whisper into my neck. I wrap my legs around your waist as you carry me into the shower, planting me gently underneath the hot shower stream. I tilt my face up to meet yours, letting the water envelope me as I move in for a kiss. You allow me one—brief but effective—ending with your teeth sinking into my bottom lip. I cry out, the water running over my face and into my eyes, over the sore spot. I would do well to heed this warning.

Before I have the chance to truly consider this, however, you grab my shoulders and push my back flat against the opposite wall. I cringe at the rigidness of the tile, dizzy with pain as you stare down at me, a look of concern crossing your handsome features. Sometimes your strength surprises even you, so you bend down and kiss me on my collarbone, an apology of sorts. The tender gesture disquiets me and without thinking, I reach for your face with one hand and your cock with my other.

"Just when I thought you were learning." You shake your head, the corners of your mouth turning slyly upwards. In a flash, my arms are wrangled above my head and your mouth is attacking, on a tour of all the places it can most efficiently violate me. You devour the spot where my shoulder meets my neck; you bite my earlobe until I whimper and then you clamp down harder. Working your way down, you take my nipple between your lips and suck it so expertly that you have to let my arms go to steady me at the waist. When I start to shiver, you position me underneath the shower, and again get down on your knees in front of me.

"This," you say, planting a tiny kiss on my pussy, "is my next sabbatical destination." I laugh, as you knew I would, yet you use it as an excuse to pinch my hip anyway. "What?" you ask, your face looking up at me from between my legs, a portrait of mock incredulity.

"I'm sure it has much to teach you," I quip. "Not sure if it's accredited, though."

Your booming laugh bounces off the shower walls. "Such a smartass," you mumble, punctuating the statement with a firm slap to the offending area.

"You have no idea," I giggle. Henry Miller and Anais Nin were never so corny. "Wait until the oral exam."

"Oh my god," you groan. "Now you're in for it, you dirty little slut." You clutch my pale thighs in each hand and spread them apart, digging your nails into the wet flesh. I don't know which one of us has said the magic words and it doesn't matter, because now your tongue is inside me, circling my clit and making my knees quake so intently that I'm afraid I might fall. Water cascades over my body, collecting in droplets in my hair that then fall onto your head as I quiver at the skill of your mouth. When my left leg starts to slip, you pin it back without losing a second's focus, your lips clamping down on my clit like an extra support. "Not yet," you whisper into my thigh.

Then two of your long, slender fingers are inside me, prodding and poking and getting submerged in my juices. I hear you moan appreciatively at how wet and ready I am for you; I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the pleasure at bay. You sense my difficulty and pause, looking up at me, your thick brow furrowed. "Wait," you instruct. I've been so willful tonight, but this is one command I need to follow.

One final kiss between my legs, slow and deliberate, a warning. You rise to your full height, extending an index finger towards my mouth. "Clean me off," you say, your other hand pinching my hard, pink nipple. When I feign hesitation, you squeeze my breast until I'm certain you've marked me and I take you in my mouth. I taste myself on your skin, the same salty sweetness that you wax lyrical about so often in messages—the ones you send specifically when you know I won't be alone. "Well done," you purr. My reward is a long, manic kiss that I lean into, sucking the last remnants of myself on your tongue. Our bodies, engulfed in steam, give off their own kind of heat when intertwined, skin on skin, mouth on mouth. Anytime we meld like this, it's difficult to rationalize the other men I know, or your ringing phone.

This is no place for introspection, however, and you remind me by reaching for my throat and clutching it tightly in your massive hand. "Do you think you're ready?" You ask, cutting my airway just enough that I can't actually reply. I sputter under the water, eyes widened in fake terror, my hand grasping for your engorged cock, sliding my fingers along the tip in an answer.

You tighten your hold around my throat. "Is that what you want?"

I can only nod, straining against your hand as I am. There is danger in your piercing stare but I welcome it, open myself to it. You control my breathing now, and I'd readily surrender any other vital functions if I could finally feel you inside me.

And then I am being lifted, my thighs wrapped around your waist, my arms clutching your neck. You slam my back against the tile and grout again, not noticing my wince this time because you're too preoccupied with your cock, swollen and raging between us. As you enter me, you sink your teeth into my shoulder, making me shriek in delicious, concurrent waves of pleasure and pain.

"Who is going to do as she's told next time?" You mutter between angry thrusts. I clench around you, daring you to push deeper, to find new thresholds.

"I will." It's less a statement than a breathy sigh into your neck, mixing with the other sounds—my wet breasts slapping against your chest as I bounce up and down on you, the water hitting your back. You invade and retreat, over and over, the rhythm changing when you feel my pussy start to contract, slowing down, denying me. Losing myself, I bite your earlobe in frustration and your hand flies to my throat again.

"I could leave right now," you growl. I whimper, flexing around your cock in apology. "Eager little sluts should consider their actions beforehand." This profanity, conveyed in your studied, professorial tone, hits my brain, causing all the right synapses to fire, and I buck harder against you. My fingers dig into the back of your neck, possibly leaving evidence that will need to be explained later. I don't care. I am so close.

A look of triumph crosses your face as you realize the place you have brought me to, and you smile. "Have you earned this?" You tease, withdrawing and stabbing, moving your cock inside me in a circular motion that always makes me submit. I feel the waves start at my head and crash down over the rest of me, warm, tingling and relentless, my pussy entirely filled by you, claimed by you. A scream escapes my lips, my body is shaking and folding into itself , a third and fourth wave rolling over me as you pump harder and more violently still.

I can both see and feel your muscles tense. With a loud, protracted groan you explode inside me, spurring my final throes and I come again, my small body shivering beneath your large, powerful one. We don't move for several seconds, our skin sticking to each other, not speaking and possibly not even breathing. We are storing it up, this moment, for the coming week, when we're once again reduced to digital screens. Your words in my ear all but destroy me.

"That's my good girl," you whisper. Withdrawing from inside me, you hug me close to your chest and set me down onto the shower floor. You notice my knees, weak and shaking, beginning to buckle as I move to turn the shower off and you instinctively reach out to balance me. I smile at this small kindness and kiss your bottom lip. I open the door to the bathroom to let the steam escape.

From the hallway, your phone begins to ring.