Novels by lilianbliss56

I never thought a weekend that was supposed to be about conquering a mountain would end up shattering my entire world.My older brother, Jake, had planned this trip for months. A three-day climb up Black Ridge with his college buddies and their girlfriends. I only tagged along because my boyfriend, Tyler, begged me to come. “Babe, it’ll be romantic,” he’d said, kissing my neck in that lazy way that used to make me melt. “Just us, the stars, a tent. I’ll keep you warm every night.”I should have known better.We arrived at the trailhead Friday afternoon. Six of us total: Jake and his girlfriend Mia, two of Jake’s climbing friends, Tyler, and me. The air was crisp, pine-scented, the kind of cold that bites your cheeks and makes you feel alive. I was excited at first. I’d been training for this, hours on the stairmaster, new boots, expensive gear Tyler insisted we buy. I wanted to prove I could keep up.The first day was perfect. Steep switchbacks, laughter echoing through the trees, Tyl

I’m already in the front row when the first students trickle in, heart jackhammering against my ribs. I haven’t come since Monday. She didn’t give me permission. Two days of constant, throbbing denial, morning wood that never went down, showers where I had to grip the wall and count backward from a hundred to keep from stroking, nights humping the mattress like an animal while her name tore out of my throat.Today I’m wearing loose gray sweatpants. Mistake. The outline of my cock is obscene even soft, and I haven’t been soft since I woke up thinking about her promise: nothing under the skirt at all.The room fills. I don’t look at anyone. I can’t.10:09.The door opens.She walks in like she owns the air itself. Black stilettos first, then legs in sheer black stockings that stop mid-thigh with a wide lace band. No garter today just the stockings and a skirt so short it’s criminal. Deep burgundy wool, tight, barely covering the curve where thigh meets ass. A thin black sweater clings t

Monday, 10:07 a.m.I’m in the front row before the first student even walks in.Notebook open, pen aligned perfectly, legs spread just enough that the ache in my balls is constant. I didn’t sleep. I edged five times last night exactly like she ordered, each one worse than the last. By the fifth I was crying into my pillow, cock purple, hips fucking the air, begging out loud for a woman who wasn’t even there.I’m wearing dark jeans today. The wet spot won’t show as fast.The room fills. I don’t look at anyone. My entire world narrows to the doorway.10:09.She walks in.Same heels. Different skirt. This one is black leather, tight as sin, ending just above the knee with a zipper running the full length of the back. White silk blouse, two buttons undone. I can already see the black lace of her bra peeking through the gap. Hair loose today, dark waves brushing the tops of her breasts every time she breathes.She doesn’t look at me. Not once.She writes “Donne The Flea” on the board, turn

I turned nineteen six weeks ago, and that’s when the lying stopped.I’m not in British Lit 301 for the credits. I’m here for her.Professor Valentina Cross. Thirty-four. The woman who owns every drop of blood in my veins.I arrive twenty-five minutes early, claim the same seat, third row, left aisle, so I can watch her walk in. Notebook open, pen ready, like I give a damn about Byron. I’m already half-hard just from the anticipation.The hall fills. Then the door opens and the air turns thick, electric.She stalks in on four-inch heels that click like a metronome straight to my cock. Charcoal pencil skirt, slit riding high enough to flash black lace stocking tops when she moves. Ivory silk blouse stretched tight across her tits, nipples faintly visible when the light hits right. Hair twisted up, a few strands begging to be yanked free.She writes the date on the board. The skirt parts. I bite back a groan.Class starts. Her voice low, smoky, clipped British, slides over words like “de