My lips pinch together into a tight line. I would gripe about the humiliation of writhing about on all fours, but that would only jeopardize my orgasm.
I move toward him on my hands and knees, my skin itching. My breasts spill out of my bra, and my clit is so engorged that it rubs against the fabric of my knickers.
Professor Segul taps his foot. “Hurry up, Miss Stahl. We don’t have all evening.”
“I’m going as fast as I can.” I pick up my pace.
When I reach the chair, he finally allows me to stand but only long enough for me to lie back and position my limbs on the chair.
He binds my wrists with leather cuffs hanging by the backrest. “You’ll tell me if these are too tight.”
My heart kicks up a notch.
“Yes, sir,” I say, my voice breathy with excitement.
Next, he parts my thighs, putting my left leg in a stirrup, then my right. Then he tugs at some leather fastenings that secure me at the thighs and knees and ankles.
My nerves relax with a strange sense of calm. It’s the pleasant expectation that washes over me before a massage or the times Charlotte braids my hair. I should have the opposite reaction to bondage, but maybe it’s the thought of lying there helpless while he devours my pussy?
“How’s that?” he asks.
I pull at the restraints, testing their strength. They’re soft but firm and don’t yield to my movements.
“Fine,” I murmur.
“A few more adjustments, and we’ll begin.”
He walks around the back of the chair and pulls a crank. With jerking movements, the stirrups part further and further and further, widening my legs until my thighs ache.
“Are you ready?” he asks, his hand brushing over my arm in a gentle caress.
My tongue darts out to moisten my lips, and I give him an eager nod.
“Always remember that the amber safeword is an option. Use it, and I’ll slow down and check in with you.”
I whimper, every inch of my skin tingling in anticipation, but when my clit continues to rub against my knickers, I realize his mistake.
The professor strides back to the throne and bends to pick up the wine bottle from earlier.
My brows furrow. How on earth will I get cunnilingus if I’m covered in all that fabric?
“Sir?” I say, my voice breathy.
He turns around, giving me a stare so hard that I flinch. “The only time you speak is when spoken to or if you need to exercise your safe word. One more unauthorized uttering from you, and I’ll use the gag.”
My mouth clamps shut.
He walks toward a low trolley with the wine bottle, places it on its top, and then strolls to a set of drawers and slides open one in the middle.
“I made a few purchases from the Red Room last Saturday, thinking how much you’d enjoy these toys.” He chuckles. “I’m looking forward to seeing how prettily you beg for release.”
Craning my neck, I glance around to see what he’s doing but all I catch are glimpses of metal.
The lining of my stomach trembles. What the hell? I thought he was going to use a vibrator.
It’s about this time that I realize I know little about the professor beyond the superficial information I picked up online. He lectured at the London School of Finance, published a few papers in some finance and accountancy journals, and spoke at some conferences.
Until now, I never thought to scrutinize why an academic would live in a house worth millions of pounds or why he left somewhere as prestigious as LSF to teach in a backwater like Marina Village?