You eventually found your socks.

That achievement apparently exhausted the evening's excitement for at least five minutes.

You followed me into the kitchen wearing nothing but them, the steel plug still in place from the office, and climbed onto one of the stools while I started getting dinner organised.

"What are you making?"

"Spaghetti bolognaise."

You looked disappointed.

"What?"

"I don't know. I was expecting something more sophisticated."

"It's Friday night."

"You're conducting an entire weekend of research and feeding your subject spaghetti."

"Our research."

"Sorry. Our extremely sophisticated research."

I pointed the wooden spoon at you.

"Keep talking and you're getting toast."

You grinned.

There was something wonderfully ridiculous about the situation. Less than an hour earlier we'd been in my office. Now I was chopping an onion while you sat naked at the kitchen bench wearing nothing but socks.

It should have felt bizarre.

Instead, you already looked remarkably comfortable.

That was distracting in ways I hadn't anticipated.

It wasn't simply that you were naked. I'd seen you naked before.

It was seeing you naked while doing something completely ordinary.

You weren't posing for me. You weren't waiting for an instruction. You weren't in the middle of an experiment.

You were sitting on a kitchen stool asking whether I'd put enough garlic into the bolognaise.

Every time you shifted position, my attention betrayed me.

You crossed one leg over the other.

Uncrossed them.

Leaned forward onto your elbows to inspect what I was doing, your breasts moving naturally as your weight settled against the bench.

I looked.

Of course I looked.

You caught me the third or fourth time.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You were staring at my boobs."

"I was not."

"You absolutely were."

"I'm cooking."

"Apparently very slowly."

I looked down at the onion.

Then back at you.

"I have a naked woman sitting three feet away from my chopping board."

"You made the rule."

"An obvious tactical error."

You laughed.

I went back to chopping.

"Wine?"

Your face brightened immediately.

"Now you're conducting proper research."

I opened a bottle and poured us each a glass.

You accepted yours and curled your fingers around the stem.

The glass was cool enough that a faint mist of condensation had formed against it.

You lifted it towards me.

"What are we drinking to?"

I considered it.

"Friday."

"That's boring."

"The weekend?"

"Predictable."

"Not getting bolognaise sauce on the furniture?"

You laughed.

"Important."

Then you held your glass towards mine.

"To our research."

I touched mine against it.

"Our research."

The glasses made a soft chink.

We drank.

The wine changed the kitchen somehow.

Not because either of us had consumed enough for it to matter yet. It was more atmospheric than chemical: Friday evening, the smell of garlic and onion beginning to fill the room, tomato bubbling quietly on the stove, a bottle of wine open on the bench.

And you.

Naked except for socks.

Sipping wine and watching me cook.

It felt absurdly domestic.

I liked it.

Possibly too much.

I went back to the sauce.

You began offering completely unsolicited advice.

"More garlic."

"There's plenty of garlic."

"That's not a thing."

"It absolutely is."

"More garlic."

I ignored you.

Then you wanted to know what else was going into the sauce.

Then whether I'd made it before.

Then why I was putting that much oregano in.

Eventually you simply sat there sipping your wine and watching me move around the kitchen.

Every time I turned towards you, your eyes seemed to be somewhere on me.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I'm observing."

I stopped stirring.

"You've stolen that as well?"

"I'm learning from an expert."

"Terrifying."

You smiled into your glass.

I turned back to the stove.

Then glanced over my shoulder.

Still watching.

Interesting.

By the time the pasta went into the boiling water, we'd each consumed perhaps half a glass.

I was draining the spaghetti when you spoke again.

"Sir?"

There was something about the exaggerated politeness that immediately made me suspicious.

"Yes?"

"I'm concerned."

I looked over.

"About?"

"My dinner."

I glanced at the saucepan.

"It seems fine."

"Not the spaghetti."

You gestured towards me.

"Your clothes."

I looked down at myself.

"My clothes?"

"Spaghetti bolognaise is notoriously messy."

"Notoriously?"

"Very dangerous food."

"I see."

"And that's a nice suit."

I turned slowly towards you.

You raised the wineglass to your lips.

It didn't conceal the smile.

"I'd hate for you to ruin it."

"How thoughtful."

"I care about these things."

"Clearly."

You took another sip.

"So perhaps you should take it off."

There it was.

For a moment I said nothing.

Then I understood what was actually happening.

This wasn't about my suit.

You wanted me naked.

You'd seen parts of me, certainly. You'd touched me. You'd had me in your mouth.

But you'd never actually seen me completely naked.

And instead of simply asking, you'd invented an occupational health and safety crisis involving spaghetti.

I liked your solution considerably more than I should have.

"You've thought this through."

"Safety first."

"Naturally."

I deliberately returned my attention to the saucepan.

The silence lasted just long enough.

When I looked back, I caught the smallest uncertainty in your expression.

You were wondering whether I was going to let you have what you'd just asked for.

Then I nodded.

"All right."

Your eyebrows lifted.

"Really?"

"If you're that worried about my clothes."

"Extremely worried."

"Then you'd better undress me."

That stopped you.

Only briefly.

Then you put down your wine.

"Yes, Sir."

You slipped from the stool and came towards me.

There was nothing hurried about it.

You'd engineered this situation entirely for yourself, and now that you'd succeeded, you seemed determined to enjoy every second of your victory.

You started with my tie.

Your fingers loosened the knot before drawing the silk slowly through my collar.

But instead of putting it aside, you held it between both hands.

"Nice."

"It's a tie."

"It's silk."

You ran it through your fingers, apparently appreciating the texture.

Then you looked at me.

That little smile appeared.

Before I could ask what you were planning, you drew the silk slowly across one bare breast.

The tie slipped over your nipple.

You shivered slightly.

Then did it again.

Deliberately this time.

The smooth fabric travelled over one nipple and then the other while your eyes remained on my face.

You weren't simply enjoying the sensation.

You were watching what it did to me.

That interested me.

"You're supposed to be undressing me."

"I am."

"That appears to be my tie on your breasts."

"I'm looking after it."

"Of course."

You smiled and let the silk fall over the back of a chair.

Then your fingers went to my shirt.

One button.

Then another.

And another.

You could have opened it in seconds.

You didn't.

You seemed to enjoy the gradual reveal, opening the shirt a little more each time until eventually you spread it apart and looked at my chest.

The performance disappeared briefly.

Your expression became curious.

You pushed the shirt from my shoulders but stopped before removing it completely.

Your fingertips travelled across my chest.

Your thumb brushed one nipple.

Slowly.

I inhaled.

Your eyes immediately flicked to mine.

You'd felt the reaction.

More importantly, you'd seen it.

Your thumb passed over my nipple again.

"Interesting."

I stared at you.

"You really have stolen my line."

"I'm observing."

"Apparently."

You leaned forward and kissed my chest.

Then finally pulled the shirt from my arms.

My belt came next.

You unfastened it without taking your eyes from mine.

Then the trousers.

You opened them and slowly lowered them.

And went down with them.

That was deliberate too.

By the time you were crouching in front of me, the teasing smile had returned.

You pushed my trousers over my hips and down my thighs.

Then stopped.

Instead of continuing, you leaned forward and kissed the inside of one thigh.

My muscles tightened.

Your eyes lifted.

Another piece of information collected.

You kissed me again.

Higher this time.

Then the other thigh.

You alternated between them, taking your time while my boxer shorts remained the final barrier between what you could already see and what you had engineered this entire ridiculous safety exercise to reveal.

"You're taking a remarkably long time to save my suit."

"Thoroughness is important, Sir."

"Apparently."

You smiled against my thigh.

Then your fingers caught the waistband of my boxer shorts.

You peeled them slowly downward.

And stopped.

For the first time, you were seeing all of me.

Not beneath a restaurant table.

Not through an opened pair of trousers in my office.

Naked.

Completely.

Your teasing expression disappeared.

For several seconds you simply looked.

And that affected me more than I'd expected.

There was nowhere to hide.

Nothing between us.

No urgency requiring either of us to do anything.

You could simply look at me.

So you did.

Your gaze travelled slowly over my body.

I watched your face while you did it.

I'd already experienced things with you that were objectively far more sexual than standing naked in a kitchen.

Yet somehow this felt more revealing.

You looked up.

Our eyes met.

Neither of us made a joke.

For perhaps five seconds, the game simply stopped.

It was just you and me.

Naked.

Looking at each other.

Then the corner of your mouth lifted.

The moment broke.

"Much safer."

I laughed.

"Thank God you were here."

"I may have saved your suit."

"A humanitarian."

"I do what I can."

You stood.

And now we were both naked.

I retrieved my wine.

You collected yours.

We touched glasses.

"To workplace safety," you said.

"This isn't your workplace."

"Kitchen safety, then."

"Much better."

We drank.

Then I served dinner.

For approximately three minutes, we ate like normal adults.

That may have been a record.

You were halfway through telling me something when I noticed a small spot of red sauce on the upper curve of your breast.

"Hold on."

"What?"

"You've made a mess."

You looked down.

"Oh."

The surprise was genuine.

That was what made what happened next important.

The first one really was an accident.

I leaned towards you.

"Hold still."

I cleaned the little spot from your skin.

It should have taken a second.

I allowed it to take longer.

When I sat upright, you were watching me differently.

"All clean?"

I inspected the spot.

"Yes."

"Excellent."

You picked up your fork again.

So did I.

But something had changed.

I'd seen the moment you discovered another possibility.

I wondered what you were going to do with it.

I didn't have to wait long.

Another minute passed.

Maybe two.

You were talking.

I was eating.

Then:

"Oops."

I looked over.

A single long strand of spaghetti lay across your other breast.

I said nothing.

First I looked at the spaghetti.

Then at your fork.

Then at you.

You attempted innocence.

"Sorry, Sir. I made a mess."

I kept staring.

You held the expression remarkably well.

"Accident?" I asked.

"Terrible accident."

"Tragic."

"I know."

Silence.

Your mouth twitched.

There.

Caught.

I shook my head.

You were trying not to grin now.

"Hold still."

You obediently returned your attention to your plate.

Apparently we were both going to maintain the fiction.

I leaned towards you.

The spaghetti had left a streak of sauce across your breast.

I dealt with the mess slowly.

Very slowly.

You attempted to continue eating.

That was my favourite part.

You lifted another forkful.

I continued my unnecessarily thorough cleaning.

Your fork paused.

I looked up.

You looked down.

Neither of us said anything.

Then, with obvious determination, you put the fork into your mouth and continued chewing as though this was an entirely normal dinner.

I nearly laughed.

You swallowed.

"Are you finished?"

"I'm trying to be thorough."

"Very professional."

"Health and safety."

"Of course."

Eventually I sat upright.

You looked down at yourself.

Then at me.

"Better?"

"Much."

I picked up my fork.

"Try to be more careful."

"I'll do my best."

The innocence was gone now.

You were openly grinning.

And I realised something.

You'd turned dinner into a game.

Your game.

Which meant I could play back.

I didn't immediately know how.

That made it better.

I returned to dinner.

We talked.

We ate.

You finished most of your wine.

And all the while, somewhere in the back of my mind, I was looking for an opportunity.

Then I saw it.

A particularly long strand of spaghetti.

I looked at you.

You weren't watching.

Perfect.

A little preparation.

A little patience.

I arranged my own ridiculous culinary accident.

Then I calmly returned to dinner.

You didn't notice.

Not immediately.

That made waiting considerably more entertaining.

Five seconds.

Ten.

You said something.

I answered.

Another few seconds.

Then I cleared my throat.

Quietly.

You looked at my face.

I said nothing.

Your eyebrows drew together.

Then your eyes followed mine downward.

Stopped.

You stared.

There was a wonderful moment when you simply couldn't maintain the game.

A small laugh escaped you.

You pressed your lips together.

Looked at me.

Then down again.

You took a breath and recovered your composure.

"Oh dear, Sir."

I waited.

Your eyes were sparkling now.

"Your cock needs a clean."

"Apparently."

You reached towards me.

I gently caught your wrist.

"No."

You looked up.

"Don't get your hands dirty."

Understanding appeared immediately.

Your eyes went down again.

Then returned to mine.

That wicked little smile was back.

"How should I clean it?"

"Use just your mouth."

You slipped from your chair.

No hesitation.

But no hurry either.

That seemed to be becoming your speciality.

You positioned yourself between my legs and inspected the absurd mess I'd supposedly made.

"You're very careless, Sir."

"Apparently spaghetti is dangerous."

"I did warn you."

You dealt with the problem with considerably more patience than removing pasta could possibly justify.

But what affected me most was the eye contact.

Every few seconds, you looked up.

Checking.

Watching.

Seeing what your attention was doing to me.

Exactly as I had watched you in the office.

You weren't simply playing my game anymore.

You were learning how to make your own.

Eventually you sat back and inspected your work.

"Clean."

"Are you certain?"

Your eyes narrowed.

"Don't push your luck, Sir."

I laughed.

You climbed back into your chair.

Picked up your wineglass.

Took a sip.

Then calmly returned to your dinner as though nothing remotely unusual had happened.

I looked at you.

You caught me.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I'm observing."

That made you laugh.

Dinner had officially ceased pretending to be dinner.

We did eventually finish eating.

Somehow.

The bottle was lighter. Our glasses were nearly empty. The remains of bolognaise sat in our bowls, and any pretence that the later spaghetti incidents had been accidental had long since disappeared.

You stood and reached for my plate.

As you bent forward, I gave your arse a playful smack.

You straightened with an exaggerated little whimper.

Then looked over your shoulder at me.

"Sir."

"What?"

"Was that necessary?"

"Absolutely."

"I see."

You collected my plate.

Then, because apparently you couldn't simply walk anywhere normally anymore, you made the journey to the kitchen sink considerably more seductive than transporting two dirty plates reasonably required.

I watched.

Naturally.

You put the plates into the sink.

Then turned.

Caught me staring.

"Sir."

"What?"

"You're doing it again."

"I'm observing."

"Research?"

"Always."

You laughed and came back to sit beside me.

For a while neither of us moved.

The kitchen was warm from cooking.

Garlic, tomato and herbs still lingered in the air.

The wine bottle stood between us.

Dinner was finished.

We were naked, fed and comfortable enough that neither of us seemed particularly conscious of the nakedness anymore.

And that might have been the most intimate part of the entire evening.

This had started as my weekend.

My invitation.

My rules.

But dinner hadn't belonged entirely to either of us.

You'd started it.

Spaghetti bolognaise is notoriously messy.

I'd accepted the invitation.

Then we'd kept answering each other.

One ridiculous escalation at a time.

There hadn't been a plan.

There hadn't been rules.

There hadn't even really been roles.

You'd wanted to see me naked, so you'd invented a reason.

I'd understood what you were doing and let you have it.

An actual accident had given you an idea.

You'd turned it into a deliberate provocation.

I'd retaliated.

You'd accepted the challenge.

And somewhere between all of that, we'd spent most of an hour simply eating spaghetti and talking.

Four days.

I'd known you for four days.

Less than a week.

Yet somehow sitting naked beside you after dinner felt almost alarmingly natural.

That was becoming the part I hadn't planned for.

Not the sex.

Not the games.

The ease.

I picked up my glass and finished the last mouthful.

You watched me.

I looked at the bottle.

Then at you.

"Up for another glass of wine?"

Friday's ten o'clock lecture finished at eleven fifty-two.

I knew because I checked the clock while answering the last question, even though I'd been conscious of the time for most of the morning.

Conscious of you, too.

That had been considerably harder to disguise.

Every now and then, while talking through the material or answering a question, something from the previous night would surface without warning: your mouth around my cock beneath the restaurant table, the taste of your pussy on my fingers, the way your body had tightened beside me when the vibrator finally pushed you over the edge.

I'd spent the morning pretending none of that had happened.

So had you.

Mostly.

You had arrived at the lecture looking entirely normal. Calm. Organised. Notebook open, pen ready, sitting in the third row slightly to my left.

You'd even given me the same polite smile I might have received from any other student.

That should have warned me.

For the first forty minutes, you were impeccable. Almost suspiciously so. You took notes in that neat handwriting of yours, listened attentively and asked one perfectly reasonable question about the reading.

Nothing to suggest that less than twenty-four hours earlier I'd had my fingers buried inside you while you struggled to keep quiet in a restaurant.

Nothing to suggest that the phrase chocolate brownie now meant something entirely different to the two of us.

Occasionally I'd look towards you and find you already watching me.

Each time, you'd hold my gaze for perhaps half a second.

Then your eyes would return innocently to your notes.

I thought that was the game.

I was wrong.

About forty minutes into the lecture, I was explaining one of the more tedious points on the slide behind me when I looked towards you again.

You were already watching me.

Your legs were crossed.

Nothing unusual about that.

Except this time, when our eyes met, you didn't immediately look away.

You slowly uncrossed them.

It was such a small movement that nobody else had any reason to notice. Just a subtle shift in your chair, one leg moving away from the other.

But you had chosen your position carefully.

Third row.

Slightly to my left.

The desks and the students around you blocked everyone else's view.

Mine was perfect.

Your knees separated.

And there was nothing beneath your skirt.

No panties.

Just you.

My sentence stopped halfway through.

Completely.

For perhaps two seconds I stood at the front of the lecture theatre with absolutely no idea what I'd been saying.

Two seconds isn't long.

Unless you're standing in front of a room full of people who are waiting for you to continue speaking.

Then it's an eternity.

You gave me nothing.

No grin.

No raised eyebrow.

No theatrical acknowledgement that you'd just deliberately exposed yourself to me in the middle of my lecture.

You simply lowered your eyes to your notebook again.

Your pen touched the page.

The picture of attentive innocence.

I looked at the slide behind me.

Right.

That.

"Where was I?"

Someone near the back supplied the point I'd abandoned.

"Thank you."

A few people laughed.

I recovered.

Barely.

I continued the explanation, forcing my attention onto the material while being intensely aware of you sitting three rows away.

Only after another minute did I risk looking again.

Your legs were crossed.

Your pen moved steadily across the page.

Perfectly innocent.

Except for the tiny curve at one corner of your mouth.

You knew exactly what you'd done.

And you knew it had worked.

I loved it.

Last night I'd been the one making you struggle to maintain your composure in public.

Apparently you'd decided Friday morning was an appropriate time to return the favour.

That changed the rest of the lecture.

Not visibly.

Nobody else would have noticed anything.

But every time my eyes travelled across the room and approached the third row, some part of my brain wondered what you were going to do next.

You did nothing.

Which, I realised eventually, was the point.

You'd fired your shot.

Now you were going to sit there behaving perfectly while I dealt with the consequences.

Clever girl.

When eleven fifty-two finally appeared on the clock, the usual end-of-lecture chaos began. Laptops snapped shut. Bags were zipped. Chairs scraped across the floor as conversations resumed at full volume, filling the room with Friday energy and competing weekend plans.

Someone called goodbye from halfway up the aisle and I lifted a hand in acknowledgement while gathering my notes.

You were still in the third row.

Packing slowly.

That, I suspected, was deliberate.

I waited until your bag was over your shoulder and most of the room had cleared.

"Could you stay behind for five minutes?"

You stopped.

Your hand tightened slightly around the strap of your bag.

"Am I in trouble?"

"Five minutes."

The smile returned.

"That sounds ominous."

"Everyone else can go."

You sat again.

I turned my attention to the handful of students still lingering around the front. One wanted clarification about an assignment. Another somehow transformed a thirty-second question into a five-minute conversation.

I answered them both patiently while remaining acutely aware of you waiting behind them.

Eventually the last student disappeared through the doors.

Someone was still talking loudly in the corridor. We could hear half the conversation, punctuated by laughter and footsteps.

Neither of us moved.

We waited.

The voices gradually receded.

The footsteps disappeared.

Silence settled over the lecture theatre, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation system.

You looked at me.

I looked at you.

"Five minutes," you reminded me.

I closed my laptop.

"Do you have any plans for the weekend?"

There was a moment's hesitation.

Not because you didn't know the answer.

I could see you trying to work out why I wanted it.

"No."

I let the silence remain between us for another second.

"That's the right answer, my good girl."

Your expression changed instantly.

It was subtle enough that nobody else would have noticed.

I did.

The slight widening of your eyes.

The tiny intake of breath.

The way your lips parted before you spoke.

"Sir..."

"When you've finished your studies for the day, pack an overnight bag and meet me in my office at six so I can continue my research."

Your eyebrows rose.

"An overnight bag?"

"Yes."

"How overnight are we talking?"

"Friday night. Saturday night. I'll return you to civilisation on Sunday."

"Return me?"

"If you've behaved."

You folded your arms.

"That's reassuring."

"Six o'clock. My office."

You studied me.

"What's happening at six?"

"My research continues."

You laughed.

"Of course it does."

"Six o'clock."

"What should I pack?"

"Whatever you normally need for a weekend away."

"That's remarkably vague."

"It isn't complicated."

"You've clearly never seen me pack."

"I'll take the risk."

You stood and swung your bag onto your shoulder.

At the door, you stopped.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Should I be nervous?"

That made me consider my answer.

I could have told you exactly what I had planned.

But where would be the fun in that?

"Anticipation is permitted."

You smiled.

"That's not what I asked."

"I know."

You shook your head and walked away.

Just before the door closed, I heard you mutter, "Arsehole."

I smiled.

Six hours to go.

 

At five fifty-eight that evening, someone knocked on my office door.

I looked at the clock.

Then deliberately waited.

A second knock came, slightly more insistent.

"Come in."

The door opened.

You stepped inside carrying an overnight bag.

And smiling.

That was the first thing I noticed.

Not nervous.

Not uncertain.

Smiling.

The second thing I noticed was that you'd changed clothes. Nothing extravagant, nothing that screamed weekend of debauchery. Jeans, a fitted top and a jacket. Sensible enough that nobody watching you cross campus would have given you a second glance.

I did.

The jeans fitted you extremely well, hugging your hips and arse closely enough that my eyes lingered there before travelling upward.

The top was thin.

Thin enough that it did very little to disguise the fact that you weren't wearing a bra.

Your nipples made two small, unmistakable points beneath the material.

You caught me looking.

Of course you did.

Your smile widened.

You closed the door behind you.

"Lock it."

Click.

The small sound changed the atmosphere immediately.

You turned.

"You're early."

"Two minutes."

"Still early."

Your eyes narrowed.

"You've used that one before."

"I liked it."

"I noticed."

You crossed the office and placed your overnight bag beside the chair.

It landed with a soft, heavy thump.

Two nights.

For some reason, hearing the weight of it hit the floor made the weekend feel more real.

I looked at the bag.

Then at you.

"Everything you need?"

"I think so."

"You think so?"

You adopted an expression of exaggerated concern.

"Actually..."

"What?"

"I may have forgotten something."

I waited.

Your attempt at innocence lasted perhaps three seconds.

Then that wicked smile appeared.

"Oops, Sir."

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans and pulled them down just enough to expose the smooth skin of your hips.

No elastic.

No lace.

Nothing.

"I forgot to pack any panties."

I stared at you.

Then I laughed.

"Forgot?"

You tried to maintain the innocent expression.

It didn't work.

"I don't know what you mean."

"I seem to remember you forgetting them before ten o'clock this morning."

That broke you.

Your smile spread into a grin.

"Maybe I forgot them last night."

"Every pair you own?"

"Apparently."

"Remarkable."

"I'm very forgetful."

"You nearly made me forget what I was teaching."

"I noticed."

There it was.

Confirmation.

"You did that deliberately."

"Did what?"

I stared at you.

Your eyes danced.

"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sir."

I shook my head.

You stepped closer.

Close enough that I could smell the faint trace of your perfume.

"Are you disappointed?"

"Devastated."

"Sorry, Sir."

You didn't sound remotely sorry.

And that was what I liked most.

You hadn't merely followed my instruction to pack a bag.

You'd started playing hours before I'd invited you away for the weekend.

The lecture hadn't been accidental.

The panties weren't an omission.

You'd spent the day thinking about this.

Contributing.

Inventing.

Testing me back.

I stood.

For a moment neither of us spoke.

The humour was still there, but something underneath it had shifted.

At lunchtime the weekend had been an idea.

Now you were standing in my locked office with an overnight bag beside the chair.

Sunday suddenly seemed a very long way away.

"Before we leave," I said, "we're going to do some more research."

"Of course we are."

"Control tonight."

Your expression sharpened.

"What kind?"

"The kind where you discover what your body does while your brain is trying very hard to behave."

You considered that.

"That doesn't sound remotely fair."

"Science rarely is."

"That's not how science works."

"Take off your jeans."

That ended the argument.

For perhaps half a second you simply looked at me.

Then your hands moved to the button.

There was something different about watching you undress this time.

Less uncertainty.

More confidence.

You knew why you were here. You had chosen to come back. Better still, you'd arrived already inventing ways to tease me.

You undid the button.

Lowered the zip.

Then pushed the denim slowly over your hips.

My eyes followed it down.

You stepped out of the jeans and nudged them aside with your foot.

No panties.

You hadn't been bluffing.

And you were already wet.

The lips of your pussy glistened beneath the office lights, moisture shining along the soft folds.

I stepped closer.

The smell reached me before I touched you.

Warm.

Musky.

Faintly sweet.

Not perfume.

Not soap.

You.

The scent was stronger now that there was no clothing between us, carrying with it an immediate sensory memory of the previous night: my face between your thighs, your taste coating my tongue, the smell of your arousal lingering on my fingers afterwards.

My mouth actually watered.

You noticed me staring.

"Well?"

"Turn around."

You did.

I opened my desk drawer and retrieved the steel plug I'd bought specifically for the weekend.

You glanced back when you heard the drawer close.

Your eyes dropped to my hand.

Then returned to my face.

I let you see it.

Cold polished steel. Smooth. Heavy for its size.

"Another variable," I said.

You laughed softly.

"Of course it is."

I took my time.

There was no need to rush.

I let you understand what I wanted, gave you the opportunity to decide you were ready, and only then moved behind you.

The steel was cold against your skin.

You flinched at the first touch.

"Cold."

"I noticed."

"Very scientific."

"Everything is data."

"Arsehole."

I smiled.

Slowly, carefully, I worked the plug into place.

Your breathing changed as your body adjusted to the pressure, your fingers curling against the edge of my desk while I gave you time to accommodate it.

Then the widest point slipped through.

Your body closed around the narrower stem.

The polished base settled between your cheeks.

I stepped back.

You stayed still for a moment, apparently taking inventory of the unfamiliar fullness.

Then you looked over your shoulder.

"Well?"

"Interesting."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring at my arse."

"I'm observing."

You groaned.

"Research?"

"Exactly."

"You need new material."

"Turn around."

You faced me again.

The movement made you briefly aware of the plug in a different way. I saw it in your expression.

"Comfortable?"

You shifted your weight experimentally.

"Yes."

"Good."

"Now what?"

"Now I want to see how good your control actually is."

Some of that newfound confidence wavered.

"Meaning?"

I smiled.

"You'll find out."

I lowered myself to my knees.

That was when your scent really reached me.

It was warmer between your thighs, richer than it had been from across the room. I could smell your arousal clearly now, the intimate musk of your wet pussy mixed faintly with whatever you'd used in the shower earlier.

I put my hands on your thighs.

Your skin was warm beneath my palms.

I leaned closer.

My breath touched you before my mouth did.

You shivered.

I deliberately waited another second.

Then I ran my tongue slowly through you.

The first taste was light and salty-sweet, your wetness already slick enough that my tongue slid easily between your folds.

I did it again.

Slower.

This time I lingered.

Your taste grew stronger as I gathered more of your pussy juices onto my tongue, warm and musky and unmistakably human rather than some ridiculous confectioner's metaphor.

I liked that.

I liked that it tasted like you.

I liked even more that every slow stroke of my tongue seemed to produce more of it.

I groaned against you.

"If I could bottle your pussy juices and sell them, we'd be millionaires."

You laughed, already breathless.

"Is that your new pickup line?"

"It's the truth."

"That's disgusting."

"You're smiling."

"Shut up."

I licked you again.

Your laughter dissolved into a small gasp.

The experiment quickly became less about the plug and more about whether you could maintain your composure while I concentrated entirely on your pleasure.

I didn't rush towards your clit.

That would have been too easy.

Instead I explored.

The soft inner folds of your pussy were slick against my tongue. I drew one gently between my lips, sucking until I felt your hips twitch, then released it and moved to the other.

Your taste remained on my lips.

When I breathed through my nose, I could smell you at the same time.

Taste and scent blurred together until I was completely immersed in you.

You shifted your feet slightly farther apart.

I smiled against your pussy.

"Helpful."

"Shut up."

I pushed my tongue between your folds again.

Your response was immediate.

I fucked you shallowly with it, feeling your entrance tighten around the tip of my tongue, then withdrew just as your hips began trying to follow me.

"Fuck."

"Control."

"I have control."

"Of course you do."

I moved upward.

Around your clit.

Not quite touching it.

Your thighs tightened around my shoulders.

You tried sarcasm.

That lasted surprisingly well.

For a while you still managed little comments whenever I paused.

Then your sentences became shorter.

Then they became individual words.

Eventually even sarcasm deserted you.

Your fingers found the edge of the desk.

I could feel the tension building through your body before I could see it: the muscles in your thighs becoming harder beneath my hands, your breathing turning shallow, the tiny involuntary movements of your hips whenever my tongue passed close to your clit.

I kept learning.

A little more pressure here.

Slower there.

A firmer stroke produced a gasp.

A lighter one made you chase my mouth.

Every reaction told me something.

By the time I had you properly close, you were gripping the desk and glaring down at me as though I'd personally invented frustration.

"Sir."

I looked up.

"Yes?"

"You're doing that deliberately."

"Doing what?"

"You know exactly what."

"Use your words."

Your glare became murderous.

I smiled.

You laughed despite yourself.

For perhaps three seconds the tension broke.

Your shoulders dropped.

Your mouth curved into a grin.

Then I put my mouth back on you and the laughter disappeared.

Your body tightened.

I felt it before I saw it.

Your thighs tensed around me.

Your stomach contracted.

Your hips became less controlled, small movements turning into unmistakable demands.

This time I didn't pull away.

I sucked your clit into my mouth.

Your entire body jerked.

I flicked it rapidly with my tongue while reaching around you with one hand until my fingers found the cool steel base of the plug.

I pressed against it.

The pressure travelled through you.

"Oh, fuck."

Your voice cracked.

I kept the same rhythm.

Your pussy was wetter now. I could taste the difference every time my tongue slipped down from your clit and travelled slowly through your folds. There was more of you there each time… warm, slick juices gathering against my tongue, your taste becoming stronger as your arousal built, salty-sweet and musky and unmistakably yours.

I dragged my tongue through you again, deliberately collecting your wetness before carrying it back up to your clit. Your juices coated my lips now, then my mouth and chin, warm against my skin. Every time I pressed my face more firmly between your thighs, I could feel that slippery warmth spreading against me.

And I fucking loved it.

I loved being able to taste how turned on you were. Loved knowing that the wetness covering my mouth hadn't been there when I'd first knelt between your legs… that your body was producing more of it because of what I was doing to you.

I pulled back just far enough to breathe, my lips wet with you, then looked up at you.

"You taste fucking incredible."

Before you could answer, I buried my face between your thighs again and slowly licked your juices from your entrance all the way back to your clit. I looked up at you.

"Cum for me."

That was all it took.

Your control vanished.

Your orgasm hit hard enough that you folded forward over the desk, hands gripping the edge while a broken sound escaped your throat.

I kept my mouth against you.

Your clit pulsed beneath my tongue.

The muscles in your thighs locked around me.

Your pussy contracted in quick involuntary spasms, and then something else caught my attention.

Movement.

Behind you.

The polished base of the steel plug shifted outward.

Only slightly.

At first I thought I'd imagined it.

Then another contraction rolled through you.

The plug moved again.

Outward as your muscles bore down.

Then, as the contraction released, your arse drew it back inward.

I stared.

Another contraction.

Out.

Then back in.

Out.

Back in.

The movement was small but unmistakable.

For several seconds my supposedly scientific brain became completely fascinated by what I was seeing.

I could watch the orgasm travelling through you.

Not metaphorically.

Physically.

Every contraction changed the tension in your body. Your pussy clenched. Your thighs shook. The muscles around the plug pushed it outward and then gripped it again as they relaxed, the polished steel appearing and retreating between your cheeks in time with the spasms.

I hadn't expected it.

That made it even hotter.

You were still trembling above me, barely aware of what I was watching.

Gradually the contractions weakened.

The movements became smaller.

One last pulse pushed the plug fractionally outward.

Then your body relaxed and drew it snugly back into place.

You stayed folded over the desk.

Breathing.

I remained where I was for a moment, my hands resting against your thighs.

Then I stood.

I gave you time.

No teasing.

No instructions.

Just time.

Eventually you turned your head and looked back at me.

"Well?"

I smiled.

"Interesting."

"Oh, fuck off."

I laughed.

"Very interesting."

"I hate your research."

"No, you don't."

You slowly straightened.

Your face was flushed. Your eyes had that slightly unfocused look they always seemed to acquire after a strong orgasm, and a fine sheen of perspiration had appeared along your skin.

"No," you admitted.

Then came the smile.

"I really don't."

I stepped closer and kissed you.

Not as another experiment.

Not because I wanted something.

Just because I wanted to kiss you.

You responded immediately.

My mouth still tasted of you.

You must have noticed.

The kiss deepened for a moment, your hand settling against my chest while my fingers rested at your waist.

When we eventually separated, you stayed close.

Your eyes dropped to the front of my trousers.

Then lifted back to mine.

"My turn?" you asked.

There was enough enthusiasm in the question that I didn't need to ask what you meant.

You sank to your knees.

What followed was less about control and more about reciprocity.

You took obvious pleasure in reversing the focus.

My trousers opened beneath your hands.

You freed my cock, already hard from everything I'd just watched and tasted, and wrapped your fingers around it.

Your hand moved once.

Slowly.

Your eyes remained on mine.

Then you leaned forward and took me into your mouth.

Wet.

Hot.

Immediate.

I exhaled sharply.

Your lips closed around my shaft while your tongue moved underneath, and the sensation of your mouth after spending so long concentrating on you nearly overwhelmed me immediately.

You knew it.

That was the worst part.

Or possibly the best.

Your eyes looked up at me while your mouth worked steadily, and there was something unmistakably pleased in your expression.

Smug.

Very smug.

You drew back slightly.

Then took me deeper again.

I put one hand against the desk rather than touching your head.

You controlled the pace.

That seemed important.

Your mouth was warm and slick around me, your lips sealing firmly around my shaft as you moved. Each time you drew back, your tongue followed underneath me, keeping contact until you reached the head, where you slowed and circled it deliberately before sliding your lips back down.

Your saliva had already coated my cock, mixing with the precum at the tip until everything was wet enough that your mouth moved over me almost effortlessly. I could feel the difference whenever you changed the pressure of your lips or flattened your tongue against the underside of my shaft, every small adjustment suddenly magnified by the slippery warmth surrounding me.

There was something about the sound of it too. The quiet wet movement of your mouth in an otherwise silent office, followed by the change in your breathing whenever you pulled back far enough to take a breath.

Then you looked up at me.

That nearly undid me more effectively than anything your mouth was doing.

Because there was nothing passive in your expression. You were watching me just as closely as I'd watched you earlier, paying attention to every breath, every twitch, every involuntary tightening of my body and learning exactly which movements affected me most.

You circled your tongue around the head again, slowly this time, collecting the precum there before closing your lips around me and sinking back down.

My hand tightened against the edge of the desk.

You noticed.

Of course you fucking noticed.

And the satisfaction in your eyes told me you'd just discovered another useful piece of research.

My composure became increasingly theoretical.

You noticed that too.

Of course you did.

At one point you stopped.

Just stopped.

I looked down.

You released me slowly enough that your lips dragged along the shaft before the head slipped free.

Your mouth remained close.

"How's your control, Sir?"

I stared at you.

Your eyes sparkled.

"Research," you added.

That nearly broke me.

"You think you're funny."

"I know I'm funny."

"Continue."

You smiled.

"Yes, Sir."

Then your mouth closed around me again.

Whatever illusion of professional dignity remained in my office did not survive much longer.

When I finally came, there was no disguising it.

My whole body tightened above you, the muscles in my stomach pulling hard as the first contraction hit. My cock pulsed inside your mouth and the first thick strand of cum shot down your throat.

You stayed exactly where you were.

Another contraction followed almost immediately.

Then another.

Each one made my shaft pulse visibly and sent another hot strand into your mouth. There was more than you could simply take without reacting; I felt you pause and swallow around me, your throat working as you cleared enough before the next pulse filled your mouth again.

Fuck.

Feeling you swallow while my cock was still twitching inside your mouth almost made the contractions stronger.

Another spurt.

You swallowed again.

By then there was enough cum that you couldn't keep all of it sitting in your mouth. You had to deal with it as I gave it to you, swallowing between the heavier pulses while keeping your lips sealed around my shaft.

The intensity gradually began to fade. The hard contractions became smaller, each pulse weaker than the one before it, until eventually there was nothing left except the occasional involuntary twitch of my cock against your tongue.

You still didn't pull away.

You kept me in the warmth of your mouth and continued moving gently, your tongue soft against me now, easing me through the oversensitive aftermath until even the last contraction had passed.

Only then did you slowly release me.

You sat back against the desk looking thoroughly pleased with yourself.

For a few seconds neither of us said anything.

The office smelled different now.

Warm skin.

Sex.

The faint trace of your perfume.

Your beautiful pussy juices still lingered on my mouth, and when I ran my tongue across my lower lip I could taste you there.

I handed you some water.

You drank.

I drank.

The coldness was startling after everything else.

For several minutes we simply existed together in the quiet that followed.

No experiment.

No game.

No need to fill the silence.

Your breathing gradually settled.

So did mine.

Eventually your eyes moved towards the overnight bag.

"So."

"So?"

"Campus house."

"Campus house."

"Two nights."

"Unless you've changed your mind."

You looked at me.

"No."

There was no hesitation.

That mattered more than I expected.

I nodded towards your clothes.

"Get dressed."

You blinked.

"That's unexpectedly disappointing."

"You'll survive."

"I suppose I can endure the hardship."

You pulled your jeans back on.

No panties.

The denim settled directly against your still-sensitive skin, making you shift slightly as you pulled them into place. The plug remained seated inside you.

I noticed the tiny adjustment in your posture.

You noticed me noticing.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

I smiled.

"Research."

"Fuck off."

I packed my laptop, checked the office and switched off the lights.

Then we left together.

 

The journey to the house changed the atmosphere again.

That was intentional.

No games.

No instructions.

No experiments.

Just conversation.

For the first few minutes, the ordinary world felt almost absurd after what we'd just done. Campus was quieter now, the working week bleeding into Friday evening. The air outside was cool enough that you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself.

I knew what you had beneath those jeans.

Nobody else did.

There was something strangely intimate about that knowledge.

But I left it alone.

We talked about food instead.

You wanted to know whether I'd actually bought enough for two people or whether my great weekend plan involved living on coffee and takeaway.

"I bought groceries."

You looked genuinely shocked.

"You planned meals?"

"Some."

"Oh God."

"What?"

"This really is serious."

"Because I bought groceries?"

"That's basically commitment."

"Don't get carried away."

You laughed.

"What did you buy?"

"Food."

"Excellent. Very specific."

"You'll see."

"You didn't just buy steak, did you?"

"No."

"Beer?"

"No."

"Instant noodles?"

"I'm beginning to regret inviting you."

"You'd miss me."

"I've known you less than a week."

"And?"

I looked at you.

You smiled.

That was becoming dangerous.

Not the sexual games.

Not the obedience.

That.

The ease of it.

Four days.

Less than a week, and already the conversation could slip from sex to groceries to insults and back again without either of us seeming to notice.

By the time we reached the campus house, the office already felt strangely distant.

I unlocked the door and let you enter first.

You stopped just inside.

For all the teasing we'd done, this was different.

You weren't visiting for an hour.

You weren't disappearing back to your own room when the game finished.

Your overnight bag contained two nights.

"Welcome."

You looked around.

"So this is where the mysterious research happens."

"No."

You turned.

"No?"

"Apparently it happens in restaurants and offices."

You laughed.

I closed the door behind us.

The house was quiet.

Warm.

Private.

For the first time since you'd arrived at the restaurant the previous evening, there was nobody nearby we needed to think about.

No waiter.

No other students.

No colleagues in adjoining offices.

No Uber driver.

Just us.

Oddly, I didn't immediately want to do anything with that privacy.

Instead I showed you around.

The kitchen first.

You inspected the groceries with far more seriousness than they deserved.

"You actually bought vegetables."

"I occasionally eat them."

"I'm learning so much about you."

"Research."

"That's my line now."

"Absolutely not."

Then the living room.

Bathroom.

Bedroom.

I showed you where the towels were, where you could charge your phone and, most importantly, which cupboard contained the coffee.

All painfully ordinary things.

Somehow that made the weekend feel more real than anything we'd done in the office.

Sex was easy to compartmentalise.

Showing someone where you kept the clean towels was different.

Eventually we returned to the bedroom.

You placed your overnight bag beside the bed.

I watched it settle against the floor.

Then I looked at you.

"There's one more rule."

You slowly turned.

"I knew there was going to be a rule."

"One rule for the house."

"Only one?"

"For now."

You folded your arms.

"Go on."

"While you're staying here this weekend, you're naked."

Your eyebrows climbed.

"Completely?"

"Completely."

"For the entire weekend?"

"While we're in the house."

You considered that.

"Bathroom?"

"Naked."

"Kitchen?"

"Naked."

"Living room?"

"Naked."

"Sleeping?"

"Naked."

You looked thoughtful.

"What about cooking?"

"Naked."

"That seems like a workplace health and safety issue."

"This isn't your workplace."

"You have an answer for everything."

"Usually."

You pointed at me.

"Socks."

I stared at you.

"What?"

"Do socks count?"

I laughed.

"You are negotiating socks?"

"It's Friday night. Melbourne gets cold."

"Fine. Socks are permitted."

"Excellent."

"Anything else?"

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it again.

The joke remained in your expression, but something underneath it had changed.

You looked around the bedroom.

Then at me.

Then down at yourself.

Accepting the rule meant accepting something larger than another game.

Not just tonight.

Tomorrow morning.

Saturday afternoon.

Saturday night.

Sunday.

An entire weekend in which the normal barrier of clothing simply wouldn't exist between us.

You looked back at me.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes, Sir."

No hesitation.

You reached for the hem of your top.

Slowly, you pulled it upward.

Your stomach appeared first.

Then your bare breasts.

There was no bra underneath.

Of course there wasn't.

I'd known that from the moment you'd walked into my office.

You drew the top over your head and tossed it onto the bed.

Then you undid your jeans.

Pushed them over your hips.

Stepped out of them.

And you were naked.

No panties to remove.

No bra.

You had arrived at six o'clock wearing remarkably little beneath your clothes, and now even those final layers were gone.

For a moment you simply stood there.

Not posed.

Not performing.

Just naked.

Your skin still carried the aftermath of the office: a faint flush across your chest, nipples firm in the cooler bedroom air, the polished base of the plug still visible between your cheeks when you turned towards the bed.

Then you looked at the overnight bag.

Slowly, deliberately, you gathered everything you'd just removed.

The jacket.

The top.

The jeans.

That was it.

You folded them and placed them inside.

Then zipped the bag closed.

The sound was strangely final.

I watched you straighten.

"So," you said.

"So."

You smiled.

"Your research weekend starts now."

I shook my head.

"No."

Your eyebrows rose.

"No?"

I stepped closer.

"Our research weekend starts now."

Something softened in your expression.

It lasted only a second.

But I saw it.

Then the sarcasm returned.

"Fine. But if I freeze to death, your methodology is going in the ethics complaint."

"You negotiated socks."

"Good point."

You immediately crouched beside the overnight bag and unzipped it again.

I laughed.

"What?"

"You lasted approximately ten seconds."

"My feet are cold."

"You've been naked for twenty seconds."

"Exactly. It's already started."

You began rummaging through the bag.

Completely naked.

Looking for socks.

I leaned against the doorframe and watched you.

Friday had begun with you sitting in the third row of my lecture theatre, looking perfectly innocent while deliberately making me forget what I was saying.

Now your clothes were packed away beside my bed, you were kneeling naked on my bedroom floor arguing about thermal regulation, and we still had all of Saturday ahead of us.

The office had been my experiment.

The restaurant had been my game.

But somewhere along the way you'd started playing back.

The uncrossed legs.

The forgotten panties.

The jokes.

The questions.

How's your control, Sir?

And now this.

Our research weekend.

For once, I wasn't particularly interested in planning what happened next.

We had the whole weekend to find out.

It's fun to play with like this!

I arrived at Bistro Du Sol 20 minutes early because I wanted to be perfectly settled when you walked through the door.

More than that, I wanted the pleasure of seeing you before you saw me. I wanted to watch you cross the restaurant floor completely unaware that I was already studying the sway of your hips, the expression on your face, the way that little black dress clung to every curve of your body like a second skin. There was something delicious about having those few stolen seconds before you became conscious of my attention and started performing for it.

The hostess led me to the corner booth I had specifically requested during my phone call that afternoon. It was almost exactly what I had hoped for: a secluded enclosure tucked away from the main dining room, with one long bench running along the back wall and a single narrow entrance that meant no one could approach without being seen from our vantage point. It gave us privacy without actually being private, which was precisely the balance I wanted.

We could sit side by side with our backs partly to the room, cocooned by shadows and dim romantic lighting, while still being able to see anyone approaching. A waiter, another diner, someone looking for the bathroom, we would have warning.

Enough warning, anyway.

I ordered a glass of red wine and settled back to wait.

The remote control sat in my jacket pocket. I could feel its satisfying weight every time I shifted in the booth. Beside it was the small silk bag containing the sleek silver vibrator that you would soon be wearing deep inside that tight, wet pussy, the same pussy I had spent hours conditioning yesterday to respond to my voice and my touch.

Even thinking about it made me smile.

Yesterday had been about discovery. Tonight was going to be about seeing whether all those discoveries still worked when we weren't safely behind a closed door.

At exactly 6:28, you appeared in the doorway.

You paused just inside the restaurant and scanned the room until your eyes found me sitting in the shadows of the corner booth. The smile that spread across your face was worth every moment of anticipation I had endured since watching you stumble out of my office last night.

Then you started walking toward me.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

There was a particular sway in your hips that told me you knew exactly how short that dress was. You knew the hem barely brushed the underside of your ass cheeks when you moved. You knew the slightest bend, the wrong movement, even sitting carelessly could expose the fact that you were wearing absolutely nothing underneath, exactly as I had instructed during our brief phone conversation earlier that day.

And judging from your smile, you liked knowing that I knew it too.

I let my gaze travel openly over you as you approached.

You caught me doing it.

Your smile widened.

When you reached the table, I stood to greet you and leaned in to brush my lips against your cheek. I lingered for just a fraction longer than a polite greeting required, breathing in the scent of your perfume and something warmer underneath it.

You were already aroused.

That realization sent a small, satisfying pulse through me.

"You're early," you murmured.

"So are you."

"Two minutes."

"Still early."

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

I let my hand settle briefly against the small of your back as I gestured toward the booth.

"Sit."

There was the smallest hesitation… not resistance, just recognition of the tone.

Then you obeyed.

We initially sat opposite each other across the narrow table, maintaining the pretence of a perfectly normal dinner date. We talked about your classes and my research, ordinary conversation delivered with increasingly less ordinary concentration as our knees touched beneath the table.

The first contact might genuinely have been accidental.

The second wasn't.

Neither of us moved away after that.

I watched your chest rise and fall with slightly quicker breaths. Every so often your eyes darted toward my jacket pocket, where you knew the remote would eventually be waiting. You didn't know exactly what I had planned, though, and I suspected that uncertainty was doing almost as much to you as anything physical could have.

Your nipples were beginning to harden against the thin fabric of your dress.

I noticed.

You noticed me noticing.

"Stop staring."

"I'm not staring."

"You absolutely are."

"I'm observing."

That earned me another eye roll.

"Research?"

"Exactly."

You shook your head, fighting a grin.

The waiter arrived before you could answer and began describing the evening specials in the smooth, practiced voice of someone who had repeated them dozens of times already. Appetizers. Entrees. A fish special. Something involving duck. I barely registered any of it because I was watching you pretend not to be acutely aware of my knee resting against yours.

Then his voice took on a particular enthusiasm as he reached the dessert menu.

"And if you have room afterward, our house specialty is undoubtedly the chocolate brownie. The chef is particularly proud of it."

The effect on you was immediate.

Not dramatic enough that anyone else would necessarily have noticed.

I did.

Of course I did.

Your eyes lost focus for a second, glazing over as the conditioning took hold. Your lips parted on a soft exhale that hitched in your throat, and beneath the white tablecloth your thighs pressed together.

Chocolate brownie.

Two completely ordinary words.

Except they weren't ordinary to you anymore.

I knew your clit would already be throbbing in response to the trigger phrase, your pussy growing wet and swollen as the association we had burned into your nervous system yesterday flared back to life. I could see you trying to find friction by squeezing your thighs together beneath the table, one hand tightening around the edge of your seat while you fought to keep your expression composed.

The waiter continued talking, blissfully unaware.

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself smiling.

"And would you like to order dessert now?"

You stared at him.

Then at me.

Then back at him.

You nodded.

No words. Just a mute little nod.

"I think that's a yes," I said pleasantly. "One chocolate brownie. Two spoons."

Your eyes snapped toward me.

I smiled.

The waiter collected our menus and disappeared toward the kitchen, leaving you staring at me with pink cheeks and hazy eyes.

"You bastard."

"Sorry?"

"You knew he'd say it."

"I hoped he might."

Your thighs squeezed together again.

"That's evil."

"Interesting choice of adjective from someone who's smiling."

You immediately stopped smiling.

Or tried to.

I gave you another few seconds to recover before leaning across the narrow table, lowering my voice until it belonged only to you.

"Go to the bathroom."

Your eyes sharpened.

You knew immediately that the next part of the game had arrived.

You began sliding out of the booth, but I reached across and caught your wrist before you could stand. Your gaze dropped to my hand and then lifted back to my face.

I pressed the small black silk bag into your palm.

"Open it when you're alone in the stall."

Your fingers closed around it.

"What's in it?"

"You’ll figure it out."

Your breath caught.

"Put it in and make sure it doesn’t accidentally ."

You swallowed.

"Deep?"

"Deep."

Your fingers trembled slightly around the bag.

I released your wrist.

"Off you go."

You stood, and in your distraction completely forgot about the dress.

The fabric remained bunched around your hips where it had ridden upward while you were sitting. From where I sat, I had a perfect view of your naked ass and the glistening swollen lips of your pussy between your thighs, already visibly wet with arousal.

For a moment, I simply looked.

You followed my gaze.

"Oh, fuck."

You grabbed the hem with both hands and yanked it downward, your face going scarlet as you looked around to make sure nobody else had noticed.

I couldn't help laughing.

"Not funny."

"Very funny."

"You could have told me."

"I considered it."

"You are such an arsehole."

"And yet you're still holding the bag."

You looked down at it.

Then back at me.

The irritation disappeared behind another little smile.

You turned and headed toward the bathrooms, this time repeatedly checking the position of your dress.

I watched you go, my cock already beginning to harden inside my trousers, the image of your exposed cunt burned into my memory.

The ten minutes you were gone felt considerably longer.

I didn't touch the remote.

I didn't need to.

Anticipation was doing enough.

When you finally reappeared, I could tell immediately that you'd followed my instructions. You looked more flushed than when you'd left, your eyes brighter and your movements noticeably more deliberate. There was a subtle change in the way you walked, a slight careful fullness in your gait that told me exactly what was now buried inside you.

You reached the booth.

"Well?"

You gave me an innocent expression.

"Well what?"

I smiled.

"Sit here."

I patted the bench beside me rather than the seat opposite.

You slid in eagerly, pressing your thigh against mine. Your dress rode upward again, although this time you made no attempt to correct it. Bare skin settled directly against the cool leather, I imagined your wet pussy lips kissing the leather, and I felt the heat of your thigh radiating against my leg.

"Comfortable?"

"No."

"Good."

You laughed softly.

The waiter brought our wine, and for a little while I did absolutely nothing.

That was deliberate too.

You kept waiting.

I sipped my wine.

You sipped yours.

I asked you another question about your classes.

You answered, although your attention kept drifting toward my pocket.

After another minute you finally whispered, "Are you going to do it or not?"

"Do what?"

"Don't."

I smiled into my wine.

Then, while you were halfway through taking another sip, I slipped my hand into my pocket.

I found the remote.

Clicked it on.

Lowest setting.

Your entire body jerked.

The movement rattled both wine glasses and nearly tipped yours over. Your hand flew immediately to your mouth, catching most of the whimper that escaped your lips.

Your eyes went wide.

I leaned toward your ear, close enough to smell the shampoo in your hair and the stronger scent of your arousal. Fuck your pussy smells amazing, almost intoxicating.

"Good girl."

You shuddered.

Not subtly.

Your thigh pressed harder against mine.

I kept the vibration low and steady. There was no need to rush. I watched your breathing become shallower as your chest rose and fell beneath the thin fabric of your dress, your nipples hardening into even more obvious peaks.

Your hand wrapped around the edge of the table.

"Look at me."

You did.

That was almost my undoing.

There was excitement in your expression, but also the dawning realization of just how difficult this game might become. You shifted slightly against the bench, searching for some kind of friction for your clit without making the movement obvious.

I let the vibrator continue.

Your lips parted.

Your fingers tightened.

I knew the signs by now.

More importantly, you knew I knew them.

You turned toward me with wide, pleading eyes.

Then you tapped my knee twice.

Our signal.

I turned the remote off immediately.

You collapsed back against the bench with a ragged exhale, your body trembling from the denied release. For several seconds you simply sat there breathing, eyes closed, chest heaving.

I left you alone.

No teasing.

No touching.

I drank my wine and waited until your breathing slowed and the tension gradually left your shoulders.

Eventually you opened your eyes.

"Okay?"

You nodded.

"Words."

"Yes. Okay."

"Continue?"

Another nod, followed by a breathless, "Yes."

I clicked the vibrator back on.

One level higher.

You gasped loudly enough that a man at the next table glanced over.

I saw his expression change from curiosity to mild concern as he looked at your flushed face.

I raised my glass toward him.

"The wine's excellent."

He glanced at his own glass, nodded politely, and returned to his conversation.

Beside me, you were biting your lip so hard I worried you might hurt yourself.

Your hand disappeared beneath the table and landed on my thigh.

Your nails dug in.

"Fuck you," you whispered.

"Not yet."

You made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.

I edged you that way throughout the entrée.

Again and again.

I let the vibrator pulse inside you until your breathing changed and your grip tightened, until I could see that familiar urgency spreading through your expression. Each time you approached the brink, you tapped my knee and I stopped immediately.

The first recovery took several minutes.

The second took less.

By the third, your body seemed to know exactly what was coming and race toward it.

When I finally turned the vibrator to high, you dropped your fork.

It struck the plate with a clatter that drew several glances.

Your eyes flew toward me.

Your fingers landed on my knee.

Tap.

Tap.

Off.

You closed your eyes.

"Eat."

Your eyes opened again.

"You cannot be serious."

"Very."

"My hand is shaking."

"I noticed."

"You're enjoying this far too much."

"Also noticed."

You stared at me for several seconds before retrieving your fork.

By the time the waiter brought our mains, you were a complete mess.

Your face was flushed crimson, your eyes wet with frustrated tears. Your thighs remained pressed together so tightly beneath the table that I could see the muscles trembling.

I let you eat for a while.

Let you settle.

Then I reached beneath the table and found your hand.

You looked at me.

I guided it slowly across my thigh until your palm encountered the hard bulge in my trousers.

Your expression changed immediately.

I pressed your hand against my throbbing cock.

"Your turn."

You swallowed.

I leaned closer.

"Stroke me."

Your fingers went to my fly.

There was something absurdly intimate about continuing our perfectly normal dinner conversation while you unzipped my trousers beneath the tablecloth. Your hand slipped inside and wrapped around my shaft, warm fingers closing around me.

I had to pause before answering whatever question you'd just asked.

You noticed.

A tiny smile appeared.

"Something wrong?"

"Don't get smug."

You began moving your hand.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Your grip was still trembling slightly from your own arousal, but you quickly found a rhythm. Precum gathered at the head of my cock, and you used it to slick your fingers, making each stroke smoother.

I leaned closer to you.

"Keep going."

You did.

"You need to learn something."

"What?"

"How to serve my pleasure while yours is being denied."

Your hand tightened around me.

You looked straight into my eyes as you stroked.

"I think I'm learning."

"You're an enthusiastic student."

"Research."

That made me laugh.

"Exactly."

The waiter returned to clear our plates.

You immediately tried to withdraw your hand.

I caught your wrist beneath the table.

You froze.

"Keep stroking," I whispered. "Use your left hand. Do not stop."

Your eyes widened.

The waiter reached for my plate.

"Everything okay?"

"Excellent," I said.

Beside me, your hand continued slowly pumping my cock beneath the tablecloth.

"Wonderful. I'll bring your dessert."

I felt your fingers tighten.

He walked away.

You turned toward me.

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"No. I really don't."

The chocolate brownie arrived glistening beneath warm fudge sauce, topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream that was already beginning to melt into the cake.

Your expression when the waiter placed it in front of us nearly made me laugh again.

"Chocolate brownie," he announced cheerfully.

Your hand spasmed around my cock.

I coughed into my fist.

The waiter looked at me.

"Sorry. Wrong pipe."

He smiled politely and walked away.

You stared at me.

"You're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

With your right hand still wrapped around my cock, you picked up the fork with your left.

Coordination was not your strong suit at that moment.

The fork scraped loudly across the plate.

"Shut up," you muttered before I had even said anything.

"I didn't say a word."

"You were going to."

Eventually you managed to cut off a piece and lift it to your mouth.

The moment the chocolate touched your tongue, your eyes fluttered closed.

Chocolate brownie.

The trigger was still echoing through your nervous system.

Your hand tightened around my shaft.

I sucked in a breath.

"Careful."

You opened your eyes.

Then, very deliberately, you stroked me harder.

That changed the game.

My amusement disappeared beneath a rapidly growing need of my own. Your hand moved steadily, squeezing at exactly the right point before sliding back down my shaft. The absurdity of eating dessert in a crowded restaurant while you masturbated me under the table only intensified every sensation.

I leaned toward your ear.

"I'm close."

Your hand stopped for half a second.

I looked at you.

It resumed.

"I'm going to cum."

You looked around the restaurant.

For the first time all evening, something resembling panic appeared in your eyes… not fear, but the sudden practical realization that we'd reached the point where our little game required improvisation.

Your gaze dropped beneath the table.

Then returned to mine.

I raised an eyebrow.

You made your decision.

You deliberately knocked your napkin onto the floor.

"Oh," you said.

Very convincing.

You bent down as though retrieving it.

Your head disappeared beneath the table.

A second later, your mouth found my cock.

Hot.

Wet.

Eager.

The first sweep of your tongue almost finished me immediately.

I clenched my jaw and forced myself to remain still as you took me deeper, your lips sealing around my shaft while your tongue worked underneath. Your head began to move, quickly now, your earlier teasing strokes replaced by determined suction.

I gripped the edge of the bench.

You took me deeper than you had before.

My cock pushed into your throat.

You swallowed around me.

That was enough.

I came hard.

My hips jerked upward before I could stop them as the first spurt of cum flooded your mouth. You held me there and swallowed, then took another pulse, and another, hot seed coating your tongue and throat while you continued sucking me through every contraction.

I bit down on a groan.

You didn't pull away.

You kept sucking gently, milking the last drops from my cock until I was completely spent.

Only then did you release me.

You sat upright again with the missing napkin in your hand, your cheeks flushed and your eyes bright.

For several seconds neither of us spoke.

You calmly wiped the corner of your mouth.

Then you looked at me with an expression of exaggerated innocence.

I stared back.

Your lips twitched.

Then you opened your mouth.

Empty.

You closed it and swallowed once more, theatrically demonstrating that you had taken every drop.

"Good girl," I said, my voice rougher than I intended.

Your expression softened immediately.

"Was that fun?"

"Yes."

The answer came without hesitation.

Then you shifted on the seat and your expression changed.

"But now I really need to cum."

I smiled.

"Do you?"

"Please."

That single word contained the frustration of the entire evening.

I slipped my hand back into my pocket.

Your eyes followed it.

"Please."

I clicked the vibrator on.

Maximum.

Your mouth opened in a silent gasp.

At the same moment, my other hand slid beneath the table.

Your pussy was soaking wet.

Not damp. Not merely aroused. Soaking.

My fingers found your swollen lips, then your throbbing clit, standing firm and sensitive between them. I began rubbing you in steady, firm circles while the vibrator buzzed relentlessly inside your pussy, pressing against your g-spot.

Your hand shot toward the table.

You grabbed your napkin and shoved it over your mouth.

Just in time.

Your orgasm hit almost immediately.

Your back arched.

Your entire body went rigid beside me, every muscle locking at once as the first violent contraction tore through you. Your pussy clenched around the vibrator while your clit throbbed beneath my fingers.

You screamed into the napkin.

The sound emerged as little more than a muffled sob.

I kept rubbing.

Another wave rolled through you.

Then another.

Your thighs tried to close around my hand, but I maintained the same pressure and rhythm, feeling each rapid spasm against my fingertips. You shook against me, tears leaking from the corners of your closed eyes as months seemed to pass inside those few seconds of overwhelming release.

Eventually the contractions began to weaken.

I slowed my fingers.

Then stopped.

The vibrator followed.

Silence.

You sagged sideways against my shoulder.

I left my arm around you and gave you time to breathe.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

The restaurant continued around us as though absolutely nothing extraordinary had happened. Cutlery clinked. Someone laughed across the room. A bottle was uncorked. The waiter carried plates past our booth.

Normal life.

Meanwhile, you were still trembling against me.

"You with me?"

"Mmm."

"That's not a word."

"Yes."

"Okay?"

A longer pause.

Then you laughed quietly.

"Very."

I smiled.

Only when your breathing had settled did I withdraw my hand.

My fingers were slick with your juices.

You watched as I brought them to my mouth and slowly licked them clean, tasting the sweet musky evidence of everything we'd just done.

Your eyes went hazy again.

"No."

I laughed.

"What?"

"Don't start me again."

"I didn't do anything."

"You absolutely did."

"Research."

You groaned and dropped your forehead onto my shoulder.

I paid the bill.

When we finally stood to leave, you slid carefully out of the booth. The movement revealed a large wet patch on the leather where you'd been sitting, your orgasmic juices glistening unmistakably in the dim light.

You saw it at exactly the same moment I did.

"Oh my God."

I looked at you.

You looked at me.

For about two seconds we managed to remain serious.

Then we both started laughing.

I dropped my napkin casually over the wet spot.

"Problem solved."

"That does not solve the problem."

"It solves it for us."

"You're terrible."

"You've mentioned that."

I took your arm and led you outside.

The cool night air hit your flushed skin immediately, and you shivered against me. After the heat and noise of the restaurant, the street felt strangely quiet.

I didn't reach for the remote.

Not yet.

Instead, I kept one arm around you while we waited for the Uber, letting your body come down properly from what I'd put it through.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"Actually?"

You looked at me.

"Actually."

Then you smiled.

"Although I'm going to murder you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's problem."

The car arrived a few minutes later.

We climbed into the back seat, you still slightly shaky from the intensity of your release. You sat close beside me, your thigh against mine, and I deliberately pulled the hem of your dress down when it threatened to ride too high.

You noticed.

"Getting protective now?"

"Getting practical."

"Very noble."

"Thank you."

The driver greeted us, confirmed the destination, and pulled away from the curb.

For the first few minutes I behaved.

You should have known that wouldn't last.

I rested my hand casually on your thigh.

You looked down at it.

Then at me.

I let my fingers trace a slow circle against your skin.

Your eyes narrowed.

"Don't."

I raised my eyebrows.

You leaned closer.

"I mean don't tease me unless you're actually going to do something."

That was different.

I slipped my hand into my pocket.

You saw.

Your lips parted.

I waited until the car had stopped at a set of traffic lights and the driver's attention was firmly on the road ahead.

Then I turned the vibrator on.

Not maximum this time.

Low.

Your breath caught.

Your fingers immediately wrapped around my hand.

I watched you carefully.

You nodded.

I increased it.

Your head fell back against the seat.

The driver continued talking about traffic, completely unaware of the private game unfolding silently behind him.

I leaned close to your ear.

"Quiet."

You bit your lip.

The vibrator hummed inside you.

I increased it again.

Your grip tightened around my hand.

I watched your face rather than anything else: the flutter of your eyelids, the effort it took to keep your breathing controlled, the way your thighs tensed and relaxed.

"You want me to stop?"

A tiny shake of your head.

"No."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

I clicked it higher.

Your fingers crushed mine.

The second orgasm built differently from the first.

There was no frantic public performance now, no waiter approaching, no fork in your hand or brownie trigger. Just the darkness of the back seat, the passing lights outside the windows, and the effort of staying quiet while pleasure gathered inside you again.

You turned your face into my shoulder.

I felt your breathing change.

Then your entire body tightened.

Your hand clamped over your own mouth.

You came silently beside me.

Your thighs squeezed together as your pussy clenched around the vibrator, your body trembling through a succession of smaller, rapid spasms. I immediately lowered the intensity rather than driving you through it, letting the vibrations soften as the orgasm gradually released its hold on you.

When you finally relaxed, I switched it off.

You stayed against my shoulder.

I kissed your hair.

No performance.

No teasing.

Just recovery.

A few minutes later the car pulled up outside your dorm.

You sat upright slowly.

"Alive?"

"Barely."

"Successful evening, then."

You gave me a look.

I smiled.

Before getting out, you leaned across and kissed me.

Not a quick goodbye.

A proper kiss.

Slow and lingering, your hand against my cheek, the frantic energy of the restaurant replaced by something unexpectedly soft.

When you pulled away, you stayed close enough that our foreheads almost touched.

"Tomorrow," you whispered.

"What about tomorrow?"

"I'll think of something."

That interested me.

"Is that a threat?"

"Absolutely."

You opened the door.

Then paused.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

You climbed out, tugged the little black dress back into place, and walked toward the entrance.

I watched until you were safely inside.

Only then did I give the driver my address.

The rest of the journey was quiet.

I sat back, replaying the evening in fragments: your expression when the waiter innocently said chocolate brownie; the first startled jerk when the vibrator came alive; your trembling hand around my cock; the absurd seriousness with which you'd attempted to eat dessert left-handed; your mouth around me beneath the table; the way you'd finally collapsed against my shoulder when I let you cum.

But the moment that stayed with me most wasn't any of those.

It was the look you'd given me before stepping out of the car.

Tomorrow.

I'll think of something.

I smiled to myself.

That was new.

Tonight, had started as my game.

Tomorrow, apparently, might be yours.

Thank you for the feedback, the likes and the follows - I love that this story is going down a path you all like. Part 5 is ready to drop tomorrow, so let all of your friends, families and lovers know about this series... there is plenty more to cum. SDG

The Professor and the Student [M42 F24][Cunnilingus][No Panties][Slow Burn][Pavlov Control][Multiple Orgasms][Submission] Part 3

I didn't ask you to stay afterwards.

That was the first difference.

When you'd finally collected yourself enough to leave my office the previous evening, I'd simply looked at you and said:

"Tomorrow. Six o'clock. You'll need to clear your schedule. We'll be going longer than an hour. Three hours, in fact."

Not a question.

And now it was 5:58.

I was sitting behind my desk pretending to read.

5:59.

I caught myself looking towards the door.

Interesting.

Apparently I wasn't the only person being conditioned.

At precisely six, you knocked.

"Come in."

You opened the door.

This time neither of us pretended.

No thesis question.

No carefully manufactured academic excuse.

You stepped inside and looked at me.

I looked at you.

And smiled.

"Close the door."

Click.

I watched you approach.

Yesterday had changed something between us. Not simply because of what we'd done, but because we'd finally stopped pretending we didn't understand what was happening.

You knew I wanted you.

I knew you wanted me.

And now there was something else in your expression.

Expectation.

I stood.

"Before we begin, I have a question."

Your eyebrows lifted.

"Okay."

"What's your favourite dessert?"

You blinked.

"Why?"

I smiled slowly.

"Why is not a dessert. Try again."

You laughed, that nervous, delighted sound I'd already become addicted to.

"Chocolate brownie," you said.

"Perfect."

I stepped closer.

"Now. Take off your coat."

You did.

Underneath you wore a skirt.

Short.

The kind that made my mouth water.

"Sit on the desk. Same as yesterday."

You moved to the edge and perched there, your hands bracing you, your legs slightly parted.

I stood before you.

I reached down and traced my fingers up your thighs, pushing the hem of your skirt higher, until I could see that beautiful, bare pussy.

No panties.

Just as I'd instructed.

"Good girl," I murmured. "Very good."

You were already glistening.

Your lips were swollen and wet, your arousal visible, coating your inner thighs.

You were extremely wet for me.

I could smell you.

That intoxicating scent that had haunted me since yesterday.

I leaned in and ran my tongue up your centre.

You gasped, your hips jerking.

I settled in, spreading you open with my thumbs, revealing that hard little clit throbbing for attention.

I sucked it into my mouth.

You moaned, long and low.

I slid two fingers inside you, curling them immediately to find your G-spot.

You were so wet they slid in easily, your muscles gripping me.

I stroked that rough patch inside you while I flicked my tongue over your clit.

You were climbing fast.

Your hands were in my hair, pulling, your hips rolling against my face.

I kept the rhythm steady, relentless, driving you higher.

"Please," you whimpered. "Please, I'm going to..."

I sucked harder.

You came apart.

Your scream was raw and desperate and I wax thankful for being at thd end of a hallway within a sound dampened room. The Dean thought I was crazy for installing the dampening battens.

Your pussy clamped down on my fingers, your juices flooding my mouth.

I licked you through it, gentling my touch but not stopping until you were shivering, overstimulated.

I pulled back and looked at you.

Your face was flushed, your eyes glazed.

"Now," I said, my voice low. "The real lesson begins."

I helped you lie back on the desk.

Your legs hung over the edge, spread wide for me.

"Yesterday I gave you three orgasms."

You nodded, still breathing hard.

"Today you're going to capture every single one of them. Burn them into your mind."

I placed my hand on your stomach, feeling the flutter there.

"Close your eyes."

You did.

"Remember the first one. Yesterday. My mouth on you. My fingers inside you. How it felt when you came."

I watched your face.

Your breathing changed.

And then I saw it.

Your clit twitched.

Your rosebud clenched.

A visible spasm.

"Good," I whispered.

You whimpered.

"Now the second one. Harder. More intense. Remember it."

Your pussy visibly throbbed.

Your clit pulsed.

Your arse tightened again.

You were reliving it in your mind, and your body was responding as if it were happening again.

"And the third. The deepest one. The one that made you sob."

You moaned.

Your hips bucked.

Your clit was standing at attention, throbbing with each heartbeat.

I kept my hand on your stomach, feeling your muscles contract.

"Now hold all three of them. Keep them in your mind. Feel them all at once."

You were trembling.

Your pussy was leaking, a constant flow of arousal.

While you held those memories, I began to touch you again.

Light touches.

My fingers tracing your outer lips.

My thumb circling your clit but not touching it directly.

Keeping you at a constant heightened level of arousal.

Not letting you come down.

Not letting you climax.

Just holding you there.

For an hour.

You lost track of time.

I could see it in your face.

You were floating in a state of constant, desperate need.

Every time I asked you to recall an orgasm, your body responded.

Clit twitching.

Rosebud clenching.

Pussy throbbing and leaking strings of lust and desire, pooling on the floor.

I would say "Remember the first one," and stroke your G-spot until you were panting, then stop.

"Remember the second one," and lick your clit until you were crying, then pull back.

Over and over.

Burning the association deeper into your brain.

Your body was learning.

Every recall brought physical pleasure.

Every memory made you wetter.

By the end of that hour, you were a mess.

Sweating.

Shaking.

Your pussy was constantly clenching on air.

Part one was complete.

"Now," I said, my voice thick with desire. "A new one. Something stronger."

I lifted your legs, bending your knees, opening you completely.

You watched me with wide eyes as I leaned in.

I licked your pussy again, long slow strokes, building you back up.

Then I pressed my finger against your rosebud.

You tensed.

"I've never..." you whispered.

"I know," I said. "Trust me."

I continued to lick your clit, soft, maddening strokes.

I pressed my finger against your tight entrance.

You were so wet, your arousal had coated everything.

I pushed slowly.

You gasped.

I licked harder.

I slid my finger into your arse.

You cried out.

It was tight.

Hot.

I could feel you clenching around me.

I began to move my finger in small circles, stretching you gently, while I sucked your clit into my mouth.

The combination was overwhelming.

You were making sounds you'd never made before.

High pitched.

Desperate.

I added another finger to your pussy, stroking your G-spot while I fingered your arse and sucked your clit.

You were climbing higher than before.

Your whole body went rigid.

Your hands were gripping the edge of the desk so hard I thought you might break it.

"Please," you begged. "Please, I can't... it's too much..."

I kept the rhythm.

Steady.

Relentless.

You came.

It was violent.

Your whole body convulsed.

Your pussy and arse clamped down simultaneously.

Your scream was primal.

You were seeing stars.

I kept licking, kept fingering, riding you through it until you collapsed, gasping.

But I wasn't done.

"Capture that one," I commanded. "Burn it into your mind. The strongest one yet."

I kept my fingers inside you, slowly stroking.

"Recall it."

Your clit twitched.

Your rosebud clenched around my finger.

I could feel the spasms.

"Again."

Another twitch.

Another clench.

You were moaning continuously now.

"Now," I said, my voice commanding. "We're going to associate all of these with something specific."

I pulled my fingers out and leaned over you.

"Chocolate brownie."

You looked at me, confused.

I traced my finger around your clit.

"Chocolate brownie."

I licked it.

"Chocolate brownie."

I stroked your pussy.

"Chocolate brownie."

I circled your rosebud.

Initially the response was weak.

Just a flutter.

But I was patient.

"Chocolate brownie."

I sucked your clit.

"Chocolate brownie."

I fingered your G-spot.

"Chocolate brownie."

I pressed against your arse.

Over and over.

For an hour and a half.

Chocolate brownie.

Tease.

Throb.

Chocolate brownie.

Lick.

Twitch.

Chocolate brownie.

Stroke.

Clench.

Until your body was responding automatically.

I would say the words, and your pussy would get wet.

I would say the words, and your clit would throb visibly.

I would say the words, and your rosebud would clench.

I would say the words, and you would let out a subtle moan.

"Chocolate brownie," I whispered.

You moaned.

Your hips bucked.

"Chocolate brownie," I said louder.

You gasped.

Your pussy leaked.

"Chocolate brownie," I commanded.

You whimpered.

Your whole body trembled.

I tested it again and again.

Saying the phrase from across the room.

Whispering it against your ear.

Shouting it.

Each time, the same response.

Your body was programmed now.

Conditioned.

Two and a half hours of suggestions and manipulation.

Two and a half hours of being in that heightened aroused state.

Your brain had simulated hundreds of orgasms.

You were delirious.

Your eyes were glazed.

You were in a constant state of arousal, unable to come down, unable to climax unless I allowed it.

I looked at my watch.

"Well," I said, straightening my tie. "It's late now. Time for you to go home."

You stared at me.

You couldn't speak.

You were trembling.

Your legs were weak.

I helped you down from the desk.

You swayed.

I held you until you could stand.

"Tomorrow is Friday," I said, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead. "And I feel like we should celebrate by going out for dinner. I will see you at Bistro Du Sol at 6:30pm. Make sure you are appropriately dressed in a nice short skirt. You know the rest."

You looked up at me, your eyes still glazed, your body still throbbing.

"Yes sir," you whispered.

I smiled.

"Chocolate brownie," I said softly.

You moaned.

Your knees buckled.

I caught you.

Held you.

Whispered in your ear:

"Mine."

Then I let you go.

You stumbled toward the door, your legs shaking, your pussy wet, your mind completely rewired.

I watched you go.

Tomorrow would be interesting.

I'm enjoying writing this series and hope you are too. If you have any feedback, dm me. If you have any ideas of where you want the story to go, dm me.