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“The question you should be asking is what I won’t do with it.”
An idea drops into my head, and my jaw drops along with it. Before my brain even musters up a protest, I feel the smooth tip of a cork at my entrance.
My breath catches, and I stare down between my legs to where he’s holding the bottle. “Professor—”
“Do you remember your safe word?” he asks without looking up.
“Yes, but that’s not the point.”
He raises his head and finally meets my eyes. “The only thing I want to hear from you is either the word, red or amber. Any other utterances will be treated as background noise.”
“But, but, but…” I shake my head, my entire body shrinking back into the gyno chair.
The cork feels like the antithesis of wet. It isn’t just dry or absorbent but has a peculiar texture that a woman should never feel in a place so sensitive.
He raises his brow, his lips curling into a half-smirk. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”
My throat tightens and the backs of my eyes become as hot as my cheeks. I shouldn’t let him fuck me with the neck of a wine bottle, especially one I bought him as a gift. It’s beyond degrading.
So, why aren’t I exercising my safe word?
I know why.
He’s teased me with his handsome face, alluring eyes and his godlike body. I haven’t just seen that cock in action. I’ve had it in my mouth, down my throat. Now, I’ll withstand anything to get it in my pussy.
Humiliation slithers into my soul, turning my breaths fast and shallow. How could I ever think I was in control?
“Just do it,” I say.
Professor Segul pushes the wine bottle into my opening, and I clamp around the smooth cool glass until the stretch becomes unbearable.
I make a noise in the back of my throat that’s more of a groan, and he pauses.
“See how well you’re taking the wine bottle?” he says with a hint of pride.
A warm flame flickers in my heart as though I’m happy he’s impressed. I jerk my head to the side, unable to meet his eyes.
He could have used his fingers, a dildo, or even his own bottle, but this is beyond embarrassing.
I can’t look at him—or myself.
He strokes my inner thigh, sending waves of pleasure to my core. The muscles relax a little, and he pushes the bottle further in.
Without my control, my throat lets out a pleasured moan. I have never in my life felt so stretched.
“Good girl,” he rumbles.
A peculiar lightness inflates my chest. It isn’t pride or preening or pleasure at his praise. This man is seeing me at my lowest, yet he’s giving me acceptance.
The voice in the back of my mind reminds me that he’s the reason I’m strapped to a gyno chair with half a bottle up my twat, but his finger ghosts over my swollen clit and all reservations evaporate into the ether.
“You’re my special little slut,” he says in that delightful posh accent and pulls out the bottle.
My chest deflates, and I’m almost disappointed when the stretch subsides, but he shoves it back in.
“Aahh.” My thighs flex.
“That’s it,” he says, his voice thickening. “Take it like a good girl.”
