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Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over my senses, until I’m drowning and struggling for breath.
Professor Segul makes a satisfied snort but continues with his fingers, sending ripples of sensation from my hair follicles to my toenails.
“No.” I shake my head from side to side. This is too much. “I can’t take it. I’m going to die.”
I don’t realize I’m saying the words out loud until the Professor snarls, “You’ll take what you’re given and enjoy it.”
Contractions seize my pussy, my womb, my entire midsection, and I’m a convulsing mess. Professor Segul’s tongue slows—thank god, but he puts more pressure on that sensitive spot.
My back arches, and I yowl like a scalded cat, finally dislodging his finger. He resumes his rubbing, only slowing as the waves of pleasure become less intense.
“Good girl,” he says, his voice filled with warmth.
I’m too busy panting and blinking the spots from my vision to bask in his praise.
His presence disappears from between my legs, leaving me feeling exposed. But a moment later, he brings a bottle to my lips. I jerk my head to the side, thinking it’s the wine.
“Water,” he says. “You’ll need it to hydrate so you can squirt for me the next time.”
“No more.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head from side to side.
That first orgasm had been wonderful, the second and third intense. A fourth one so soon will shatter my insides.
“Drink.” He brings the bottle back to my lips.
It isn’t until the cool liquid slides against my tongue that I realize my mouth is so dry, and my throat is hoarse. I gulp mouthfuls of water, filling my empty stomach that chooses exactly this minute to rumble.
The professor stiffens. “You’re hungry.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, and I avert my gaze from his.
“Look at me.”
I turn my head toward him and peer up at the professor through my lashes. This shouldn’t feel so humiliating—the man made me crawl down the stairs in my underwear, then babble under the ministrations of an object shaped like a rake, before drinking wine out of my cooch.
Somehow, admitting that I’m hungry feels worse.
“I want to see your eyes,” he says, sounding stern.
My gaze snaps to him.
All traces of levity are gone from his face, replaced with the man who tossed a chair across a lecture theater.
My stomach drops.
“This arrangement between us won’t work if you’re not honest. Is that understood?”
I give him a soft nod.
He glares at me with an intensity that makes my stomach tremble and then says, “I want to hear you.”
“Yes, sir,” I murmur.
Professor Segul steps away, releasing the pressure of his stare, and I finally exhale my relief.
He adjusts the gyno chair so I’m sitting upright again, and then unbuckles my wrist restraints. My blood redistributes itself across my body, and I try to blink the red away from my eyes before realizing it’s the lights.
After bringing the stirrups together so my legs can relax, he unfastens the restraints around my knees and ankles. I’m too boneless to stumble off the chair, too fragile from the orgasms to even consider moving.
