Thesis on Pleasure - Chapter 6

Her apartment was a fifteen-minute walk from the campus, a peaceful and compact studio where nothing disturbed her thoughts - or their absence. She secured the door behind her, tossing her bag onto the floor before leaning against the wall.

Her breath was still coming in quick gasps.

She shut her eyes and replayed each moment: his hands gripping her wrists, the cold table pressing against her bare skin, the raspy voice issuing commands she would obey without a second thought.

When she opened her eyes again, her reflection in the mirror gazed back – hair tousled, lips swollen, eyes still dark with unquenched desire.

She ran her hands down her skirt, feeling the slight tremor in her thighs.

"Tomorrow."

The word resonated in her mind like a promise.

His office, after everyone else had departed?

Her cell phone buzzed once more.

This time, it was an image.

Just a dark, unclear photo... until she recognized what it depicted.

The basement's concrete floor.

Where he had forced her to kneel.

Where she had fully surrendered to him.

Then, a message arrived:

"You left your socks behind. You'll need to return to retrieve them."

She glanced down at her own feet - now bare, the black socks indeed gone.

When had he removed them?

Her heart began to race again.

He always did that. Always left her missing something, something that would draw her back. A forgotten book.

An article of clothing. A piece of herself.

"When?"

The answer came immediately.

"Whenever I feel like it."

She exhaled shakily, her fingers clutching the fabric of her skirt.

Because she understood what that implied.

He wouldn't be calling her tomorrow.

Or the day after.

He would make her wait.

Until the longing became too painful.

Until she pleaded.

And then, only then..

He would allow her to return.

***

Four thousand three hundred twenty minutes of deliberate agony. She counted every single one.

Her apartment seemed to have morphed into a prison cell, each mundane object - the hairbrush on the sink, the morning coffee mug, the unmade bed - serving as a reminder of his absence. Even her dreams had turned traitor, conjuring steamy visions that left her waking up with the sheets tangled between her legs and his name on her lips.

When the cell phone finally buzzed on the bedside table at 2:47 AM, she was already awake. Her heart pounded even before she read the message. Her fingers quivered as she unlocked the screen.

"Office. Now."

Nothing more. Never more. He never wasted words when actions would speak louder.

The college building was deserted at that hour, the hallways dimly lit only by the emergency lights casting elongated shadows against the walls. Her footsteps echoed in the silence, the staccato rhythm of her high heels on the marble floor counting down to something inevitable.

His office door was slightly open. An invitation. A trap.

To her, they were one and the same.

The warm glow from the desk lamp cast a golden rectangle onto the floor. He was sitting behind the desk, embodying the perfect posture of a professor, glasses perched on his nose, fingers interlaced beneath his chin. His impeccable attire - a crisp white shirt with sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms, a gray vest, and a loosely-tied tie - starkly contrasted with the gaze that seemed to devour her whole.

"Lock the door," he commanded, without raising his voice.

"Same here."

The cold metal turned with a final grind. Now, they were locked in. Alone.

"Strip." He removed his glasses with calculated movements, cleaning the lenses on his vest fabric. "Slowly. I want to savor the sight of you."

The black dress - which she had selected knowing he would appreciate - slipped off her shoulders like liquid, revealing the lingerie he had instructed her to purchase the previous week. The black lace panties were practically ornamental, so thin they barely fulfilled their function. The matching bra, with straps that crisscrossed her back like a spider's web.

"Turn around."

She complied, executing a slow pirouette under his scrutinizing stare. The air conditioning caused her nipples to harden beneath the sheer fabric.

"Even better than in my dreams," he murmured, finally rising from his seat. His steps were silent, predatory. "Did you dream of me?"

"No," she lied, her fingers nervously twitching at her sides.

He chuckled, a low and husky sound, as he retrieved his cell phone from his vest pocket. His search history was displayed on the screen: "causes of frequent erotic dreams", "how to stop fantasizing", "is sex addiction dangerous?".

"Such a pitiful lie," his fingers traced her collarbone, halting where her racing pulse throbbed beneath the skin. "You're aching for me now, aren't you?"

She didn't respond. There was no need to. Her body always revealed her secrets more effectively than any words could.

With a swift motion, he pushed her against the table. Papers scattered, a pen rolled onto the floor with a metallic clink. The cool wood seared her bare skin.

"Bend over."

As she bent over, he slid the lace aside with a finger, softly whistling at the discovery of her evident wetness.

"So wet it's trickling down your thighs," he remarked, rubbing his fingers on her before bringing them to his mouth. "And the taste... it still reminds me of myself."

Right at the perfect junction between the thigh and buttock. She screamed, her fingers clutching the edge of the table.

Count.

"One," she groaned.

The second one was more intense, leaving a burning sensation on her skin.

"Two."

By the time she reached five, her legs started to tremble. At ten, hot tears were rolling down her face, mixing with the red lipstick he was so fond of.

"See what you do to me," he growled, guiding her hand to feel his arousal through the fabric of his trousers. "All your doing."

The sound of the zipper being unzipped seemed to echo in the silence of the office. When he finally penetrated her, it was all at once - harsh, without foreplay, drawing out a scream that he smothered with his hand.

"Silence," he commanded into her ear. "I only want to hear the moans I allow you to release."

Each thrust was a declaration of ownership. He gripped her by the hips, hitting her hard enough to shift the table inches with each drive. In the mirror before her, she saw her reflection - face flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy with pleasure.

My masterpiece.

She concurred with an incoherent mumble when his fingers found her clitoris, rubbing with the precise pressure that only he knew.

"Come," he ordered, nipping at her shoulder. "Come now."

Her orgasm hit like a tsunami, stealing her breath, causing her muscles to clench around him like a glove. He didn't stop, continuing to thrust inside her while the waves of pleasure still rocked her.

"Again," he demanded, turning her to sit her on the edge of the table. "I want to see your face when you shatter."

This time it was slower, more torturous. Every inch of penetration drawn out to agony. When she finally neared the edge again, he yanked her hair back, forcing her neck to arch.

"Open."

She obediently opened her mouth, accepting each hot spurt on her tongue, swallowing like the good girl he had trained her to be.

When he finally released her, she slid from the table to the floor, her knees weak, her body still quivering from the aftershocks.

"Now you can beg," he said, stepping back to straighten himself up with meticulous movements.

And she did. With raspy words. With tears that blazed salty trails on her face.

With promises she knew she could never fulfill.

He then lifted her in his arms, carrying her to the open window that overlooked the vacant campus. When he entered her again - slowly, almost tenderly - it was with a whisper against her neck:

"You'll come back tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow too. Until the day I say enough."