I fuck her with my fingers, wringing pleasure from her whether she wants it or not. Her voice cracks, a moan muffled by the desk. When she comes, she slumps forward.
I withdraw, slow, and lick them clean. She tastes so fucking perfect, and the longer it sits in my mouth, the harder it becomes not to destroy her in the worst way possible. The bourbon glass is still full, and I empty it in a single swallow.
Go easy, she’s still fragile.
She’s still bent over, hair a mess, skirt bunched at her waist. My cock is so hard, I can hardly think about anything except sliding it inside that perfect pussy.
Unzipping my pants, I pull it out, her body twists and her eyes grow wide as she stares at me.
“What? No! No! Not here!”
“Yes. Here.” Stepping forward, I push her back down and kick her feet open so I can see that pretty pussy dripping for me.
Her ass is so fucking perfect, bare and desperate for it. I smack it and watch it jiggle, precum beading at the tip, the head of my cock swollen and throbbing. In one smooth thrust, I push inside her, past the reluctant clench, past the dignified outrage, and into the truth of what she is. She yelps, both pain and surprise, and for a moment I think she’ll fight me, but she doesn’t. She takes it, every inch, her hands clawing the polished edge of the desk, her knees buckling as I rock my hips and fill her.
Fuuuuuck, she’s tight. She’s so warm, so ready to come again, I nearly lose it right there. I grab her hair and pull tight so she has to arch for me, the tendons of her neck straining, her breathingshattered. I pound into her, raw and ruthless, letting the rhythm of her whimpers guide me. Each sound is a confession, each ragged breath a surrender.
“This is your real legacy,” I grunt. “Your body bending to my will. This is what you were born for.”
She shakes her head, but her pussy clenches around me hard, milking me as I slam her. Each thrust drives the edge of the desk into her hips, and I can’t wait admire the red line that’s surely blooming against her skin. I reach around and finger her clit, rubbing circles, faster and faster until her whole body goes taut and she comes again, sobbing my name.
I don’t stop. I fuck her through the high and into the next set of spasms, my orgasm starts as a slow, molten crawl through my gut. My balls tighten and there’s black at the edges of my vision. I can barely believe how much I want to ruin her. To fuck her until every memory of her father's approval or the Board's scorn is overwritten by the sound of my name ricocheting off her ribs.
She chokes out a broken command—"Julian, please—" but the rest is lost as I slam into her again, so deep I'm sure she can feel me in her throat. I grind my finger into her clit and her whole body locks up, a single rigid arc, then collapses. The pulse of her cunt around my cock triggers the inevitable, and I empty myself inside her, holding her in place while I fill her until she’s so full with me she won’t be able to forget it for days.
I don’t let go of her hair, not even when her knees start to buckle. Instead, I pull her upright, keeping myself buried inside her as I lean in to speak directly into her ear.
“That’s what it feels like to belong. Do you remember now?”
She doesn’t answer. Her chest is heavy, her cheeks streaked with silent tears. She’s shaking, but she isn’t shrinking away. She’s not even trying to push me out, not really.
I slide my hand from her throat to her breast, and squeeze until I know it will leave a mark. Then I pull out, savoring the little gasp she makes as my cock slips free. Our cum runs down the inside of her thigh, splashing onto the floor.
Doing up my pants and fixing my shirt, I adjust my cuffs before giving her ass a little smack again.
“Now do you understand?” I ask, soft.
She lifts her head, eyes glassy. “I hate you,” she says.
I smile. “I can live with that.”
Turning her and sitting her on her fathers desk, I reach out, slow, and touch her cheek. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she leans into the contact, as if her body hasn’t caught up with her mind.
“I told you before,” I say, “you’re not here as a daughter. Or even as a student.”
She doesn’t reply.
I tip her chin up, forcing her to look at me. “As much as I am going to claim you in a week, formally, you were made for so much more. You were meant to be the fire that burns this place to the fucking ground.”
She blinks, and for a moment I see it—the recognition, the flicker of something primal.
I let her go, then step back, straightening my cuffs and smoothing my shirt. She sits on the desk, skirt bunched around her hips, hair tangled and wild. She doesn’t try to fix it. She doesn’t try to fix anything.
I savor the image. The ruined legacy, the perfect daughter, reduced to a thing of want and war.
It’s beautiful.
I turn to leave, but at the door I pause, hand on the handle.
