Premise
When a Cambridge lit lecturer discovers his posh student Emma writes the same sort of kinky stories he publishes online, their Tuesday seminars evolve into something altogether more practical. Pearls, stockings, and a shared love of dominance blur the lines between fantasy and reality.
---
End of Chapter One
"You alright?" I asked, me northern accent thick as gravy.
"God!" she said, her posh tones cracking like ice. "I was just... I dunno. Thinking about it all bloody day. That was intense."
"Can you walk?"
"Course. Yes. I mean, probably. Why? Where're we going?"
"Me office," I said. "S'my turn."
---
Chapter Two: No Going Back
The weeks after that first time just flew by - seminars, looks across the room, sneaking moments alone. Emma would stay behind after everyone left, asking these proper smart questions about Victorian books while her eyes were saying something completely different. We got into this thing, Tuesdays after class, when the other students had fucked off, office door locked, blinds down.
Been nearly three weeks since that first time in the seminar room. Three weeks of getting bolder and bolder behind my office door. Three weeks of learning what made her gasp, what made her beg, what made her drop that posh Surrey act. Three weeks of her figuring out exactly how to push me over the edge. We were careful, dead professional in public, nothing more than a lecturer and his older student. But we both knew Tuesdays were ours.
Until today.
The old floorboards hurt me knees as I knelt between Emma's spread legs. The damp from the walls mixed with the smell of sex and her fancy perfume. Outside, rain hammered the windows, but in my room on Mill Road, there was just heat and sweat and wanting.
Emma was laid out on the duvet I'd thrown down. Her ankles locked in this metal spreader bar I'd bought online after our first time - came in plain packaging, thank fuck. Her wrists tied together above her head with one of her black stockings, making her back arch up a bit. The other stocking was stuffed in her mouth, wet with spit, keeping her quiet. Her usually perfect hair all over the floor, mascara running where she'd teared up.
"Look at you," I said, running me rough fingers up her shaking inner thighs, now bare with both stockings used up. "Posh Cambridge cunty exec spread out for me."
She made this noise through the gag, pushing her hips toward me. I'd already made her come twice, but wasn't enough, not for either of us. She was soaking wet, wanting more than just my tongue and fingers.
"This what you think about in lectures?" I asked, me accent getting thicker with how turned on I was. "Sitting in the front row while I go on about Jane bloody Eyre, and you're just imagining being spread open and fucked senseless?"
Her eyes locked on mine as she nodded like mad. Seeing her like that, all that posh polish gone, made me throb. I grabbed my belt, folded it over, the leather making that sound as I pulled it tight.
The metal spreader bar caught the dim light, keeping her legs apart just how I wanted, leaving her totally exposed. The difference between her buttoned-up work self and how she looked now was mental.
The first hit of the belt across her inner thigh made her scream through the gag, turning into a moan. A red mark came up on her pale skin, and I bent down to taste it, salty and musky on me tongue.
"Want more fucktoy?" I asked, already knowing.
She nodded desperate, breathing hard. I brought the belt down again, harder, on the other thigh. Another cry, another mark rising. I kept going, watching her close, seeing how each hit made her pull against the ties, how the pain turned into something that made her visibly pulse with need.
When both thighs were proper marked up, I tossed the belt and got between her legs. My cock, rock hard, pressed against her but didn't go in.
"I want to hear you," I said, pulling the gag from her mouth. "Tell me what you want. Say it."
Emma gasped for air, her posh accent breaking apart. "Fuck me sir," she begged, voice rough. "God, I need it. Need you inside me now sir."
"Not good enough," I teased, rubbing against her clit but still not giving her what she wanted. "Tell me exactly what you want, you posh tart."
Her eyes met mine, desperate need winning over proper manners.
"I want you to fuck my cunt sir," she said, her posh accent making the dirty words sound filthy. "I want you use me like I fucktoy sir. I want my cunt to hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow in meetings while I pretend to care about quarterly whatever. I want to remember this, remember you, every time I move."
The way she just laid it out broke me control. I grabbed her hips hard enough to bruise and pushed into her with one rough movement that made her arch up. She screamed, a sound that sent a shock up me spine.
"This what you wanted?" I moaned, going at a pace that made the noisy bed frame bang against the wall. "To get fucked by your lecturer? To have that fancy cunt filled up with my hard cock?"
"Yes," she gasped, pulling at her ties, meeting each thrust. "God, yes sir!"
I grabbed her tied wrists, pinning them harder against the floor above her head, using that to drive deeper, watching her face.
It was then I noticed the string of white pearls still fastened around her neck, looking impossibly elegant, ladylike, feminine. She must have come straight from her executive meetings without even taking off her jewelry. There was summat almost perverse about how pure and refined those pearls looked now, as she thrashed beneath me, ankles secured in a device designed purely for debauchery, wrists bound with expensive hosiery above her head. The proper corporate professional reduced to this wanton state, yet still wearing her pearls like some twisted parody of respectability.
"You fucking love this, don't you?" I said, breath coming hard. "Being spread open and used. Being made to beg for it. You need this, don't you, you dirty fuck?"
"Yes, sir" she admitted, eyes locked on mine, pupils blown wide. "Always sir."
I reached between us, finding her clit with practiced ease. "And what about coming?" I asked, circling the swollen nub. "Need that too you dirty fucktoy?"
"Please," she whispered, her entire body tensing. "Yes, please sir."
"Not yet," I interrupted, withdrawing me hand. "Not till I say so fucktoy."
"When you show up for seminar next week," I said, voice in a nasty way "I want you thinking about this. About how you begged for my hard cock, how you spread your legs for me and let me mark you, use you, own you."
Another train passed, the sound of wheels on tracks underlying Emma's increasingly desperate moans. I could feel her approaching the edge, her body trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Please sir," she gasped, barely audible over the train. "Let me come. Please let me come sir."
I increased the pressure on her clit, maintained the brutal pace of me thrusts, and bent to speak directly into her ear. "Come now, Emma. Now you dirty fucking bitch."
She completely fell apart, her whole body shaking, gripping me inside with waves that set me off too. I pushed deep, coming so hard I couldn't see anything for a second except where our bodies connected. I felt faint and lightheaded.
We stayed locked together a while, catching our breath, the storm outside quieter after our own. I carefully untied her wrists, then knelt to get the spreader bar off her ankles, which left red marks on her pale skin.
Surprised me when I took off the last restraint and Emma's eyes filled up, tears running down her flushed face.
"Hey," I said quiet, pulling her into me arms, suddenly worried. "You okay? Did I hurt you? More than you wanted?"
She shook her head against me chest, her small body shaking. "No," she whispered. "It's just, I never," She took a shaky breath. "Nobody's ever got it before. What I need. Always been just... bits and pieces. Never everything." A smile broke through her tears, bright with something I hadn't seen from her before.
