Out of My Head

The things you do for your sister. Always have. If it wasn’t tutoring her so she would pass her test and stay cheer team eligible, it was making sure she came home after each and every frat party or budgeting the pennies of your paychecks so she would have more to eat than protein shakes. And now this. Sitting in front of a powerful man, and negotiating.

“They aren’t yours. Kay didn’t send them to you,” you say, again, doing your best to keep your tone even. Though your patience is quickly fraying into desperation.

The man chuckles. His brows jumping in amusement.

“She sent them to dipshit. I was lucky enough to get them from him.” He shrugs. “If she didn’t want them leaking, she really should have shared them with someone she trusts.”

Your teeth clench, muscles aching from the strain of it. “She did trust him,” you growl between your teeth. His brow quirks and you breathe to calm yourself. “Please, it would ruin her career. You have to delete them.”

He clicks his teeth, fingers running over the bristles of his mustache. “But what do I get out of it?” he asks. “See with them, my hand and I have been having quite a good time. If I delete them, what’s gonna help me take care of my cock?”

A noise squawks from you before you can choke it down. He smirks.

“I—” Your gaze drops to your hands, fisting into the fabric of your pants. “I don’t—”

“Unless you’re volunteering?” He leans forward, elbows supporting his torso. His shirt strains over his biceps. A mischievous gleam in his eye. He tilts his head, face softening in a mocking pity. “I’m not a monster, you know. But you never get nothing for nothing, princess.”

You drop your gaze. A moment taken for introspection. This is too far. It has to be. Always there to bail Kay out. Something’s got to give. Doesn’t it?

“Mr. Hansen,” you start, but he quickly cuts you off with by saying, “You want a contract?”

Your brows raise. And before you even respond, his finger finds a button on his desk.

“Barber, get the fuck in here,” he barks.

“Mr. Hansen, that’s not—”

He shushes you and steeples his fingers on the desk. A minute later, a man walks into the room, a file in hand.

“There’s my guy,” Lloyd crows with a sparkle in his eye. “Tell her how nice it is to be owned by me, sweet cheeks.”

As he passes, you hear the man grumble under his breath. A twitch in his jaw beneath his beard. He sets the file down and turns to leave. Not a comment made one way or another.

“Now, let’s look over this, shall we?”

“I don’t think we need to—”

“You wanna save your sister or not?” Mr. Hansen asks, a hard edge to his voice.

Your lips press together. Answer clear to you both. He pushes the stack of papers toward you.

“Sign,” he instructs, a pen flipping through his fingers.

You swallow and lick your dry lips. Staring at the black and white text. Letters mush together. Even when you can make out a word, the jargon reads incomprehensible. All of it a garble as you try to understand.

“Right there.” His fingers tap the paper right by a line. The one where you’ll sign away your soul—or whatever he’s asking for.

The pen shakes. Your fingers loose as you grip it. It’s the worst signature you’ve ever penned but it’s still legally binding. You know that. It sinks like a stone in your gut.

“Great,” Mr. Hansen crows, hands rubbing together. His smile breaks out under his mustache and fear trips up your spine.

He leans back, legs wide. He smooths the daunting caterpillar above his lips. A smirk prominent beneath.

“Why don’t you stand up and walk that pretty tush over here?”

“What exactly did I agree to?” you ask.

“Whatever the fuck I want,” he replies with a challenging quirk of his brow. “Now, come here.”

Your knees shake as you stand. Nerves buzz beneath your skin. A mounting roar in your ears as you skirt around his solid wood desk and find a place before him. His knees fall wide as he spins in his chair, following your path like a lecherous compass.

He palms himself and hums. “I make the best goddamn deals.”

You make no response. A sick feeling in your stomach, waiting for whatever he intends.

He crooks two of his fingers and points to his desk. “You can spread yourself out right here. Let me see what you’re working with.”

You swallow the bile that rises in your throat. Your limbs lock, but you force yourself. Each stilted step taken with determination of will. A sense of duty to your sister, to take care of her, protect her. He pushes away from the desk. Movement matching yours. His knees a cage around you, keeping you between him and his desk.

You face him. Head spinning, holding your wrist to stop the tremble of your hands. He stares and waits. Glinting mirth sharp as a knife at your throat. You swallow hard.

A finger of his raises in the air, circling. “Turn around,” he prompts.

Heat fills your cheeks. Pure mortification a buzzing cacophony your head. You stiffen further but manage to spin on your heel, facing his desk. Your contract staring back at you and sealing your fate while saving your sister’s.

“Now, bend over,” he purrs. A creaking shift accompanies the command—a sensual lilt to his tone and the clink of a buckle.

But it’s not until a hand presses flat to your back that you can comply. The pressure between your shoulder blades a gentle force to pin you against the wood.

“There you go,” he says. He tugs at the waistband of your pants. “Now, let’s see this pretty pussy.”

Seams pop and the button pings off his desk, but he manages to yank your pants down your legs. Your panties accompanying the humiliating descent. You whimper. The first brush of air has your spine locking. A fight waging as your first reaction is to straighten and hide yourself from his lecherous gaze. It is a monumental feat to restrain yourself.

Mr. Hansen hums behind you, pleased. Your skin crawls. His desk chair creaks. The weight of his stare like a boulder. His hands burning with their touch. One smooths up your twitching thighs. Fingers sweeping across intimate places, pulling at your flesh. A burst of light has your head whipping around.

“Sorry,” he smirks, unrepentant, “forgot to turn off the flash.” He wiggles his phone in his other hand before tucking it away. “Still took a pretty picture, though. I mean, look at you.” His attention refocuses on your pussy—displayed for him even as you shake in humiliation. The barest twinge of anticipation, deep in that untouched part of you, sets your stomach roiling.

“But—”

Your protest is short lived as he interjects, “if you want me to delete what I have of your sister, you’re gonna have to give me something to replace them.” His brow quirks. “It’s in your contract, sweet cheeks.” The conclusive smack to your ass jolts you.

You nod, tears welling on your waterline. You swallow back anything more you could possibly say. Letting it cement and harden in your belly. It’s this and then your sister will be in the clear. You can do this—even if you did sign more of yourself away than you ever wanted to.

His hands smooth over your ass and around your hips. You turn your head away, unwilling to see the gleeful glint in his eyes when he bends and dips his head toward you.

Though that doesn’t stop the startled gasp that escapes when his tongue swipes along the cut of you. A taste that leaves your hips bucking away, your foot lifting and ready to kick.

Not that he would let you. His hands vice-like on your body. Grip wrapped around your ankle in a moment. Hips stilled by an arm.

“Easy, princess,” he warns, a dark and delicious sin as he calms you like he might a wild animal. “We’re just getting started.”

He doesn’t return his mouth to you. Instead, he explores your sex with his fingers. Smoothing them up from your ankle to the center of you. They poke and prod in exploration. Skilled in the way they flick at your clit and coax arousal to coat them.

Heat kicks up your spine, flaming your cheeks and the tips of your ears. Your teeth sink into the flesh of your inner cheek as his fingers take their first plunge into you.

You gasp. Legs splaying wider to accommodate the stretch, twinging discomfort for more than one reason. But Mr. Hansen doesn’t give you the time to adjust. He finds his rhythm. Opening you up around his fingers as he makes intrigued noises and watches.

One hand thrusts into you, thumbing at your clit. The other spans your hip, grabs at your ass, pulls at your flesh before another flash indicates another picture taken.

You can’t stop shaking. Sensation overwhelming as he adds another finger. Another stretch to your pussy. Another layer of confusion as it pulls and drags pleasure from you.

His figure rises and drapes over you. A blanket of heat, hard against you even as he continues to work with his hands. His lips trace along the shell of your ear.

“You should see yourself,” he moans, hips beginning a slow but heavy imitation of his fingers. Driving against you in time with them. “You’re dripping already.”

And you don’t need to turn your head to see the smirk on his lips. Only close your eyes and hide from his victory.

“But I’m gonna need a bit more from you.”

And with ease, he pulls his fingers out with a wet squelch. Only a breath passing before you feel the prod of his length notching at your entrance.

He rams into you. Your breath hitches in your lungs. A sound choked out by his intrusion. An deep ache forming around it.

But he doesn’t have to wait for your comfort. The extent of his selfishness outlined beneath you in black and white. He pistons like a machine. Fucking you with a ferocious hunger that leaves your teeth rattling.

And yet you can’t help the way your lips fall open. Fervent, guttural sounds falling out of you. Animalistic and wild. Even as you hear him chortling from above.

“See, now that’s what I wanna hear,” he says without pausing his insatiable rutting.

But you’re beyond speech. Lost to his rhythm, his desire, his ravaging of your body. It squeezes like a fist around you, tightening until all at once it releases. Shattering you in its explosion. Your pussy squeezes and flutters around the continued pounding of his cock. No choice but to ride it out without mercy.

He grunts, his head resting against your shoulder blade. And only a few thrusts later, he fills you. His cock twitching as cum coats your walls.

“Jesus, princess, you drain a man dry, don’t you?” he asks with a few more greedy pumps of his hips into you.

You mewl in response and wait for him to vacate you. For the emptiness to set in and your world to return to its normal rotation.

Instead, Mr. Hansen stays where he is. Softening inside you. You rock to your tiptoes, hoping to coax him out. But he keeps his hips flush. Refusing your attempts at separation even as he hisses from sensitivity.

And then his left hand wraps over yours and slides something onto your ring finger. Your head turns atop the wood of the desk. Glinting back at you is a ring—diamond and big and heavy.

“So this is what’s gonna happen,” Lloyd says, out of breath, lacing his fingers with yours. “Wedding’s at the end of the month—”

“Did-did you just…propose to me?” you ask perplexed. Did you miss something? You never agreed to that.

“Not exactly, but there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?” he asks in return. His hand snakes to squish your cheeks, shaking your head in a mocking commiseration. The contract, messy with drool and tears you didn’t realize you shed, beneath your chest.

He finally pulls out, your pussy spasming at the loss. With a sigh, he falls back to the chair, but you can’t move. Propped against the desk, sure to collapse if you move a muscle. Unable to look away from the ring on your finger.

Until a quiet slap sounds from behind you and you crane your vision over your shoulder. Mr. Hansen sits with his legs splayed, cock shiny with your combined releases.

“What do you say to turning around for me?”

And it’s phrased as a question, though you know it’s not. You use all your remaining strength to flop over and lean against the desk. A trickle of his semen spilling down your thigh. Unable to keep from sinking to your knees as your legs give out.

“Oh, perfect,” he crows, scooting closer. He looms over you, too intelligent and too strong. Your chin captured between his fingers. “Now you can clean me up and keep me warm.”

You swallow, lick your lips, and open them wide.

The things you do for your sister. Always have. If it wasn’t tutoring her so she would pass her test and stay cheer team eligible, it was making sure she came home after each and every frat party or budgeting the pennies of your paychecks so she would have more to eat than protein shakes. And now this. Sitting in front of a powerful man, and negotiating.

“They aren’t yours. Kay didn’t send them to you,” you say, again, doing your best to keep your tone even. Though your patience is quickly fraying into desperation.

The man chuckles. His brows jumping in amusement.

“She sent them to dipshit. I was lucky enough to get them from him.” He shrugs. “If she didn’t want them leaking, she really should have shared them with someone she trusts.”

Your teeth clench, muscles aching from the strain of it. “She did trust him,” you growl between your teeth. His brow quirks and you breathe to calm yourself. “Please, it would ruin her career. You have to delete them.”

He clicks his teeth, fingers running over the bristles of his mustache. “But what do I get out of it?” he asks. “See with them, my hand and I have been having quite a good time. If I delete them, what’s gonna help me take care of my cock?”

A noise squawks from you before you can choke it down. He smirks.

“I—” Your gaze drops to your hands, fisting into the fabric of your pants. “I don’t—”

“Unless you’re volunteering?” He leans forward, elbows supporting his torso. His shirt strains over his biceps. A mischievous gleam in his eye. He tilts his head, face softening in a mocking pity. “I’m not a monster, you know. But you never get nothing for nothing, princess.”

You drop your gaze. A moment taken for introspection. This is too far. It has to be. Always there to bail Kay out. Something’s got to give. Doesn’t it?

“Mr. Hansen,” you start, but he quickly cuts you off with by saying, “You want a contract?”

Your brows raise. And before you even respond, his finger finds a button on his desk.

“Barber, get the fuck in here,” he barks.

“Mr. Hansen, that’s not—”

He shushes you and steeples his fingers on the desk. A minute later, a man walks into the room, a file in hand.

“There’s my guy,” Lloyd crows with a sparkle in his eye. “Tell her how nice it is to be owned by me, sweet cheeks.”

As he passes, you hear the man grumble under his breath. A twitch in his jaw beneath his beard. He sets the file down and turns to leave. Not a comment made one way or another.

“Now, let’s look over this, shall we?”

“I don’t think we need to—”

“You wanna save your sister or not?” Mr. Hansen asks, a hard edge to his voice.

Your lips press together. Answer clear to you both. He pushes the stack of papers toward you.

“Sign,” he instructs, a pen flipping through his fingers.

You swallow and lick your dry lips. Staring at the black and white text. Letters mush together. Even when you can make out a word, the jargon reads incomprehensible. All of it a garble as you try to understand.

“Right there.” His fingers tap the paper right by a line. The one where you’ll sign away your soul—or whatever he’s asking for.

The pen shakes. Your fingers loose as you grip it. It’s the worst signature you’ve ever penned but it’s still legally binding. You know that. It sinks like a stone in your gut.

“Great,” Mr. Hansen crows, hands rubbing together. His smile breaks out under his mustache and fear trips up your spine.

He leans back, legs wide. He smooths the daunting caterpillar above his lips. A smirk prominent beneath.

“Why don’t you stand up and walk that pretty tush over here?”

“What exactly did I agree to?” you ask.

“Whatever the fuck I want,” he replies with a challenging quirk of his brow. “Now, come here.”

Your knees shake as you stand. Nerves buzz beneath your skin. A mounting roar in your ears as you skirt around his solid wood desk and find a place before him. His knees fall wide as he spins in his chair, following your path like a lecherous compass.

He palms himself and hums. “I make the best goddamn deals.”

You make no response. A sick feeling in your stomach, waiting for whatever he intends.

He crooks two of his fingers and points to his desk. “You can spread yourself out right here. Let me see what you’re working with.”

You swallow the bile that rises in your throat. Your limbs lock, but you force yourself. Each stilted step taken with determination of will. A sense of duty to your sister, to take care of her, protect her. He pushes away from the desk. Movement matching yours. His knees a cage around you, keeping you between him and his desk.

You face him. Head spinning, holding your wrist to stop the tremble of your hands. He stares and waits. Glinting mirth sharp as a knife at your throat. You swallow hard.

A finger of his raises in the air, circling. “Turn around,” he prompts.

Heat fills your cheeks. Pure mortification a buzzing cacophony your head. You stiffen further but manage to spin on your heel, facing his desk. Your contract staring back at you and sealing your fate while saving your sister’s.

“Now, bend over,” he purrs. A creaking shift accompanies the command—a sensual lilt to his tone and the clink of a buckle.

But it’s not until a hand presses flat to your back that you can comply. The pressure between your shoulder blades a gentle force to pin you against the wood.

“There you go,” he says. He tugs at the waistband of your pants. “Now, let’s see this pretty pussy.”

Seams pop and the button pings off his desk, but he manages to yank your pants down your legs. Your panties accompanying the humiliating descent. You whimper. The first brush of air has your spine locking. A fight waging as your first reaction is to straighten and hide yourself from his lecherous gaze. It is a monumental feat to restrain yourself.

Mr. Hansen hums behind you, pleased. Your skin crawls. His desk chair creaks. The weight of his stare like a boulder. His hands burning with their touch. One smooths up your twitching thighs. Fingers sweeping across intimate places, pulling at your flesh. A burst of light has your head whipping around.

“Sorry,” he smirks, unrepentant, “forgot to turn off the flash.” He wiggles his phone in his other hand before tucking it away. “Still took a pretty picture, though. I mean, look at you.” His attention refocuses on your pussy—displayed for him even as you shake in humiliation. The barest twinge of anticipation, deep in that untouched part of you, sets your stomach roiling.

“But—”

Your protest is short lived as he interjects, “if you want me to delete what I have of your sister, you’re gonna have to give me something to replace them.” His brow quirks. “It’s in your contract, sweet cheeks.” The conclusive smack to your ass jolts you.

You nod, tears welling on your waterline. You swallow back anything more you could possibly say. Letting it cement and harden in your belly. It’s this and then your sister will be in the clear. You can do this—even if you did sign more of yourself away than you ever wanted to.

His hands smooth over your ass and around your hips. You turn your head away, unwilling to see the gleeful glint in his eyes when he bends and dips his head toward you.

Though that doesn’t stop the startled gasp that escapes when his tongue swipes along the cut of you. A taste that leaves your hips bucking away, your foot lifting and ready to kick.

Not that he would let you. His hands vice-like on your body. Grip wrapped around your ankle in a moment. Hips stilled by an arm.

“Easy, princess,” he warns, a dark and delicious sin as he calms you like he might a wild animal. “We’re just getting started.”

He doesn’t return his mouth to you. Instead, he explores your sex with his fingers. Smoothing them up from your ankle to the center of you. They poke and prod in exploration. Skilled in the way they flick at your clit and coax arousal to coat them.

Heat kicks up your spine, flaming your cheeks and the tips of your ears. Your teeth sink into the flesh of your inner cheek as his fingers take their first plunge into you.

You gasp. Legs splaying wider to accommodate the stretch, twinging discomfort for more than one reason. But Mr. Hansen doesn’t give you the time to adjust. He finds his rhythm. Opening you up around his fingers as he makes intrigued noises and watches.

One hand thrusts into you, thumbing at your clit. The other spans your hip, grabs at your ass, pulls at your flesh before another flash indicates another picture taken.

You can’t stop shaking. Sensation overwhelming as he adds another finger. Another stretch to your pussy. Another layer of confusion as it pulls and drags pleasure from you.

His figure rises and drapes over you. A blanket of heat, hard against you even as he continues to work with his hands. His lips trace along the shell of your ear.

“You should see yourself,” he moans, hips beginning a slow but heavy imitation of his fingers. Driving against you in time with them. “You’re dripping already.”

And you don’t need to turn your head to see the smirk on his lips. Only close your eyes and hide from his victory.

“But I’m gonna need a bit more from you.”

And with ease, he pulls his fingers out with a wet squelch. Only a breath passing before you feel the prod of his length notching at your entrance.

He rams into you. Your breath hitches in your lungs. A sound choked out by his intrusion. An deep ache forming around it.

But he doesn’t have to wait for your comfort. The extent of his selfishness outlined beneath you in black and white. He pistons like a machine. Fucking you with a ferocious hunger that leaves your teeth rattling.

And yet you can’t help the way your lips fall open. Fervent, guttural sounds falling out of you. Animalistic and wild. Even as you hear him chortling from above.

“See, now that’s what I wanna hear,” he says without pausing his insatiable rutting.

But you’re beyond speech. Lost to his rhythm, his desire, his ravaging of your body. It squeezes like a fist around you, tightening until all at once it releases. Shattering you in its explosion. Your pussy squeezes and flutters around the continued pounding of his cock. No choice but to ride it out without mercy.

He grunts, his head resting against your shoulder blade. And only a few thrusts later, he fills you. His cock twitching as cum coats your walls.

“Jesus, princess, you drain a man dry, don’t you?” he asks with a few more greedy pumps of his hips into you.

You mewl in response and wait for him to vacate you. For the emptiness to set in and your world to return to its normal rotation.

Instead, Mr. Hansen stays where he is. Softening inside you. You rock to your tiptoes, hoping to coax him out. But he keeps his hips flush. Refusing your attempts at separation even as he hisses from sensitivity.

And then his left hand wraps over yours and slides something onto your ring finger. Your head turns atop the wood of the desk. Glinting back at you is a ring—diamond and big and heavy.

“So this is what’s gonna happen,” Lloyd says, out of breath, lacing his fingers with yours. “Wedding’s at the end of the month—”

“Did-did you just…propose to me?” you ask perplexed. Did you miss something? You never agreed to that.

“Not exactly, but there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?” he asks in return. His hand snakes to squish your cheeks, shaking your head in a mocking commiseration. The contract, messy with drool and tears you didn’t realize you shed, beneath your chest.

He finally pulls out, your pussy spasming at the loss. With a sigh, he falls back to the chair, but you can’t move. Propped against the desk, sure to collapse if you move a muscle. Unable to look away from the ring on your finger.

Until a quiet slap sounds from behind you and you crane your vision over your shoulder. Mr. Hansen sits with his legs splayed, cock shiny with your combined releases.

“What do you say to turning around for me?”

And it’s phrased as a question, though you know it’s not. You use all your remaining strength to flop over and lean against the desk. A trickle of his semen spilling down your thigh. Unable to keep from sinking to your knees as your legs give out.

“Oh, perfect,” he crows, scooting closer. He looms over you, too intelligent and too strong. Your chin captured between his fingers. “Now you can clean me up and keep me warm.”

You swallow, lick your lips, and open them wide.

The things you do for your sister. Always have. If it wasn’t tutoring her so she would pass her test and stay cheer team eligible, it was making sure she came home after each and every frat party or budgeting the pennies of your paychecks so she would have more to eat than protein shakes. And now this. Sitting in front of a powerful man, and negotiating.

“They aren’t yours. Kay didn’t send them to you,” you say, again, doing your best to keep your tone even. Though your patience is quickly fraying into desperation.

The man chuckles. His brows jumping in amusement.

“She sent them to dipshit. I was lucky enough to get them from him.” He shrugs. “If she didn’t want them leaking, she really should have shared them with someone she trusts.”

Your teeth clench, muscles aching from the strain of it. “She did trust him,” you growl between your teeth. His brow quirks and you breathe to calm yourself. “Please, it would ruin her career. You have to delete them.”

He clicks his teeth, fingers running over the bristles of his mustache. “But what do I get out of it?” he asks. “See with them, my hand and I have been having quite a good time. If I delete them, what’s gonna help me take care of my cock?”

A noise squawks from you before you can choke it down. He smirks.

“I—” Your gaze drops to your hands, fisting into the fabric of your pants. “I don’t—”

“Unless you’re volunteering?” He leans forward, elbows supporting his torso. His shirt strains over his biceps. A mischievous gleam in his eye. He tilts his head, face softening in a mocking pity. “I’m not a monster, you know. But you never get nothing for nothing, princess.”

You drop your gaze. A moment taken for introspection. This is too far. It has to be. Always there to bail Kay out. Something’s got to give. Doesn’t it?

“Mr. Hansen,” you start, but he quickly cuts you off with by saying, “You want a contract?”

Your brows raise. And before you even respond, his finger finds a button on his desk.

“Barber, get the fuck in here,” he barks.

“Mr. Hansen, that’s not—”

He shushes you and steeples his fingers on the desk. A minute later, a man walks into the room, a file in hand.

“There’s my guy,” Lloyd crows with a sparkle in his eye. “Tell her how nice it is to be owned by me, sweet cheeks.”

As he passes, you hear the man grumble under his breath. A twitch in his jaw beneath his beard. He sets the file down and turns to leave. Not a comment made one way or another.

“Now, let’s look over this, shall we?”

“I don’t think we need to—”

“You wanna save your sister or not?” Mr. Hansen asks, a hard edge to his voice.

Your lips press together. Answer clear to you both. He pushes the stack of papers toward you.

“Sign,” he instructs, a pen flipping through his fingers.

You swallow and lick your dry lips. Staring at the black and white text. Letters mush together. Even when you can make out a word, the jargon reads incomprehensible. All of it a garble as you try to understand.

“Right there.” His fingers tap the paper right by a line. The one where you’ll sign away your soul—or whatever he’s asking for.

The pen shakes. Your fingers loose as you grip it. It’s the worst signature you’ve ever penned but it’s still legally binding. You know that. It sinks like a stone in your gut.

“Great,” Mr. Hansen crows, hands rubbing together. His smile breaks out under his mustache and fear trips up your spine.

He leans back, legs wide. He smooths the daunting caterpillar above his lips. A smirk prominent beneath.

“Why don’t you stand up and walk that pretty tush over here?”

“What exactly did I agree to?” you ask.

“Whatever the fuck I want,” he replies with a challenging quirk of his brow. “Now, come here.”

Your knees shake as you stand. Nerves buzz beneath your skin. A mounting roar in your ears as you skirt around his solid wood desk and find a place before him. His knees fall wide as he spins in his chair, following your path like a lecherous compass.

He palms himself and hums. “I make the best goddamn deals.”

You make no response. A sick feeling in your stomach, waiting for whatever he intends.

He crooks two of his fingers and points to his desk. “You can spread yourself out right here. Let me see what you’re working with.”

You swallow the bile that rises in your throat. Your limbs lock, but you force yourself. Each stilted step taken with determination of will. A sense of duty to your sister, to take care of her, protect her. He pushes away from the desk. Movement matching yours. His knees a cage around you, keeping you between him and his desk.

You face him. Head spinning, holding your wrist to stop the tremble of your hands. He stares and waits. Glinting mirth sharp as a knife at your throat. You swallow hard.

A finger of his raises in the air, circling. “Turn around,” he prompts.

Heat fills your cheeks. Pure mortification a buzzing cacophony your head. You stiffen further but manage to spin on your heel, facing his desk. Your contract staring back at you and sealing your fate while saving your sister’s.

“Now, bend over,” he purrs. A creaking shift accompanies the command—a sensual lilt to his tone and the clink of a buckle.

But it’s not until a hand presses flat to your back that you can comply. The pressure between your shoulder blades a gentle force to pin you against the wood.

“There you go,” he says. He tugs at the waistband of your pants. “Now, let’s see this pretty pussy.”

Seams pop and the button pings off his desk, but he manages to yank your pants down your legs. Your panties accompanying the humiliating descent. You whimper. The first brush of air has your spine locking. A fight waging as your first reaction is to straighten and hide yourself from his lecherous gaze. It is a monumental feat to restrain yourself.

Mr. Hansen hums behind you, pleased. Your skin crawls. His desk chair creaks. The weight of his stare like a boulder. His hands burning with their touch. One smooths up your twitching thighs. Fingers sweeping across intimate places, pulling at your flesh. A burst of light has your head whipping around.

“Sorry,” he smirks, unrepentant, “forgot to turn off the flash.” He wiggles his phone in his other hand before tucking it away. “Still took a pretty picture, though. I mean, look at you.” His attention refocuses on your pussy—displayed for him even as you shake in humiliation. The barest twinge of anticipation, deep in that untouched part of you, sets your stomach roiling.

“But—”

Your protest is short lived as he interjects, “if you want me to delete what I have of your sister, you’re gonna have to give me something to replace them.” His brow quirks. “It’s in your contract, sweet cheeks.” The conclusive smack to your ass jolts you.

You nod, tears welling on your waterline. You swallow back anything more you could possibly say. Letting it cement and harden in your belly. It’s this and then your sister will be in the clear. You can do this—even if you did sign more of yourself away than you ever wanted to.

His hands smooth over your ass and around your hips. You turn your head away, unwilling to see the gleeful glint in his eyes when he bends and dips his head toward you.

Though that doesn’t stop the startled gasp that escapes when his tongue swipes along the cut of you. A taste that leaves your hips bucking away, your foot lifting and ready to kick.

Not that he would let you. His hands vice-like on your body. Grip wrapped around your ankle in a moment. Hips stilled by an arm.

“Easy, princess,” he warns, a dark and delicious sin as he calms you like he might a wild animal. “We’re just getting started.”

He doesn’t return his mouth to you. Instead, he explores your sex with his fingers. Smoothing them up from your ankle to the center of you. They poke and prod in exploration. Skilled in the way they flick at your clit and coax arousal to coat them.

Heat kicks up your spine, flaming your cheeks and the tips of your ears. Your teeth sink into the flesh of your inner cheek as his fingers take their first plunge into you.

You gasp. Legs splaying wider to accommodate the stretch, twinging discomfort for more than one reason. But Mr. Hansen doesn’t give you the time to adjust. He finds his rhythm. Opening you up around his fingers as he makes intrigued noises and watches.

One hand thrusts into you, thumbing at your clit. The other spans your hip, grabs at your ass, pulls at your flesh before another flash indicates another picture taken.

You can’t stop shaking. Sensation overwhelming as he adds another finger. Another stretch to your pussy. Another layer of confusion as it pulls and drags pleasure from you.

His figure rises and drapes over you. A blanket of heat, hard against you even as he continues to work with his hands. His lips trace along the shell of your ear.

“You should see yourself,” he moans, hips beginning a slow but heavy imitation of his fingers. Driving against you in time with them. “You’re dripping already.”

And you don’t need to turn your head to see the smirk on his lips. Only close your eyes and hide from his victory.

“But I’m gonna need a bit more from you.”

And with ease, he pulls his fingers out with a wet squelch. Only a breath passing before you feel the prod of his length notching at your entrance.

He rams into you. Your breath hitches in your lungs. A sound choked out by his intrusion. An deep ache forming around it.

But he doesn’t have to wait for your comfort. The extent of his selfishness outlined beneath you in black and white. He pistons like a machine. Fucking you with a ferocious hunger that leaves your teeth rattling.

And yet you can’t help the way your lips fall open. Fervent, guttural sounds falling out of you. Animalistic and wild. Even as you hear him chortling from above.

“See, now that’s what I wanna hear,” he says without pausing his insatiable rutting.

But you’re beyond speech. Lost to his rhythm, his desire, his ravaging of your body. It squeezes like a fist around you, tightening until all at once it releases. Shattering you in its explosion. Your pussy squeezes and flutters around the continued pounding of his cock. No choice but to ride it out without mercy.

He grunts, his head resting against your shoulder blade. And only a few thrusts later, he fills you. His cock twitching as cum coats your walls.

“Jesus, princess, you drain a man dry, don’t you?” he asks with a few more greedy pumps of his hips into you.

You mewl in response and wait for him to vacate you. For the emptiness to set in and your world to return to its normal rotation.

Instead, Mr. Hansen stays where he is. Softening inside you. You rock to your tiptoes, hoping to coax him out. But he keeps his hips flush. Refusing your attempts at separation even as he hisses from sensitivity.

And then his left hand wraps over yours and slides something onto your ring finger. Your head turns atop the wood of the desk. Glinting back at you is a ring—diamond and big and heavy.

“So this is what’s gonna happen,” Lloyd says, out of breath, lacing his fingers with yours. “Wedding’s at the end of the month—”

“Did-did you just…propose to me?” you ask perplexed. Did you miss something? You never agreed to that.

“Not exactly, but there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?” he asks in return. His hand snakes to squish your cheeks, shaking your head in a mocking commiseration. The contract, messy with drool and tears you didn’t realize you shed, beneath your chest.

He finally pulls out, your pussy spasming at the loss. With a sigh, he falls back to the chair, but you can’t move. Propped against the desk, sure to collapse if you move a muscle. Unable to look away from the ring on your finger.

Until a quiet slap sounds from behind you and you crane your vision over your shoulder. Mr. Hansen sits with his legs splayed, cock shiny with your combined releases.

“What do you say to turning around for me?”

And it’s phrased as a question, though you know it’s not. You use all your remaining strength to flop over and lean against the desk. A trickle of his semen spilling down your thigh. Unable to keep from sinking to your knees as your legs give out.

“Oh, perfect,” he crows, scooting closer. He looms over you, too intelligent and too strong. Your chin captured between his fingers. “Now you can clean me up and keep me warm.”

You swallow, lick your lips, and open them wide.

You're getting your masters in 19th century French literature and just can't believe your luck that he's accepted you as his TA and agreed to be your advisor.

You love talking to him about the books in your course. He's just so smart. And yes, startlingly handsome, but honestly, you admire his intellect the most. And he makes you feel so smart too! Like you're worthy of having a conversation with him.

He always has a lot to say about your lectures. Most of it is good! But when he corrects your analysis of the works you're trying to teach, you think about it for days. It's so much louder in your ears than any of his praise.

After one lecture, he pulls you aside, making sure to tell you in private that the pretty new blouse you just got was see-through under the florescent classroom lights. You're so embarrassed and he doesn't exactly reassure you. "You don't want your students thinking you're a whore, do you? I know how smart you are, but everyone else might not if you keep dressing that way."

When you dress extra conservatively over the next few weeks, he confuses you when he tells you that he misses your pretty sundresses. You don't know what to do. You almost wish he'd just tell you what to wear.

He schedules a meeting about your thesis after dark on a Friday evening, telling you it was the only time he could fit it into his schedule. He's so busy. You're lucky to get any of his time.

The whole building is dark, the only light coming from his office.

He sits down on his leather couch next to you, your thesis in his hand. You're surprised when you can see with just a glance that it's covered in red ink.

"I have to be honest," he says, his voice soft but firm, "I'm very disappointed by your effort here." Your heart sinks as he scoots closer. "Your arguments are shockingly facile. It's clear that you didn't think any of this through."

You hate yourself when you can't stop the tears gathering in your eyes. "Really? I thought if I explored it from a different angle-"

He shakes his head. "It just exposes the fact that you don't understand the work at all."

The tears are falling freely now and he coos at you. "Oh sweetheart, it's alright. I'll help you. I'll explain everything. We'll work together to make you sound like a real scholar. No matter how long it takes. I'm happy to take my time with you."

And then, just as you think that all your academic dreams are falling apart, he places his hand just above your knee, exposed by the sundress you secretly wore just for him, and you're shocked by how grounded it makes you feel.

Thank goodness for Professor Drysdale. You really don't know what you’d do without him.