The Professor's Pet (A BDSM Romance Novel) (11 page)

The air between us was relaxed. So far, everything between us had been sexual; but this was a welcome change of pace. I didn’t want to swim in a sea of lust all the time; sometimes, I just wanted to dip in the well of companionship. 

“You can’t go to the club wearing that,” he commented in the car, looking at my clothes. I was dressed in my typical casual Friday uniform; this time, jeans and a grey sweater. “Let’s go to your apartment, see if you have anything that’ll work.”

“How much skin do I need to show?” I asked him, nerves in my voice again.

“Some,” he said. “The premise is that dominants like to show off their submissives.”

“Did you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I
sometimes did the club scene when I was younger,” he said, “but I rarely go anymore.”

“Why?” I asked again. I was being very nosy, and he was being very patient with me.

“Hmm,” he said. “It’s like eating dessert, I guess. Sometimes, you just want vegetables.” He elaborated. “Clubs often tend to be hothouses of lust; and that has its place, of course. And when you are in your early twenties, sex tends to dominate your thinking.” His voice was dry. “When you get older, other things matter too, other measures of compatibility.”

“When was the last time you went to one?” I probed.

He wrinkled his forehead, remembering. “Jenny and I went once, early in the relationship,” he said, thinking. “So, maybe four years ago, give or take a few months?”

Every time he mentioned this mysterious Jenny, a pang went through me. Every single time. And it hadn’t escaped my notice that though he answered my questions easily enough, he didn’t want to know anything about me. I was the one blurring the boundaries; he was observing them, his lack of curiosity about my life
was further emphasis of the transient nature of our arrangement.

I was counting on the fact that I’d never found a guy necessary
; it would ensure my survival after my eight weeks of instruction
. Magic 8-ball,
I thought to myself,
Is Jake going to become important?
I didn’t need to wait for the answer; even the fact that I was asking the question betrayed me. But the answer came anyway.

Outlook goo
d.

Not the answer I wanted to hear; but I only had a limited capacity to lie to myself.

***

“Is what you are wearing okay?” I looked at him. Black shirt, black jeans, black shoes. He looked utterly delicious.

He grinned. “It’ll have to work; I look ridiculous in leather pants.” I laughed at the idea, moving aside to let him rummage in my closet.

“Okay,” he said, finally, pulling out pieces from my wardrobe. A flared, short black skirt that ended significantly above my knees. A thin black blouse, almost a tank-top. “No bra,” he said. “But you can wear panties.”

I winced. I would feel very much on display. I said as much to him.

He shook his head. “Trust me, you’ll feel more out of place if you cover up some more,” he said. “As it is, this is pretty modest. Everyone will be showing some measure of skin.”

“Besides,” he grinned, “I’m going to enjoy watching you squirm.”

I glared at him; he just laughed.

***

I took the clothes he’d laid out, and was going to go to the bathroom to change, when he stopped me.

“Change here,” he said. His voice was firm.

I flushed, but obeyed, shrugging myself out of my sweater; sliding my
jeans and panties down my legs, reaching out to my back to unhook my bra. I did it with a minimum of fuss; if he wanted a strip-tease, he would have asked for it.

“Put your skirt on first, no panties,” he instructed. I obeyed. The skirt came up to mid-thigh; one twirl, one gust of wind, and my pussy would be on display. My pussy moistened at the thought.

“Now, the shirt,” he said. I pulled the tank-top over my head. My nipples were erect with excitement, and they showed; the hard nubs visible below the thin fabric.

“Nice,” he said, eyeing me as I straightened. He got on my bed, leaned against the headboard. “Come here,” he muttered. “I think
we have time for a spanking before we leave for the club.”

I gulped in anticipation. The memory of the first time he spanked me had kept me warm many evenings. And now, it seemed that I was about to add to my set of erotic memories for later masturbation purposes. I grinned to myself.

“What’s funny?” he asked. His voice wasn’t angry or dangerous, just curious. “I’m going to masturbate to this memory later,” I said to him.

He laughed out aloud. “This, from the girl who couldn’t say two straight w
ords to me for five years without blushing or stammering,” he commented wryly. “What happened?”

I promptly blushed. “You noticed?”

He rolled his eyes. He had clearly noticed.

“I sort of had a crush on you,” I admitted. My cheeks were scarlet.

He moved his hand in a gesture that meant that I was to lie over his lap. I complied, my cheeks still flaming.

“Crushes are boring,” he said lazily, stroking my ass through the skirt. “Half my
Intro class gazes at me like they are imagining me naked. Boring.” I flushed again. I’d done my fair share of that. His hand rested on the small of my back, holding me in place without effort. “Real life’s a bit more interesting, don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I said, my voice dry. I had imagined Jake spanking me, but the fantasy paled before the reality. His
hand on my back, the slow strokes of my ass that ratcheted up the anticipation. His lazy drawl. Everything about this was erotic.

He flipped up my skirt. “Tell me, Emily,” he drawled. “When was the last time the Browns won their division?”

Smack. His hand descended on my ass. Heat shuddered through me at the blow, and I instinctively parted my legs.
Touch my pussy, Jake,
I begged inwardly.
Please.

Smack. “When, Emily?” he asked again.

“I don’t know, Professor Ballard,” I admitted. Not for a really long time. We Browns fans were a long-suffering bunch; we dealt with incompetent front offices, an owner who ripped the collective heart of the city out and walked all over it when he had moved the team to Baltimore, and many, many seasons of pointless despair.

“1989, Emily,” he said, amusement in his voice. A hard span
k on the part where my thighs met my ass followed. I groaned, my legs spreading wider automatically.

I turned to look at him. “Seriously,” I said, “how do you know this stuff?”

He grinned. “I’m a football stats geek,” he admitted, his hand rubbing the spot where he spanked me. “Okay, let’s make the questions easier.”

Spank. Spank. Two blows at the fleshiest part of my ass. I wriggled, biting my lips as the pain and the pleasure ran like twin currents of electricity through my body. “Who was the head coach of the Browns in 1995, Emily?”

Smug bastard. “Bill Belicheck,” I spat out. Our owner had fired Belicheck when he had moved the team to Baltimore. And Bill Belicheck was now the head coach of Jake’s New England Patriots and the Patriots had won the Super Bowl three times under him. He was a fucking genius; every football fan knew that.

He chuckled as he hit me a couple more times, and rubbed the blows away
with his fingers. I writhed in his lap; I parted my legs still wider in invitation. He obligingly dipped a finger into my pussy and trailed it up and down my slit, ending the movement with a flick of my clitoris that sent me arching off his lap.

Smack. That smack was delivered right on my pussy, sending a straight line of arousal through me. “Stay still,” he said.
“Else, I stop.”

“Yes, Professor Ballard,” I muttered.
Don’t stop. Please. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t stop.

“More football, Emily. When were the Browns last in the playoffs?” His finger dipped again into my pussy, curved to find my g-spot. I kept still; straining from the effort.

Smack. Again, the stroke was right at the point where my thighs met my ass. I hissed. “2002,” I choked out. I knew the year well; every Browns fan did. It was part and parcel of Cleveland’s collective despair. That, and LeBron James.

“And how many playoffs have the Patriots appeared in since 2002?” he asked. Arrogance in his voice. Oh, but that quip about Spygate had evidently stung. I grinned despite myself
, tried to keep from giggling, failed miserably.

Smack. Smack. Two hard blows, but followed immediately by slow, sweet rubs of my flaming asscheeks. “You mark easily, Emily,” he commented. “It’s very fetching. Now, answer my question, please.”

I counted the years. The Patriots went to the playoffs every single year. I admired and hated their cool efficiency. “Eleven,” I guessed.

“Ten,” Jake responded. “We missed in 2008.” Another finger in my pussy, and then, his finger at my lips. I licked his finger clean, tasting myself on him.

Two final blows, and then, he lifted me off his lap, threw a pillow on the floor. I sank immediately to my knees; parted my lips in invitation. I wanted his cock in my mouth; I needed him to shove himself down my throat, and take me for his pleasure.

He groaned as he saw my open mouth. “Ah, Emily,” he said, his eyes appreciative. “You are being very good, you know that?”

He unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock, I leaned forward and sank my mouth down his shaft, taking him all the way down my throat, and then backing out. “Fuck, Emily,” he ground out, and I grinned inwardly with triumph.

He was seated on the bed; I was in charge of the rhythm. I slid my mouth
over his length; sliding on the way in, sucking my cheeks in on the way out, my tongue swirling around his head, my hands on his thighs, feeling the strength in his body. I could hear his breathing get heavier as I moved my mouth over his cock, and it sent shivers of lust running through me.

He moved a hand forward, twined it in my hair. I thought he was going to fuck my face, but he didn’
t; I wanted to. I moved forward, trying to take all of his cock in my throat, willing myself to relax, to open up for him.

I could hear him groan; it send pleasure running through my body.
“Ah, Emily,” he said, his voice thick with lust.

I redoubled my efforts, forcing myself to control my gag reflex, pushing my head deeper onto his thick, beautiful cock. I held it down my throat for as long as I could, before my entire body started to cry out for air, and then I pulled out, took in a quick gasp of air, and repeated my movement, taking him down my throat again. I could hear myself, my moans a mix of gagging and longing, and his hands tightened their grip of my hair in reaction to my efforts.

“Emily,” he said, telling me, not asking me, “I’m going to come down your throat.” I could feel him tighten, and then he exploded down my throat, and I swallowed his gushing come, and licked him clean after. I stayed on my knees, waiting for my next set of orders.

He looked at me; there was warm appreciation in his eyes.

“I’m going to do something now that’s probably going to seem really unfair,” he said evenly. “I’m not going to let you come now. But after the club, Emily, I’m going to take you hard, and I’m going to make you scream, and beg, and plead. And then, if you are good, then I’ll let you fall apart.”

His words were like electricity, the sparks dancing all over my skin as I gazed into his eyes.

“Yes, Professor Ballard,” I muttered. What else could I say, really?

***

I moved closer to him as we neared the club. He smiled at my nervousness, slipped my hand into his. “Relax, baby,” he said, his voice reassuring. “I’m going to be right here.”

I straightened my shoulders, looked at him ruefully. “I asked for this, didn’t I?” I said.

He grinned. “I think it’s safer that you do this with me rather than alone,” he said. “Ready?”

I nodded. I wasn’t sure if I was ready, really, but I held his hand a little tighter, and we moved forward.

***

“Couple?” the bouncer asked us. His voice was bored.

“Yup,” Jake said easily. He handed the guy some money for our cover, we got red wristbands and then we were in.

“The protocol here is
red wristbands if you aren’t looking; green if you are,” Jake explained as we entered.

“Oh,” I said.

The level we walked into had a dance floor and a bar. There was loud house music playing, something that went thump-thump-thump in tune with the beat of my heart. As we entered, I was glad for the protection of Jake’s broad shoulders. The club was teeming with men; the few unaccompanied women there were being leered at in a way that made me uncomfortable. I edged closer to him.

“Do you dance, Emily?” His voice was radiating pure amusement at my discomfort.

“You dance?” I raised an eyebrow at him. Not at all what I expected.

He winked at me. “I’m socially adequate. Come on.” He took my hand, dragged me on
to the dance floor.

I started giggling helplessly as we danced. He quirked an eyebrow at me. “What’s funny?” he drawled.