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Strong fingers lace with mine as we amble beneath the oak canopy along the woodland track. The breeze carrying vestiges of the lazy summer – our summer – ruffles the tiny fair hairs on the back of my hand. Hairs that he's brushed so often, my sharpened senses respond automatically, pulse quickening.
The serenity is absurd compared with the firestorm of passion that has raged unchecked throughout his secondment. It can't end. I won't let it. But it must.
Today.
Winter without him seems impossible to contemplate and I tighten my grip as if it'll make him stay. As if he'll leave her and choose me, to enjoy timeless moments like this one. Just us. Our bubble. Connected.
I roll my thumb around the sensitive skin between his thumb and forefinger. Feel him shudder. The same way I do when that web is pressed to my throat, tightening as he claims me. Takes me over. Pins me to the bed or the wall or wherever the fuck we happen to be, panties yanked aside, raging cock splitting me without mercy, relentlessly plundering my needy pussy as I gasp for air.
He knows the exact pressure, the perfect grip that sets me off. Enough that panics me. Excites me. Makes me drip for him, every nerve ending rattling in my body, heightened as his hot breath snorts in my ear, almost taunting that he can breathe while I struggle.
Fuck, he's a dangerous man. I love it – him – so much that I ache when he's lecturing. The same ache I'll barely be able to contain when he's three thousand miles away. Back in Vermont and his idyllic campus life. The adulation of his regular students. His vanilla wife who doesn't get him like I do. Doesn't let him use her like I do. His little fucktoy.
Birds tweet from the gently swaying boughs above. My Converse are quiet, save for the occasional snap of a twig beneath the grips. Squirrels scamper, gathering acorns for the season ahead.
I squeeze his palm, and he squeezes back, fingers firm against me. The texture of his skin is so different, emphasising the few years he has on me. The experience. That magnetic confidence, ably demonstrated last night as I stood naked in my dorm room, his skin brushing mine while he manoeuvred me with precision, securing bonds against my quivering frame.
He trussed wrists to my torso, patiently passed the rope around my midriff and criss-crossed the ends to accentuate my heaving chest and proud nipples. My heart hammered as he worked up further, our gazes catching. Excitement surged behind his eyes as the loop bit into my neck. He dangled the ends over my shoulders alongside cascading chocolate tresses before spinning me to pull the rope between my legs, around my thighs and butt, tying it off beneath.
I was open. Exhibited, while he circled his lewd artwork, appraising my form. As self-conscious as it made me, to be revered that way was electric.
He'd looked at me that way our first night too. The attraction had been immediate, leading to the inevitable conclusion after a few weeks of classes. But that night in the throes of passion he'd brushed fingers over my throat and I'd arched into his touch. Later, in the afterglow, he'd asked me about it. I couldn't answer, could only watch as he slowly brought his fingers back to my throat and squeezed ever so gently.
He'd seen it in my eyes. Heard it in my sharp intake of breath. It was something I'd always been too shy to admit I needed and something he'd never been offered. I don't know, maybe it takes one to recognise the other.
He'd used his tie that night. My panties. Anything to restrain me, to display me. He'd asked a thousand questions and I'd answered him, the flush of embarrassment quickly giving way to the heat his words brought to my cheeks, the heat his palm brought to my flesh as he tested limits.
But last night was different. More. When he unbuckled his wide belt and made me lick the tip, I quaked. Knew what was coming, moments before he paced behind me and massaged my bottom with those firm palms. Over and over, warming and preparing me. Then nothing. The agonising wait, until I caught the shadow of his raised arm projected onto the wall ahead of me. Followed by the strike.
I squealed each time the leather cracked into my sensitive skin, marking me as I twisted and moaned and cursed.
Between batches of strokes, he soothed the heated pink flesh I swear still glowed beneath my short polka-dot sundress in the forest. Each time he rubbed, he'd wait for me to straighten, body on hyper alert. Ready for more, like his good little slut.
And more I took, until he was satisfied with the shade of my bottom. Until I was wet enough. Then behind me, he kicked my legs apart and repeatedly flicked the leather up against my exposed pussy as I cried and wriggled with the torment I so desperately needed.
I soon learned, that craving was nothing.
He tossed the belt away and circled to face me, the fingers I now hold soothing my reddened pussy lips, cupping me and slipping between folds into my dripping tunnel. They curled upwards and massaged.
Never had I felt anything like it. Insistent fingers began to tug rapidly up and forward, almost lifting me from my feet with the force as I shrieked with pleasure over the dirtiest, squelching, sucking noises I'd ever heard until the roaring in my ears drowned everything out.
Drenched. There was no other word for it. Clear rivulets rolled and clung to my legs, a small puddle on the floor. His wrist and arm were soaked and I could barely breathe despite his hand for once being nowhere near my larynx.
I feel the latent effects even now under my dress, the air circulating where he has forbidden me to wear panties. And recalling last night has me wet again. It seeps from my folds to be dried by the crisp, eddying woodland air.
Fuck. This can't be the end. I need more. More of his hands on my body, igniting my skin with his firm touch. Endless tomorrows so we can continue to discover one another through the torrent of desire we sculpt.
His hands. His fingers, linked with mine. Holding. Squeezing. Tugging.
Dragging him off the path, through the trees, I turn to face him and bring the hand I'm holding to my cheek then let go. Warm finger pads brush over my skin. My jaw. Down to caress the tender flesh of my neck.
The intensity in his gaze darkens, my pulse galloping. His fingers circle, grip tightening and I breathe in sharply, filling lungs that will soon be so starved I can barely rasp his name. But I'll try, because it thrills him. Thrills us both.
His other hand rises to join its companion around my neck, circling to fashion a collar. And then he's pushing down, forcing me to my knees on the forest floor. Twigs scrape my skin as I fumble for his zipper, watery eyes remaining on his. He's already hard as he separates my lips and presses into my mouth, silken parchment stretched over warm steel, invading until he's nudging my throat.
I take him all, because I'm a good slut. His slut. Despite the filthy choking and slurping interrupting the sanctity of the birdsong, I let him use me one last time. I'm unsure if I'm trying to give him a reason to return, or if I simply need this. Either way, I lose myself in his urgency.
His grip slackens, just for a second and I gulp in air before it tightens again and he forces his way in deeper, fingers constricting my already narrow airway. He uses me, pulling out when I need air, until his gasps shatter the serenity of the woodland and he's coming down my throat. Glossy. Delicious. Mine.
As he shudders and empties, I slither my fingers up to link with his once more, intertwined in every way that matters.
This can't end. I won't let it.
But it must.
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