Cambridge After Dark

**Author's Note.**

Alright, Cambridge local here with a bit of naughtiness about what happens when the clever clogs let their hair down. Brains are dead sexy, boots are even better, and sometimes the best research happens after the library shuts. Enjoy!

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Prologue

Daytime, Cambridge is all about Nobel prizes and pissing about on punts. After dark? Let's just say there's a reason those college rooms have walls thicker than your nan's Christmas pudding. This ain't the Cambridge they show the tourists.

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The Anchor was rammed with Friday night punters, fancy gin menus clutched by tech wankers and postdocs alike. Jonathan scrolled through his phone one last time, checking the dating app that had dragged him out. Cambridge's dating scene was a bit shit. Between fly-by-night academics, London commuters, and biotech boffins, finding someone worth seeing twice was harder than getting research money out of the tight bastards on the funding board.

He'd nearly packed it in when the pub door swung open, letting in a blast of autumn cold and Heather.

She cut through the after-work crowd like nobody's business. Dark hair in a sharp bob framing a face that was both hard and sexy at the same time. Wore a tight red dress that stopped just above the knee, showing off patterned hold-ups. What nobody else knew was she'd left her knickers at home, and she was smooth as a billiard ball down there. Most eye-catching were her massive Doc Marten boots, chunky as anything against her otherwise sleek get-up.

"Jonathan, I take it." Her accent was posh but with rough edges, like she'd been to all the right schools but wanted you to forget it. She stuck out her hand, nails practical but done up in dark red.

"That's me." He stood up, suddenly feeling like a right plonker in his department-meeting clothes. "Just got here myself."

Her smirk told him she wasn't buying it. "Bollocks. Your glass is nearly empty, and there's a wet beer mat by your phone. Been here twenty minutes at least, haven't you?"

Jonathan felt his face go red. "Rumbled."

"Don't mind punctual blokes." Heather slid into the seat opposite, flashing more of those fancy hold-ups under her dress. Not your Marks & Sparks tights, but something with a complicated pattern that disappeared back into the shadows. "Though I do enjoy catching people in little fibs. Tells me loads about 'em."

Through the first round, she kept her eyes locked on his, almost like she was daring him to look away. Questions went way beyond first-date crap while telling him sod all about herself.

"Your profile mentioned you do computational linguistics, but not that you're running the natural language team at Cambridge Quantum." She sipped her gin, leaving a perfect lip mark on the glass. "Did my homework, didn't I?"

"And yours said anthropology but missed out your Royal Institution Christmas Lecture about power dynamics in university hierarchies," Jonathan shot back, feeling a bit more sorted as the booze hit. "Tit for tat."

Heather's laugh was genuine, turning her from scary to just a bit intimidating. When she grinned properly, Jonathan spotted metal: a barbell right through her tongue.

"Fair dos. Though I reckon your research went beyond just academic databases."

"Guilty as charged." Jonathan was getting his confidence back. "Your X account is... educational."

"Oh yeah?" One eyebrow went up perfectly. "Which bits caught your eye?"

"That thread about ethical power exchange in modern relationships was pretty interesting."

Heather leaned in, her dress shifting to show more of those hold-ups. "Theory and practice are different beasts, aren't they? Wonder which one you're more interested in." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Left my knickers at home, you know. Been fucking dripping since I clocked you. Could slip your hand up my dress right now and feel how soaking I am. These posh twats around us wouldn't notice a thing." She bit her lip, flashing that metal barbell. "Bet you're hard as a rock already, aren't you? Can see it in your eyes."

When the food came, it changed things up. Heather insisted on feeding him a bite from her fork, somehow making it dominant instead of daft, just through the way she stared him down.

"Something about being fed," she said, watching him chew and swallow like she was taking mental notes. "It's surrender dressed up as caring."

Jonathan found his voice again. "Is everything about power for you?"

"Everything worth bothering with." She reached across, fingers brushing his wrist where his sleeve had ridden up. Touch lingered right on his pulse. "Especially with someone whose body gives away so much."

By the third round, Heather had shifted to sit next to him instead of across, her thigh pressed right against his, no accident there. Could see the patterned hold-ups properly now, geometric diamonds with grey bits that went with her red dress.

"Cambridge creates some right contradictions," she mused, hand finding his knee under the table. "All these brilliant minds, supposed rebels, and yet the most boring conventional sexual politics." Her fingers travelled upward, tracing patterns that made him catch his breath. "Bit disappointing, innit?"

Jonathan turned toward her, keeping his voice down. "You calling me conventional?"

"I'm saying you're more interesting than you let on." Her hand kept exploring upward, fingers tracing his inner thigh with precision that couldn't be by chance. "Question is whether you've got the bollocks to prove it."

"Here?" His eyes went wide, glancing round the packed pub.

"Christ, no. Cambridge is still Cambridge." Heather took her hand back, leaving a ghost sensation behind. "Got a flat in one of those Georgian houses by the river. Ten minutes' walk." She leaned in closer, breath warm on his ear. "Fair warning: I've got specific tastes, and I'm not after vanilla."

She pulled back a bit, running her tongue over her lips in a way that deliberately showed off her piercing. "And this isn't just for show. Amazing what a bit of metal can do when I'm sucking you off. Can make you come down my throat in minutes if I fancy, or keep you on edge for hours. Your balls will be fit to burst by the time I'm done with you." The filthy talk in that educated voice was jarring and sexy as hell.

Walking along the Cam was charged with anticipation, chat shifting toward increasingly explicit territory. Heather laid out her preferences with clinical precision, mixed with questions that felt more like negotiation than flirting.

"Limits?" she asked, her Doc Martens clicking against the cobbles.

"Probably fewer than you'd think," Jonathan admitted, surprising himself with how honest he was being.

"Safe word?"

"Cambridge."

Heather laughed. "Dead appropriate. Nothing kills the mood like this town's name."

Her flat was the top floor of a Georgian townhouse, high ceilings and fancy cornicing next to minimalist modern furniture. Tall windows looked out over the river where centuries earlier, scholars and merchants did their business in ways that might raise modern eyebrows.

"Drink?" Heather headed toward a cupboard full of booze.

"Yeah, cheers."

She poured two massive gin and tonics, chucking in a slice of lime each. "Last chance to leg it. Cross that threshold, and we're playing by my rules tonight." She nodded toward a doorway at the far end of the open-plan living space.

Jonathan took a deliberate swig of the G&T, letting the crisp taste fill his mouth before swallowing. "Show me then."

The bedroom beyond was full of surprises: academic books lined one wall floor to ceiling, while another had an arrangement of gear that had bugger all to do with studying. The four-poster bed looked both traditional and a bit ominous, with subtle but unmistakable attachments in strategic spots.

"Get your kit off," Heather ordered, her tone shifting from chatty to commanding. "Fold 'em properly on that chair."

As Jonathan stripped, she watched with clinical interest, not making any move to shed her own clothes. When he stood starkers before her, she circled him with an appraising eye.

"Turn round."

He did as told, feeling more exposed by her gaze than by being naked.

"Very promising," she assessed, her Doc Martens making a rhythmic sound against the wooden floor as she completed her circuit. She flicked her pierced tongue across her lips. "On the bed now. Hands above your head."

What followed was an education of sorts, not the kind offered in Cambridge's formal lectures but no less rigorous in putting theory into practice. Heather stayed mostly clothed, her patterned hold-ups and heavy boots creating a stark contrast against his bare skin wherever they touched.

She tied his wrists with practiced ease, using silk ropes in Cambridge blue -- the irony wasn't lost on either of them. Her actions were methodical, instructions clear and brooking no argument. Throughout, she kept up a running commentary that balanced between academic observation and filthy encouragement.

"Thing about pleasure and pain," she explained while dragging a wartenberg wheel along his inner thigh, "is how much context matters. Same sensation that'd have you climbing the walls at the dentist becomes something else entirely when it's done by someone whose mouth you've been gagging to feel on your cock."

The piercing in her tongue featured heavily in their session, the metal barbell creating novel sensations as she proved precisely why she'd mentioned it earlier. Jonathan groaned loudly as she took his entire length in her mouth, lips stretched round his shaft, the piercing creating exquisite friction as she bobbed her head rhythmically.

"Fucking hell, your cock tastes amazing," she murmured, coming up for air, a string of spit still connecting her lips to his wet tip. "Now let me show you what this piercing really does." She swirled her tongue expertly around his bell-end, the metal barbell creating sensations that made him buck against his restraints.

"Need to feel you inside me," she whispered after bringing him to the edge repeatedly only to deny him release, his cock now angry red and leaking pre-cum. She straddled him, her hold-ups rough against his thighs, and positioned herself above him. "But first, want to hear you properly beg for my cunt. Tell me exactly how desperate you are to fuck me."

When he complied, voice rough with want, spilling dirty pleas that would've horrified his colleagues, she slowly sank down onto him, her wet heat swallowing him completely. "Christ, you're bloody massive," she gasped, her academic composure briefly cracking as she adjusted to his size. She rode him with the same methodical precision she'd shown earlier, keeping total control of their rhythm, speeding up when he approached climax only to slow down cruelly, keeping him perpetually on edge.

"Your cunt feels fucking incredible," Jonathan managed to rasp out between labored breaths, earning a sharp slap across his cheek.

"Language, Dr. Phillips," she scolded with mock severity. "You Cambridge boys and your filthy gobs. Though I must say, I do love hearing those proper academic lips saying 'cunt.'" She leaned forward, her tits swaying above his face. "Say it again."

Her Doc Martens featured prominently as well, pressed against his cheek, the sole resting on his chest, the heel creating precise pressure points that hovered between discomfort and something far more complex. As she got close to coming, she ground herself against him harder, her breathing quickening as she took her pleasure on her own terms.

"You're not to come till I say so," she commanded, her voice impressively steady despite her flushed cheeks and hard nipples. "Got it?"

Most surprising was her continuous assessment of his responses, adjusting her approach based on subtle cues: a catch in his breath, a flush spreading across his skin, the involuntary flexing of muscles. For all the apparent power imbalance, she was reading him with remarkable attention.

"Good," she would murmur when he responded as wanted, or "Interesting" when he surprised her. When she finally gave him permission to climax, the intensity left him speechless for a moment, waves of pleasure pulsing through his body. The academic in her never fully disappeared, even as she demonstrated skills far removed from lecture halls.

Hours later, as they lay in the aftermath, Heather propped herself on one elbow and looked at him with academic interest. She'd finally taken off her red dress but kept the patterned hold-ups on, now laddered in places from the night's activities. Her inner thighs were shiny with a mixture of their fluids, but she didn't seem bothered, not making any move to clean herself up.

"You exceeded expectations," she said, reaching for her phone on the bedside table. "Most Cambridge blokes talk a good game about breaking conventions but revert to type when put to the test. Either can't get it up 'cause they're too pissed, or they spunk too quick and start snoring. You, though, showed proper stamina."

Jonathan watched as she tapped something into her mobile. "What you doing?"

"Booking you in for next Friday," Heather replied matter-of-factly. "Unless you've had enough experimenting?"

The question hung between them, Cambridge's spires visible through the window behind her, centuries of tradition silhouetted against the night sky. In a city defined by sticking to established hierarchies, they'd created their own alternative setup, one with its own strict rules, but offering a freedom that the university's ancient traditions never could.

"Same time?" Jonathan asked, his decision made.

Heather's smile was both approval and promise, her tongue piercing catching the light as she replied. "I'll send you a reading list."