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Shit, shit, shit.
In all the smutty books I read, the men either spanked the women or used whips, not metallic implements.
I’m in over my head. Everything I said about being a sub was bullshit. Now I have no idea what’s going to happen next.
What if he’s like Dexter the blood spatter analyst who seemed respectable on the outside but has a dark passenger that urges him to kill the wicked? Like girls who have phone sex with men before blackmailing them for money?
I’m about to be screwed, and not in the way I want.
“Professor Segul?” I ask in a small voice.
He whirls around, holding what I can only describe as a psychotic pinwheel. No, it’s a circular scalpel, but instead of a blade, it’s covered in over a dozen sharp pins.
“Yes?” he replies with a tiny smile.
I notice three important things at once.
One, there’s a bulge in his pants that indicates he’s about to do something he enjoys more than getting his cock sucked.
Two, in his other hand, he’s holding something that looks like a miniature rake.
Three, he’s no longer chastising me for speaking without permission.
Sweat breaks out across my skin, and every nerve ending tingles with trepidation. My pussy, which hasn’t yet gotten the message, clenches with need.
It all makes sense. Why would the professor concern himself with trivial things like talking out of turn when he’s about to—
“What are those for?” I ask, cutting off my downward spiral into hysteria.
He places them on the surface of his trolley, beside the wine bottle, and turns back to the drawers to extract a pen knife.
I suck in a deep breath. “What are you doing?”
“Do you wish to exercise your safe word, Miss Stahl?” he asks, his words laced with amusement.
“Would it make a difference?” My voice rises an octave.
“You are free to end this at any time, but that means leaving here without your orgasm.”
Strangely, the suggestion that it’s something kinky puts me at ease, but I still whisper, “What’s the knife for?”
“Knife play, mostly,” he replies as though the answer is obvious. “But we’ll build up to that some other time.”
I exhale a long breath that we’re not about to start with the knife. Now, I feel silly about saying I didn’t have any hard limits, but I have no idea what I like or dislike in real life.
Apart from a drunken one-night stand I barely remember, the only real action I’ve had has come from a book.
Professor Segul wheels his trolley across the playroom to my side. I try to sit up, but the stirrups confine me to the leather chair.
He flicks the knife open with asnickthat makes me flinch. My clit, however, pulses as though it’s about to get a treat.
I would squeeze my thighs together, but I can’t because of the restraints.
He advances on me, the weight of his gaze making me squirm, and my breath turns shallow. A tiny flame of hope inside me flickers. Maybe he’ll use that blade to cut me free of my underwear and then ravage me with his tongue.
“Time to test your responses.” His voice is cold, clinical, calculating and causes the outer layer of my skin to shiver.
The first implement he picks up is the mini rake, which up close, consists of several blunt tines. Some of the tension around my chest eases, and I tell myself it’s just a toy.
