What happens if I get the answer wrong? Does this stop? Or does it keep going? Which is better or worse? Either way, this is torture. I want to come, but not like this, although the closer he gets to his orgasm, the more I realize it doesn’t matter as long as I can havehiscum.
“To me?” I repeat, almost trancelike, attention focused solely on Brody’s hand and how close I know he is. I know it because I feel it. My hips grind harder and faster with each stroke, building and building in tandem. I’m right on the edge.
“Yes, you. If you’re the shareholder in this scenario, and I am the company, what do you stand to gain or lose?”
“Mmmph. I don’t know… I, um… Fuck.”
I can’t fucking think. I barely understand the question. I’m burning up from the mortification of being so close to blowing my load in my pants while rubbing myself off on his foot, from the heat and tension in the room, from the sound of his voice, from my impending orgasm and the promise of his.
“No contract was made, Becky. No agreements on what your payout was going to be or who would get what in this exchange.”
My eyes widen and flick up to meet his. Still pumping himself with one hand, he reaches out and grips the back of my head with his other. The pain of his fingers gripping my hair so tightly makes my eyes roll back, and I gasp into his mouth, his face suddenly in mine dizzyingly fast.
“I’ll tell you what we’re both going to get out of it,” he growls. “I’m going to give you my cum, but I’m holding something back to use for future earnings.”
“What’s that?” I breathe heavily.
“I’m going to walk away with the memory of you coming all over yourself from humping my cheap knockoff sneaker.”
I want to argue that it’s not going to happen. To push him back and scream at him that he’s wrong. That I would never allow myself to be debased in such a way.
But there’s no point.
When the first rope of Brody’s cum hits my cheek, I bow as if cramping up. My mouth falls open, more cum painting my lips and tongue. My hips don’t stop grinding, frantically gyrating against Brody’s shoe as I ride out my own orgasm, spilling inside my pants. I cry out pathetically, loving the hot splash of Brody marking me, losing myself in the ecstasy of the pleasureripping through my body, and slumping over his knee when I’m completely spent.
Brody leans back in the chair, chest heaving. His softening cock lays against his thigh, a drop of cum still leaking from the slit. I eye it and move forward, flicking my tongue out to lap up the salty drop before sucking him into my mouth. For a second, I don’t do more than suckle him, wishing he’d wake up and fill my mouth and throat, but he’s too spent.
After a few minutes, Brody shifts to sit up and removes his hoodie and t-shirt. He wipes my face with it first, then gestures at my lap. I take the shirt, unbuttoning my pants and pushing the soft, worn fabric into the front of my pants when Brody’s eyes are covered by pulling his hoodie back over his head.
I clean up the worst of the mess as best as I can, but there’s nothing I can do about the dark wet stain that’s soaked through the khaki fabric. These were the absolute worst pants for this to happen in. I check the clock. Fortunately, I have time to run back to the dorm and change if I skip lunch.
Brody offers to walk with me, but I decline. I need some space. Every time I try to force space between us, I only end up in this type of situation. So I try using my words this time.
“Thanks for the, um… study session. But I need to do this in a way that’s less distracting. This final is really important.”
Brody reaches for his now soiled t-shirt, rolls it up, and shoves it in his hoodie pocket.
“Alright,” he agrees. “But no more avoiding me. You can’t run from this, Beck.”
“Run from what?” I ask, busying myself with packing my backpack.
Brody stops me with a hand on my chin, directing my face toward his.
“My future profitability,” he murmurs, before kissing me so deeply I lose track of what I’m doing.
By the end of the week, my nerves are fried. Between purposefully not avoiding Brody and questioning the space he’s giving me, and knocking out my finals one by one, I’m basically sagging with relief that it’s over. I might as well be a limp, wet noodle by the time I walk out of my last exam. I’m relieved, exhausted, and feeling strong about my Corporate Finance final. There were some questions about shareholder dividends that made me feel strangely confident. And, yeah, maybe a little aroused.
The moment I step out of the business building and switch my phone back on, it buzzes. When I seeDadon the screen, my stomach drops.
I haven’t spoken to him since the quad meet. Before the quad meet, to be more specific. He didn’t even call to berate me on my performance, or to question what Gregg Thompson had loudly implied to the entire gym or to tell me that a win by disqualification doesn’t count.
I stare at the phone long enough that it stops ringing but it picks right back up again. There’s no point in not answering, he’ll justcall Coach McCoy or the dean or hell, take his private helicopter and come here himself.
The moment I click accept, he starts in on his usual bullshit. He doesn’t say hello, or ask me how I am. He doesn’t even ask why I missed his annual Thanksgiving dinner party. He launches straight into grilling me about my finals, reminding me that exams at this level separate the serious students from future failures.
He doesn’t pause for breath between letting me know his expectations for my grades before moving on to questioning me about our next dual.
Like he didn’t walk out of the last match without saying a word. Like he didn’t leave me standing there, watching after him, humiliated in front of my entire team. A team that he has stressed time and time again the importance of maintaining respect as a leader.
