Page 12 of Dean's Delinquent

His gaze roams over my body in a way that has me tingling from head to toe. “Shelaine will email you an invitation. You’ll be at the table with me. Black tie. I’m sure you have something appropriate to wear.”

“Oh. I promise I won’t disappoint you.”

“I’m very sure you will, Miss. Hartwell. Oh, and before I forget, you have a meeting with Doctor Andrew, the university psychiatrist, Monday at three. I’m sure he’ll be able to get to the bottom of whatever this is. If not, there are always other methods.”

The door closes behind him with an ominous click, leaving Shelaine and I in the office together. Mumbling a swift goodbye, I rush back over to the lab so I’ll have more than enough time to get ready for tonight. But even as I sit down to write this farce of an article, I find my mind continues to drift to a sexier-than-sin dean and his heavy hand.

Words refuse to come as I squirm in my seat. Glancing at the clock, I note the time slipping past and let out a frustrated grunt. I just need to get my head in the game. There’s no way I can think straight when I’m this fucking turned on.

Glancing over my shoulder, I note the curtain in front of the door is closed, allowing me some privacy. How much? I’m not sure. No one else should be coming in here for the rest of this evening.

As I use my left hand to hit the backspace on my keyboard, I slide my right hand up my thigh and under my skirt. My skin is slick and sticky with arousal, drawing a soft moan from my lips. God, I truly am insane.

The analog clock ticks along, the only sound in the room besides my harsh breath as it flits through my lips. Just taking the edge off. That’s all I’m doing. No harm in getting my head on straight.

I don’t even slide my thong to the side. I’m so fucking horny and needy that all I have to do is stroke myself on top of the fabric. The rasp of the soaked cotton against my sensitive flesh sends tendrils of need rushing through me. Holy fuck but I’ve needed this.

I’ve been so consumed with this paper that I haven’t seen to my self care. Now, I’m paying for it. Too bad it took a paddling from a hot dean to make me remember to take care of myself.

Closing my eyes, I picture myself lying across his desk, just waiting for him to do his worst. Only, instead of a paddle, it’s his hand. He strikes me with it, sending me riding up against the smooth wood. It’s just as hard and implacable as he is.

Never thought pain would get me off, but here I am, sliding my fingers lower until I slide them past the tiny scrap of lace so I can plunge them into my pussy. It’s still not enough. None of this is enough. But I don’t have time to go back to my dorm to get my vibrator.

Soft needy whines claw at my throat as I rock back and forth, switching from impaling myself to stroking my clit until I’m just at the edge. So close. So fucking close. My inner walls flutter about my fingers as I use my other hand to keep working my clit.

Arousal coats my hand as sweet beads on my forehead. Rough, haggard gasps spill from my lips as everything starts to coil tight inside. Why can’t I come? I’m so close. My orgasm hovers just out of reach. It’s both frustrating and irritating that I can’t seem to go over the edge.

As I shift again in my seat, my ass grinds against the hard edge of the chair, sending a spike of discomfort through me. A soft yelp catches in my throat, held back as I clench my teeth.

Try as I might to deny it, I can’t help the flair of pleasure that surges through me after the little bit of pain. Angling my ass so that it rubs up against the harsh angles, I use it to fuel my pleasure, as if it’s a bitter medicine and the tingling in my body is the chaser after it.

Once more, my orgasm builds until I’m back at that razor’s edge. Thankfully, no one has walked in yet, but I can’t chance anyone hearing the lurid sounds coming from me. Biting down on my lower lip, I hold my cries of passion at bay as everything tightens up for that brief second before exploding into utter gratification.

Again, I rock back and forth, riding out the aftershocks as I continue to slide my fingers in and out of my soaked pussy. Eventually, everything calms back down, allowing me to ease my hands out from under my skirt and take a nice deep breath.

I sit there for several moments, just staring at the computer screen as I try to process what just happened. But none of it makes sense. I shouldn’t want the dean to do these dirty things to me. I shouldn’t want to act out these indecent scenarios until I’m coming again and again as he fucks me with his thick fingers.

Shaking my head, I stand up and walk over to the small dispenser to gather some cool water to clean my fingers. As good as it was to get off, it’s time for work. Now that I’m no longer distracted, the article flows out of me as line after line of copy flies from my fingertips.

It’s not nearly as good as the death article, but then, Dean Anderson doesn’t seem to care about what’s good or newsworthy. If he wants to read some bland story that says nothing, then that’s what he’ll get. Once I’m done, I send it off to both him and my advisor and wait.

Thankfully, they both respond back after a few minutes, and without any surprise, this one is found suitable. Ten minutes to spare. Nothing like cutting it close. As I hover my mouse over the email to send it off, I blink at the attachment.

There’s nothing about this piece that I’m proud of. It’s pandering. It’s pedantic. It’s nothing that’s newsworthy.

Again, I glance over my shoulder and watch the door, just waiting for him to barge his way through and demand to know what I’m doing. But it stays closed.

Honestly, though. What can he really do about it? Try to destroy the paper now that it’s started? Spank me again?

At that thought, arousal sizzles through my brain, making it hard to think. But I’m not doing this for his punishment. I’m doing this for me.

With a click of the button, I send out the amended newspaper through the email that the school no doubt monitors. From my own personal account, I attach the original, the one I sent to the advisor.

Hey! So sorry. I just left the lab so I’m emailing from my phone. I realize I sent you the wrong file. This is the one that needs to go to print. Again, so sorry. Please respond so I know you got this.

Minutes go by as my heart races in my chest. What if they don’t get it? What if they check with Dean Anderson first? What if-

Got your email, Miss Hartwell. Happens all the time. Don’t worry about it. I got it set to print and will be ready for delivery first thing tomorrow. Have a great evening.

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