Chapter Two: My Hand Slipped
I stretched luxuriously and sank onto the twin bed in my dormitory as my Sunday evening drew to a close. I had had a full week of classes and meetings the previous week, and the coming week appeared to be no less busy. I had been at Sweltings for two months now, and I was still grateful for the first-rate education I was receiving as an eighteen-year-old preparing for higher-level studies. It was a demanding curriculum, but I loved every minute of it.
As I contemplated the events of last week, I rolled over. A sensuous shiver started in my stomach and extended all the way to the tips of my fingers, leaving a mass of chill bumps on all of my exposed skin. I felt the color rise to my face as I realized why. It wasn't because my long blonde hair was falling in silky, fragrant waves to brush my lower back, which was exposed because the camisole I was wearing didn't quite reach my pajama pants. It wasn't because my sensitive nipples rubbed against the tight fabric of the cami. No, it was actually the memory of what had transpired to close my Friday.
Twice a month, I have an appointment to visit the principal of Sweltings. So does every other eighteen-year-old at the school. In these sessions, he uncovers and fulfills all of my sexual desires so that I will not be tempted to be promiscuous. I never can understand what it is about these sessions. I dread them, but I also desire them. The things I do repulse me sometimes, but they also make me shiver in ways that have nothing to do with disgust. It has nothing to do with him. Or almost nothing. At 35, he is incredibly good-looking. If I weren't having sex with him, I would want to. He has dark hair and brown eyes, and sometime between all of his duties as administrator, he must find time to work out. His skin is a tawny gold, and he smells like sandalwood. At first I was skeptical that the discipline regime at the school was logical, but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. I'm definitely not tempted to be promiscuous knowing I have him to look forward to.
One thing I do miss, though, is masturbating. I was beginning to be uncomfortably aware of it as I struggled to forget the things I had done in his office on Friday. Normally, our arousal isn't a problem. We are allowed to use our roommates to alleviate the natural tensions we experience. But Aubrey was out visiting home, and it would be tomorrow morning before she got back. In a surge of desperation, I closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep.
Instead, the scene I was desperately trying to forget replayed in my head. I had walked into his office for the fourth time this year, unsure what to expect. During my first three sessions, he had taken complete control, doing whatever he wanted to my body and forcing me to beg for it. In all honesty, it hadn't taken much effort to get me to beg. I had wanted to. I knew what he wanted from me, what he saw when he looked at me. A naive, sexually repressed, attractive blonde. He wanted me to be hesitant about his sexual advances. He wanted me to resist a little. The fact is, while he was correct that I am sexually repressed, he underestimates my naivete. I knew what he was doing from the second he looked down my shirt during my first interview, and I wanted him to do it. I wanted him to take me hard and treat me like a whore. He definitely fulfilled my fantasy.
This Friday, however, he was staring at me patiently over the tops of his glasses while I stood hesitantly and innocently before him. I suspected he didn't really need the glasses, but wore them to appear stern at moments like this, because he never seemed to have trouble devouring every inch of my skin when I was naked and he wasn't wearing them. I was genuinely unsure what to do, so I looked quizzically at him. Finally, he broke the silence. "Miss Adair, you are aware that in five or ten minutes, you are going to be writhing around begging me to ravish you, are you not?"
When he said things like this, I always felt a blush rise to my cheeks, but a pleasurable squeezing sensation inside. I inwardly grinned at his use of the word "ravish," but his preference for these old-fashioned words was another thing that I couldn't get enough of. I stammered, "Yes, sir."
"Then why are you hesitating to undress?" he asked sternly. Thank God. We were cutting right to the chase. I attempted to appear hesitant as I began unbuttoning my shirt with shaking hands, wanting to at least seem ladylike, to continue fooling him that I am naive. His stern voice had gone directly to the center of my sexual desire and fanned the flame. Soon he would be sucking and biting the mounds of flesh I hid beneath the modest button-down shirt. Soon his hands would be ramming into the sensitive, already-moist crevice between my legs. I should have been repulsed by my wanton desires, but all I could think of was how to get the hell out of the clothes.
Mr. Ash raised an eyebrow as I tossed my shirt carelessly aside. I knew why. I had decided not to bother with undergarments. He licked his lips unconsciously, one of the few times I had ever seen his Stoic exterior crumble. I knew he wouldn't comment on it yet, though.
"Very good, Miss Adair. You did that quite efficiently. Now come here." When he praised me like that, it always made my knees week. I managed to walk relatively smoothly toward him as his eyes flicked appraisingly up and down my tanned, toned body. He nodded unconsciously, his stamp of approval, but I never got the impression he found me remarkable. Merely average. I loved that I didn't blow him away. I loved the control and experience he had.
"Now, Miss Adair," he began, as he walked around me and stopped behind me, inches from my quivering body. He spoke softly into my ear, but never dropped his schoolmaster tone. "I can see you are unusually eager for our session today since you neglected to wear your customary black lace undergarments." He paused, and I shivered from the sensation of his breath against my ear. He leaned down and kissed the hollow of my neck, flicking it with his tongue. I managed to squeak, "Yes, sir." He abruptly stopped kissing my neck and stepped back with an air of waiting. I gathered my thoughts, attempting to strike just the right blend of embarrassment and eagerness. This wasn't too hard, since it was a very real mixture. "I mean, sir, I've been looking forward all day to feeling your hands on me, pawing my tits, plowing into my cunt with your cock, and I didn't want to waste time with having to take off the underwear."
