CHAPTER 9 - GOOD GIRL

I slide my hand between my thighs and my fingers trace along the outer lips of my pussy and even that light contact makes my breath catch because I’m more swollen than I expected, still sensitive from the motorcycle and the lecture hall and the four days of him sitting in that booth looking at me like I’m something he plans to eat.

The wetness coats my fingertips immediately and I hear his breathing shift above me.

“Open yourself up. Use two fingers to spread yourself apart so I can see how wet you are.”

My face burns but my fingers obey and I part myself open and the cool air against the exposed heat of me makes my hips twitch forward, and he makes this low sound in the back of his throat that tells me he likes what he’s looking at.

“Now find your clit. One finger. Circle it slow – I mean slow, Ivy. Like you’ve got all night. Because you do.”

I press one fingertip against my clit and the contact sends a jolt through me that makes my stomach clench, and I start circling the way he said – slow, dragging the pad of my finger around it in wide loops that spread the wetness and build this deep, rolling ache that pulses outward from the center every time I complete a pass.

“Tighter circles. Stay on the left side – that’s where you’re most sensitive, I watched your body jerk when I touched you there in the lecture hall. Press harder.”

He’s right. The left side makes my thigh twitch and my breath stutter and I didn’t know that about myself until he told me, and the fact that he mapped my body from one encounter in a classroom and is now feeding that information back to me while I touch myself on my knees in front of him is so psychologically overwhelming that I feel my walls clench around nothing.

“Good. Now slide two fingers inside – slow, all the way to the knuckle. Curl them toward your belly button and keep your thumb on your clit.”

I sink two fingers into myself and my mouth falls open at the stretch and the wet sound it makes in the quiet room, and I curl them forward until I feel that spongy spot that he found in the lecture hall, the one that made me almost scream, and my thumb finds my clit again and starts circling while my fingers press against that spot from the inside and the dual sensation makes my hips rock forward into my own hand.

“There it is. I can see your legs shaking – that means you found it. Stay on that spot. Pump your fingers in and out, slow, and press into it every time you push back in.”

I follow his voice and each slow thrust of my own fingers hits that spot and sends a spike of pleasure through my abdomen that makes my free hand grip my thigh for balance, and he watches every movement with his head tilted slightly to one side, cataloguing my reactions the way he catalogues everything, learning me through watching me learn myself.

“Faster. Speed up your thumb but keep your fingers at the same pace – I want you feeling two different rhythms at the same time.”

I speed up my thumb while keeping my fingers slow and deep and the mismatched rhythms scramble something in my brain that makes my back arch and my mouth open on a moan I don’t bother trying to contain because at this point he’s heard worse.

“Stop.”

My hand freezes between my legs and my inner walls clench around my own fingers and every muscle in my body screams at me to keep going but he said stop so I stop, trembling on the carpet with my thighs slick and my bottom lip caught between my teeth and the pressure inside me coiling tighter with nowhere to go.

He lets ten seconds pass. I count them because the silence is unbearable and counting gives me something to do besides beg.

“Pull your fingers out. Just your thumb on your clit now. Featherlight – barely touching. Just enough that you can feel it.”

I withdraw my fingers and the emptiness makes me whimper, and my thumb ghosts over my clit so lightly that it’s almost worse than not touching at all because I can feel how close I am and the barely-there pressure is keeping me pinned right at the edge without letting me tip over and my legs are shaking so badly my knees are sliding apart on the carpet.

“Now three fingers. Push them in hard and fast and don’t stop until I tell you.”

I push three fingers into myself and the stretch makes me gasp and my hips buck forward and I start pumping them hard the way he said, my palm hitting my clit with every thrust, and the wet obscene sound of it fills the room and he hasn’t moved, hasn’t uncrossed his arms, hasn’t touched himself even though I can see him straining against his jeans, and his restraint while I fall apart is the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.

“Look at me when you cum.”

I open my eyes – I didn’t realize I’d closed them – and I look up at him from my knees with my hand buried between my legs and my lips parted and my cheeks wet with tears I don’t remember crying, and his eyes lock onto mine and he nods once and the permission crashes through me like something breaking, and I cum so hard my knees slide apart on the carpet and my back arches.

I can feel myself clenching around my own fingers in waves that pulse outward through my whole body and I keep my eyes on his the entire time because he told me to and my body doesn’t know how to disobey him anymore and I’m not sure I want it to learn.

He crouches down and wipes the tears from under my eye the same way he wiped my mouth clean that first night.

His lips brush my forehead, and it is so disorienting that I almost miss what he says.

“Good girl.”

He stands and walks out of my room, and the door clicks shut behind him so softly it barely makes a sound.

I sit on the carpet with my hand still wet and my heart hammering and those two words sitting in my chest like embers, and I pull the covers over myself and press my face into the pillow and whisper it into the dark just to hear how it sounds in my own voice.

Good girl.

I hate how much it does to me. I hate that I’m already wet again.