"Did you lose your place, Miss Rosenberg?"
"I don't think so –"
He reaches over her shoulder and taps his finger against the paragraph in question. "An entire sentence missing in fact. Dear me, that just won't do at all, now will it?"
His finger leaves a damp mark on the page and he frowns. That's entirely her fault as well. He pushes her head down until her forehead rests on the book she's supposed to be reading aloud from and says with the firm yet kind voice he's determined is appropriate for these sessions – if only because of the way she shivers when he uses it - "Stay like that, please. I think we need to pause for a moment and address your appalling lack of concentration."
He steps back and looks at her. Skirt rucked up, panties pulled down. Bent over the library desk, legs spread a carefully-measured eight inches apart, so there's no more than a tantalising glimpse of her cunt, slickly gleaming. No – he can see the red marks on the outside of her knees where the elastic is digging in; she's trying to widen her legs, hoping, no doubt, that if he notices he'll – oh, she's very good at this!
He picks up the heavy wooden ruler and taps it against the tender flesh of her inner thigh. "You seem to have taken it upon yourself to alter the position in which I placed you, Miss Rosenberg. Would you care to explain that decision?"
The moan and squirm he gets in reply are heartfelt and, yes, he's moved by the distress in her voice as she whimpers his name, but really, she's just making it worse by calling him 'Wesley' like that.
"Let me see. You moved, you forgot that you're not allowed to use my first name, your recitation was poorly done..." He sighs. "I should just abandon all hope of improving your Latin and call a halt to these sessions, shouldn't I?"
Her headshake is gratifyingly swift, but positioned as she is, it creases the page and his exasperated cluck of the tongue is completely genuine.
Running his tongue over lips that taste of her – and if she stumbled in her recitation, really, he can't blame her too much as he'd just plunged two fingers into her cunt, feeling her clench around him with an avidity that made him bite back a groan of his own because really, so hot in there, so wet – he places the ruler flat against her backside.
"Six," he says softly. "Well?"
It's always the part where he has to unzip stealthily, has to shove his hand inside and adjust himself, closing his eyes as he lets his fingers linger on the sticky-hot cock that's waiting so patiently...
"Yes, sir," she whispers, as he's taught her, as he's told her she has to, or he won't continue. "Please."
Six is too many, really, too loud, too hard, too painful. When they started this, weeks ago, three brought her to tears, frantic, gasping tears, mouth on his in a desperate kiss as she tried to bring his resisting hand between her legs, mewling and squirming until he had no choice but to place her over his knee and give those three red stripes a more fitting setting than white, soft skin.
Now she knows better than to expect to be fucked just because she's wet, now she can take six strokes without begging for mercy.
Admirable control but sometimes he misses the pleading...
The crack of the wood against her arse jars her forward and there's the faintest rip of paper.
"Seven," he says through set teeth, "For that I make it seven, Willow."
And he's used her name and it all changes in a moment.
"Fuck me and you can make it eight."
He sighs and puts the ruler down beside her. "No. But I'll make you come. You'd like that wouldn't you?"
And he stares at the cage that holds her boyfriend three nights a month, that will hold him tomorrow, and wonders if it's cowardice or caution that makes him refuse to leave his scent on her for the wolf to find.
The bruises don't matter.
He's very careful to make sure they'll fade by the fourth day.
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