I haven’t felt it in so long.
“I love your taste, Mr. Ellis,”she rasps, swirling her tongue around my pulsing shaft before shoving herself deeper onto my cock. Her throat convulses around my size, contracting tightly before relaxing and swallowing me farther.
“I want you to come. Please, Mr. Ellis, come on my tongue,”she whispers, giving me the slightest hint of teeth.
Suddenly, my balls draw up into me, and the hammering that started in my lower back becomes an explosion of rapturous agony as my orgasm rips me in half.
My eyes shoot open, and I gape in horror at the streams of come soiling the floor.
How could I do that?! I’m fucking sick!I berate myself, furiously drawing up my slacks from around my hips as I use the dry-erase cloth to clean up my mess.
I’m ready to leave, skip the rest of the day, and hole myself away to think of the mental crime I just committed.
But then I realize it wasn’t real.
I didn’t fuck her mouth.
I didn’t come on that pretty, pretty face.
None of it happened.
It’s a relief.
Then why do I feel so fucking disappointed?
Scarlett Dane
CHAPTER VII
As the students rush to leave, I wait beside the history room door. Then, with my hand clenched over my thumping heart, I tell myself to breathe, to reign in the excitement, and hold control over the expanding pressure in my pelvis.
Running my fingers through my roots, I slip around the door, shutting out the noise as I close it softly.
Setting my art supplies on an empty desk, I step farther into the room and look for Mr. Ellis behind his computer. He isn’t there. Disappointment bubbles in my lower belly, bringing nausea to the forefront of my mind.
Maybe something came up…
Perhaps he changed his mind.
Shaking away those depressing feelings, I wander to the center of the room, walking over a wet spot on the floor to stop in front of the whiteboard.
Blue, red, yellow, orange, and green are the colors that lie in a row on the metal railing. They call my name, begging to be used for something other than dates and timelines.
I might as well do something while I wait. Hopefully, Mr. Ellis won’t mind a little art to liven up the historical posters.
Picking up the orange first, I let the shapes draw themselves out. The muscles in my fingers work on their own. I barely have to think before the next image ends up on the board.
My fingers are dirty with muddled colors from my effort to blend the dry-erase markers. It doesn’t work the way I’d like, but everything is somewhat beautiful in the end.
“Wow. That’s incredible.”
I was so immersed in my drawing that I didn’t hear the door open. His throaty rumble lifts the hairs on the back of my neck. The shivers that crawl down my spine aren’t ones of nervousness or apprehension, but a soul-blistering exhilaration, a readiness for something unknown.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, keeping my stare forward, studying the field of blooming flowers and foliage. I add a few more touches to bring a little more vitality before swiveling around.
Mr. Ellis stands less than a foot away from me, eyes roving over the board I’ve taken over with my art.
“What is it?” he asks, enthralled by its wild, chaotic beauty.
