Page 63 of Dean's Delinquent

I must have said it out loud then. “Please,” I moan a bit louder, arching my hips into his maddening touch in a pathetic attempt to increase the pressure.

But he dances away, leaving me bereft. “You think you deserve an orgasm? You think I should let you come?”

“Please?” I whimper, lying back against the cross in the best show of submission I can muster.

“Cry and beg all you want,” he whispers against my cheek, his breath hot and heavy against my skin. “Your tears will not sway me.”

Tears?

Only then do I feel the firm, wet texture of his tongue as it slides up to the edge of my eye. His groans are downright filthy, unholy even as he tastes my desperation. Who is this man?

“Dean?” The question quavers into the air between us.

“Not dean anymore. Not to you, at least. It’s Master. Say it. I want to hear you call me Master, my little snoop.”

His fingers toy with the edge of my thong, just barely brushing my entrance. The feral need to have him inside, to have him drive this yearning from me, nearly tears me apart. At this point, I’ll probably do anything, say anything. Master isn’t even that bad. It fits him.

“M-“ As the first syllable slips from my lips, his finger inches into me. One thick digit that fills me with such an aching slowness, I moan out the rest of his title.

Somewhere in my periphery, I’m vaguely aware of the bite of the knife digging in even deeper in my throat. It should terrify me, and yet, all it does is make me cry out all the harder. It’s this cacophony of fear and lust that keeps me poised on the edge of arousal, making it burn all the hotter the longer it continues.

“That’s my good fucking girl,” he growls, dragging his finger out, only to impale me once more. “I think she’s ready.”

“Agreed.”

Fucking Doctor Andrew. His voice grates against my nerves, dispelling the weaving thrall threatening to pull me back under. I want Dean Anderson... Master... all to myself. Can’t he just leave? The instant his knife pulls away, however, I pitch forward as relief unlocks my limbs, rendering me a loose, unstable mess.

“I got you, sweetheart,” my dean murmurs against my skin.

“I would really like to get back to Chastity now. Can we hurry this along?”

“Fine,” he snaps out, easing me back onto the cross.

Despite the rough texture, it’s actually quite comfortable. The chill of the implacable stone as it rests against the exposed parts of my skin sends shivers of longing back through me, ramping up the craving I have for the dean’s unfailing heat. Under my back and head, however, it’s as if a pillow was carved out of the stone, making it the softest thing I’ve rested against in as long as I can remember.

Or maybe it’s the company making me feel like this. Either way, I soak in the gentle ministrations from the dean as he lifts my hand to rest it against a cuff. Once that’s secure, he goes to the other until both hands rise aloft. An odd smile crosses my lips as I look up at them.

If I were more of a sentimental type, I’d probably say it was dreamy. Even now, as the haze threatens to envelop me again, all rational thoughts flee until it’s just primal need. The touch of his hands, the whisper of his breath against me, the heat of his flesh as it grazes mine... Nothing is at all as I pictured it.

Soon, his hands drift lower, giving me hope that he’ll actually touch me again where I most desperately need it. Unfortunately, as he’s proven time and again, I’m not in control. I’ll never be in control with him again.

If I was, I’d force his hands to touch my pussy, to get me off, to give me the orgasm I so desperately crave. But I can’t. This must be part of the lesson he strives to drive home. Instead of making me wish to learn and understand better, it simply binds my insides in knots until I can’t breathe.

He skims past the needy part of me and goes to my ankles to wrench them apart, exposing me a bit as my thong shifts, rubbing against my inflamed skin until I cry out for his touch.

“Such a needy thing,” Doctor Andrew murmurs as he leans in to look deep into my eyes. Again, he studies me in a cold, calculated way that has my skin crawling and bile rising to the back of my throat. “However do you think you’ll manage her?”

“She’s no concern of yours, Andrew. You have your own slave to worry about.”

“Indeed, I do. Yet mine would never be so bold as to do what yours has done.”

“That’s because yours has the temerity of a titmouse. Fine for you, I suppose. But not for me.” He pauses long enough to run his fingers down the side of my cheek and cradle my face in his tender palm. “I crave her spirit, her bite, her eventual giving in to my dominating hand. I cannot wait to see the moment she breaks, only to know I’ll be able to do it all over again.”

There seems to be a note of pride in his voice, an admiration obviously missing from Doctor Andrew. Not that I care what he thinks of me. He can kick rocks for all I care. But hearing the dean speak about me like this, it unlocks something deep in my core, a part of me I kept hidden away.

It’s an ugly mass of raw emotions, a child’s craving for love, acceptance, and understanding. A girl’s need to be seen for who and what she is. A woman’s longing for a seat at the table, to know she does matter even though she has a vagina between her legs and not a penis.

Granted, I’m not stupid enough to think Dean Anderson is not that far off from my father. It’s obvious from the way they speak of punishment and my place as his slave that I’m not going to be all that much more in his eyes than I am in my father’s. But there’s something else here that’s been missing. Something fundamental.

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