Page 47 of Fundamentals of Being a Good Girl
“You were right,” I reply, and I allow myself the satisfaction of cupping her between the legs. God, she’s so hot there, hot and soft, a place made for me to play around in. She squirms back against me with a moan, searching for friction, which I don’t give. Instead, I turn and carefully yet unyieldingly push her back onto my desk (after moving her laptop, of course, I’m notthatreckless). She’s lying along the length of it, some papers for who-gives-a-fuck-what underneath her, and her legs are dangling off the edge. “I want to be good, but I can’t when I’m around a bratty little thing like you.”
Her chest lifts with a surprised inhale; I’m already pushing her shirt up to reveal the softness of her stomach, her deep navel, her stiff nipples.
“You’re a good student, Ms. Kowalczk, or you can be when you apply yourself. Tell me: What should I do about this? About this woman living in my house who gets wet for me? Who says I can have her cunt and no one has to know?”
“Oh god,” she moans, hips shifting on the desk. “You should—you should do whatever you want with her.”
“You think so?”
She nods on the desk, hard enough to send some papers sliding off the edge, and her hands go to her tits, to her stomach and then push down, like it’s agony not to touch herself right now.
I stop her. “I don’t think so, Madelyn. I think it’s very bad of you to touch yourself when you know very well I’m first in line to play with your pussy.”
“What—what are you going to do?”
I exchange the dry erase marker for a Sharpie and pull off the cap. “I’m going to mark all the parts of you that I have plans for. I won’t mark anywhere that’ll be in public view, but the marks will linger for a week or two. Is that okay?”
Another series of fast nods that sends a stray highlighter rolling to the ground.
“Stay still,” I order, and I scan her from her unraveling bun all the way down to her cute, be-socked feet. A transect of horniness, a survey of obsession. I’d mark every part of her if I could.
I take a steadying breath and then lean over her, my brows coming together as I focus on my task. Her tits—yes, those need marking, certainly. I use the wet tip of my Sharpie to catalog the most urgent things I want to do.Kiss, slap, squeeze, press together and fuck.She shivers as I write metadata on the underside of both breasts, taking care to label each hard nipple.Lick. Suck.Bite.
I move down her stomach,kiss kiss kiss, and then write in the creases of her waist and the swells of her hips,Grab, hold, stroke, bruise. Each letter must tickle, because her ribs jerk ever so slightly, but she doesn’t complain and I don’t stop.
I pull her shorts off her hips, and then shake my head when I see the wet spot on her underwear. “You’ve been neglecting this again,” I chide. “Do you need me to take care of it?”
“Yes.” The word leaves her lips on an exhale, like she’s been keeping it hidden in her lungs. “Yes, Dr. Loe. I need you to take care of it always.”
“Hmm.” I work her panties down and off her legs, and a pained, angry arousal stabs me in the groin when I get a good look at what I’ve uncovered.
Wet, pretty, with flat, silky curls and a swollen pink pearl at the top.
I peel off her socks, lift her feet up so that they’re flat on the desk and her knees are pointed at the ceiling, and then I push her thighs apart and look my fill. My dick is hard enough to make an obscene tent in my joggers, my ballsache, heavy and full, and I won’t deny myself this. Not when it’s being so freely offered. Not when I’ve finally allowed myself to have it.
Finally, I squat down between her legs, take the marker, and start writing on the pale, velvety skin of her inner thigh.Rub, kiss, suck, lick, fuck with my fingers, fuck with my tongue, fuck with my cock, ejaculate on, ejaculate inside of, have sit on my face.I draw a neat arrow to her sex, and then to the cinched button below.
By the time I’m finished, she’s shivering on the desk as if she’s come down with a lethal fever. “Please,” she whimpers. “Make me come. Fuck me and make me come.”
I cap the marker and inspect my work like I’m about to submit it for peer review. My handwriting, while not as pretty as hers, is neat and matter-of-fact, made scrupulous by years of taking notes in classrooms and forests and prairie fields. She is an ordered index of hoped-for debauchery. She is as tidy as a lab report.
She looks fucking stunning wearing nothing but my handwriting and a rucked-up T-shirt.
“I’m going to fuck you with my cock now.” My voice is rough, the need in it evident. “Does that sound good to you?”
“God, yes.”
“Can you come on me like a good girl when I do?”
A vigorous nod.
“Let me just find a condom, I think I have one in my bag—”
“Professor—Bram—we don’t have to.” She’s speaking quickly, and I think it’s to prevent the protest already rising to my lips. “I’ve got an IUD, and I was tested after I broke up with Gentry, because of his history. I’m good to go, and you’ve already told me that you haven’t been with anyone other than me since Sara.”
I hesitate. After two surprise pregnancies, onecatastrophicallya surprise and one more of anoh, what the hell, why notkind of surprise, I don’t take going without a condom lightly. For Maddie’s future even more than my own, since my life is already woven into an I-only-own-plastic-cups nest to shelter young people. Her life is still completely hers and is still so, so fragile.
But also... I really want to. I really, really fucking want to. I want to so badly that my mouth is wet and my hands are shaking.
