“Doesn’t she get jealous?” I asked.
He chuckled, stretching one of his legs to rest on the bench in front of us. “She has her own lovers, loads of them. We have an open marriage. But our most intense relationship,” he said, borrowing my word from earlier, “is the relationship we have with each other.”
I kind of hated him for throwing his happy, open marriage in my face. I had nothing, no one, just a bunch of depressing memories. Out of the last two people I’d loved, one had taken my money and abused me, while the other had dumped me without sharing anything of substance except a whole lot of sex.
“You’re lucky,” I said, hunching over and resting my elbows on my knees. “I’ve never had a good relationship. I’m done with them.”
“You’re too young to be done with relationships.” I could hear the soft, chiding mockery in his voice.
“What does it matter to you?” I muttered.
“You’re one of my favorite students. It matters to me.”
I was surprised by his forthright reply. I guess in some part of my brain I’d known he felt some favor toward me, even if he rode me harder than everyone else. But to hear it here, in this situation…it made me uncomfortable.
I scuffed the toe of my shoe against the opposite bench. “It’s going to be weird now to see you in class.”
“We only have a couple more weeks as professor and student.”
The way he said professor and student sounded porn-y, or maybe it was my inappropriate mind. I wasn’t attracted to him. I didn’t want anything to do with him or his dark jeans or his hipster open marriage.
“Are you looking forward to your internship?” he asked as the silence went on too long.
“Can we not talk about school, since you’re my teacher?”
He blinked, once, twice. Now it was the satanic gaze. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, really. Why are you sitting up here with me? Why aren’t you down there?” I jerked a thumb toward the concrete dungeon. An 80’s hair band song blared over the sounds of thudding implements, laughter, and cries.
“I just wanted to say hello,” he said. “You looked lonely sitting up here.” When I didn’t reply to that comment, he stood. “I think I will go down.” Then he paused, and looked at me. “Would you like to come?”
“No, thanks. I’m more of a watcher.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” He again made as if to go, then stopped. “If you want to be less of a watcher in the future, and you’re looking for a no-strings-attached partner, I’m experienced and safe.”
Wow, that was a ballsy offer. At least he didn’t say it in a skeevy, entitled way, like some of the Dominants who hit on me. He sounded sincere. I appreciated that, even if the answer was no, no, no, no.
“Is it the professor thing?” he asked when I failed to respond. “That’s understandable.” He turned to go, then stopped again. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said too quickly.
He nodded. “I’ll see you in class.”
There was too much of a seductive edge to those five words. I’m ashamed to say I stuck around through my embarrassment and trauma to watch my predatory professor in action. It didn’t take him long to find a willing partner, a statuesque blonde with short, aqua-tipped hair. From the way they interacted, I thought they’d probably played together before. I peered down from the balcony, trying to look disinterested, trying not to focus on him too long in case he looked up at me.
But he didn’t look up at me, and I was soon absorbed in watching him play. He had an expertness about him, a confidence he also had in the classroom. His movements were slow as he bound and teased his partner, fixing her to a St. Andrews cross. He was unfailingly attentive, leaning his head close when she talked to him, and checking her bonds to make sure they weren’t too tight. I couldn’t help contrasting his smooth, calm mode of operation to W’s heightened grasping. His violence.
Even now, engrossed in someone else’s scene, I couldn’t stop thinking about my lost lover. I squeezed my eyes shut and willed him out of my thoughts. The girl Cantor had picked was pretty. Very young. Reckless. I wondered if W would have liked to play with her. Probably.
Stop. Just stop.
Cantor warmed up the girl with some spanking, some caresses. A little bit of massage. He reached around his play partner to caress her breasts, and she very audibly liked it. His hand moved lower, playing over her panties. She arched her hips and smiled at him, and he gave her a little slap there. Her expression said, do it again.
I also wanted him to do it again, but he didn’t. He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off and leaned down to stow it in his bag. It wasn’t until he stood again that I appreciated his impressive set of muscles. He was no W, but for a middle-aged professor, he had a good body. He had a great ass.