Page 69 of Devil

I search out her slick hole and push in, and she lifts up to her toes, eyelids fluttering.

“I, um. I didn’t do it in the bedroom.”

“Oh?” I ask, like I didn’t spend my lunch break locked in a single stall bathroom in my office jerking off with the camera feed pulled up on my phone.

“I thought I’d try sitting in a chair, and the couch felt wrong because it’s made of fabric, and I didn’t want to dampen…anything.” She is painfully embarrassed now. I want to gobble her up. “And your office chair is leather, and I thought?—”

“Did you get yourself off in my office chair, Birdie?” I murmur into her ear. “Did you get that cunt all wet and greedy in the place where I’m supposed to focus?”

Her voice is despondent. “Yes.”

“Did you come so hard knowing I’d have to sit there later and think about what you’d done?” I find the swollen pearl of her clitoris and rub it with my now-wet fingers.

“Y-yes.”

“You’ve been so good, taking care of that pussy while I’m gone,” I tell her. “That’s exactly what I wanted you to do, exactly what I expect. I’m so proud of you.”

She lifts her eyes to my face, the tiniest crinkle back in her nose. “I thought you were going to tell me I was bad for doing that in your office. I should have…should have asked for permission.”

I study her, the nervousness in her eyes, the trembling of that delicate, berry-pink mouth. She’s squeezing my biceps again, and I don’t think she means to.

I’ll play the bad girl game with her anytime she wants—it’s good therapy for my Catholic sweetheart, and it gets my dick hard—but I also want her to know I’m pleased with her, that I’m honored by her courage. And it turns me on so much that she’s allowed me to boss and cajole her into some long overdue self-abuse.

Ah, fuck it. I’ll tell her all that after. But if I’ve got her squirming on my fingers asking if she’s a bad girl, I’m not about to listen to my better angels, are you kidding me? I pull my hand free and push my fingers onto her tongue. She knows what I want and dutifully sucks, sending flickers of heat up the nerves in my arm and then straight down to my groin.

“You were bad,” I tell her, using my other hand to tuck some hair behind her ear. “You knew that I need to work in that room, that I need to concentrate in there, and now I’ll never have a moment’s peace. I’ll be thinking about you wiggling in my chair, pussy quivering, coming without me.”

Despite the endless light of the studio, her pupils have spilled themselves into wide, hypnotized pools ringed with blue, and her hands dig into my arms, like she’s afraid I’ll try to step away.

I pull my fingers out of her mouth and then drop a heavy kiss there, taking my time and searching out her tongue.

“But every sin has its price, doesn’t it? We pay it, and we feel better.”

I take her hand and lead her back into the house, straight to the office. When we get inside, I take a seat in my chair—the same chair I saw her naked in earlier, pale, freckled thighs spread—and tell her to kneel. I pull out my pocket watch and set it on my desk as she does. I can see her ribs under her tank top moving with heavy, nervy breaths and her palms rubbing against her thighs.

“Don’t worry,” I say as I unzip myself. “Bad girls are usually very good at this.”

Her eyes drop nervously to my lap as I expose the dick that’s been waiting for her all day. She’s seen it plenty in the last seven days, of course—I don’t give her much of a break when I’m home—but I suppose anything new comes with a fresh wave of apprehension.

I press my thumb to the back of my erection and push it forward, wanting it closer to her mouth and also wanting to show off a little. I’m rewarded with a nibble on her bottom lip as she takes it in. The thickness and the length and the proud cap at the top, already glistening around the slit.

“This is the longest I’ve given you to look at it, isn’t that right?” I ask kindly. “You can touch it if you want. I won’t make you start sucking me right away.”

Her eyes flash up to my face, an incredible mixture of terror and curiosity, and then she drops her stare back to my lap. A slender hand lifts and then she draws a soft line up the shaft. It jerks at her touch; underneath, my scrotum pulls tight in response.

Around the head too, she draws a soft, charting circumference, her fingertip finding every swoop and curve until she returns to the textured delta in the middle.

With an artist’s eye, she runs her fingertips over the veins, presses on them, testing how they spring back when she lifts her fingers. She presses a thumb against the narrow opening at the top, which makes me hiss, but when she sees that I’m not angry or in pain, she does it again, brows knitted together. When she lifts her thumb to see the pad of it slick with pre-cum, she studies it in the light and then licks it off.

I barely recognize the noise I make then, something primitive and desperate. “Enough playing now.” The words come out hoarse. I push my cock closer to her. “Use your mouth.”

She licks her lower lip and takes a deep breath. She puts both hands on my thighs, which tense under her touch. “I still don’t know what to do,” she whispers.

“You can’t do anything wrong right now. I promise.”

“Okay,” she exhales, and she leans forward. The point of her tongue, wet and warm, moves from root to tip in one unending stripe, and I shudder, my head dropping back against the chair, my eyes closing as she puts her tongue to a vein and follows its meandering path over the skin to the taut crown, where she laps almost daintily at the fluid coming out.

“Christ, Birdie,” I groan, my hand sliding up into her messy bun and guiding her to do the same thing on the other side. “You’re killing me.”