Chapter 5 #2
I let my gaze drop, not to his crotch, but lower to the floor between us. The cheap industrial carpet is ugly but clean, the same pale gray as every other faculty office on campus.
“You say that I don’t know you, but I can see right through your little good boy act, Brendon.
You like being responsible—it’s familiar, but it’s also killing you.
So, I’m going to give you an out…” I lean in close.
“There’s some sick, buried part of you that wants someone bigger, meaner, and more fucked up to take control. ”
A tremor runs through him that has nothing to do with fear. “You’re wrong,” he says. “You’re completely…”
“Am I? Because if I am, this next part’s going to be easy for you to refuse.” I shift my stance and take a step backward. “Kneel.”
His eyes drag up from my boots to my face—disbelief, fury, and interest all tangled together.
“You killed someone in front of me, and now you want me to kneel for you,” he says. “Do you hear yourself?”
“Perfectly,” I say. “Here’s the part you don’t want to look at.
You’re already kneeling. Not physically, but you’ve been kneeling for everyone else’s expectations your whole goddamn life.
I’m just honest about what I’m asking you to do.
I’m not hiding it behind God, grades, or parental approval.
I’m telling you straight up: get on your knees for me, because I want to see you there. ”
His fingers curl into fists at his sides. “That’s not happening,” he says, but he doesn’t move to leave. He doesn’t shove past me. He stays pinned between the wall and my presence, and looks at me like he’s trying to find the angle where this becomes a moral question instead of a physical one.
“Alright,” I say easily, taking a step back, giving him room. “Then I’ll go.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You don’t want to,” I say with a shrug.
“That’s your call. I told you I’m big on choice.
You want to keep pretending you don’t have this in you, I can play along.
I’ll walk out, and we’ll go back to normal: tutor and student.
You’ll correct my essays, I’ll nod and smile, and we’ll both pretend you didn’t make that sound when my hand was on your throat. ”
His cheeks flame. “I wasn’t—”
“Sure,” I say. “Whatever helps you sleep.”
I turn like I’m going to leave, making a show of straightening up, walking toward the door, and reaching for the handle.
“Wait,” he says, before he can stop himself.
I don’t smile when I look back over my shoulder. “Yeah?” I ask mildly.
His eyes are bright and furious, and under that, there’s a vulnerability that blows the top of my head open. He looks like he wants to throw something at himself and me simultaneously. “You’re really going to walk out and pretend none of this happened?”
I shrug. “I’ve had a lot of practice pretending.”
“This is insane,” he whispers.
“Probably,” I say, turning to face him fully. “But you’ll sleep better knowing. So get on your knees and show me you know exactly where you belong.”
He stares at me, then at the floor.
“I’m going to give you to the count of ten, because your brain will cycle forever if I let it. We both know that. So. Ten seconds. Either I walk out of this office first, or you’re on your knees when I hit one. You choose.”
His eyes flash. “You’re—”
“Ten,” I start. “Nine.”
He swallows hard, glancing at the door, then back at me.
“Eight. Seven. Six.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, and he mutters a curse under his breath.
“Five.”
He steps away from the wall, and my stomach tightens, but I don’t move.
“Four,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t move past me; he moves closer until he’s standing right in front of me, close enough that I can see the flecks of brown in his eyes, the way his lashes tremble, the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth.
“Three.”
His gaze drops to the floor.
“Two.”
His knees hit the thin carpet with a dull thud that I feel in my bones. He doesn’t fall; he lowers himself, controlled even in surrender, hands planted on his thighs, back straight.
From up here, looking down at him, lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, he looks every inch the good boy everyone thinks he is.
Except he’s kneeling for me.
“One,” I finish, even though the countdown’s already over. My voice comes out thicker than I meant it to because his self-loathing is so fucking beautiful.
The position is everything: him below me, spine straight despite the tremor in his shoulders, stare defiant and humiliated.
“Fuck,” I breathe, not bothering to hide it. “That’s a view.”
He swallows hard. “I hate you.”
“You’ll get better at lying,” I say. “Hands behind your back.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Hands behind your back,” I repeat, tone leaving no room for argument. “If you’re going to kneel for me, you’re going to do it properly.”
He hesitates for a heartbeat, then obeys, fingers curling around his own wrists at the small of his back. The position opens his chest, squares his shoulders, and makes his kneeling look intentional rather than accidental. My dick stirs, interested in a way it hasn’t been for anyone in a long time.
“Look at you,” I murmur. “Mr. Lane. TA. Top of his class. On his knees on a random Tuesday because the campus psycho counted down from ten.”
His cheeks burn. “Shut up,” he mutters.
“There’s the brat,” I say, satisfaction curling low. “Good. Stay with me.”
I move one foot forward, so the toe of my boot brushes the edge of his knee, and his breath stutters.
“You’re on your knees for a devil now, Little Sin. There’s no pretending this is for anyone’s benefit but mine.” I tilt my head. “And yours, if you stop lying to yourself long enough to admit it. So go on, show me how much you hate this. Lick my boots.”
His gaze drops again, this time not to the floor, but to my boots. The black leather is worn in at the creases, polished this morning and dulled already by campus dust. Nothing special. On anyone else, they’d just be boots. On me, right now, they’re a line he has to decide whether to cross.
“You really get off on making me miserable,” he mutters.
“No,” I say. “I get off on watching you stop pretending you don’t want things.”
His cheeks flare hotter at that. I watch the color crawl up from the collar of his shirt to the tips of his ears and feel satisfaction curl low in my gut. He looks wrecked already, and I’ve barely touched him.
“Lick my boots, Little Sin,” I repeat.
With fluttering eyes and a tiny, broken exhale, he leans in, lowering his head until his mouth is a breath away from the leather. There’s a heartbeat of hesitation; then his tongue flicks out, dragging a small, tentative line over the scuffed toe of my boot.
Heat slams through me so fast I have to curl my hands into fists. “Good fucking boy,” I breathe.
His shoulders flinch at the praise. The tip of his tongue stutters against the leather, and then he forces himself to keep going, another slow stroke tracing the curve where the scuff breaks the shine.
I want to grab his hair, but I want even more to watch him do this without guidance.
It’s so much better when his obedience is voluntary.
“Eyes on me,” I say.
He hesitates, tongue still pressed to the leather; then he drags it back into his mouth, lips closing, and lifts his gaze slowly. When he looks up, there’s a shine on his mouth that does something fucked up to my chest.
Fuck me, he looks miserable, turned inside out, and more alive than he has at any point during our little lecture about due process.
He hates me, but he hates himself more. He hates that his body is responding to the one person he should run from.
I could spend months peeling that hatred apart.
I could spend months making him admit to every twisted thought he has tried to pray away.
I could make him fall apart on his knees for me before I ever touch him where he wants it, and I know he would still go home, fold his hands, and beg some silent God to forgive him.
I bite my lip trying to collect myself. If I’m not careful, I am going to do something in this office that even I won’t be able to spin as anything but exactly what it is. I push a slow breath out and open my eyes again, forcing the edges of my smile to soften.
“Stand up,” I say, offering no hand. Brendon pushes to his feet on his own, cheeks blotched red, chin up like defiance can hide the bulge straining his slacks. It doesn’t. We both see it. “Good boy. You did very well. You listened, and you stayed, so that earns you a reward.”
He opens his mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to beg—but all that escapes is a shudder when I push him against the door and cup him through those prim charcoal slacks.
He’s iron-hard. Of course he is. His body’s the only honest part of him left. I give him one slow squeeze, thumb tracing the length straining along his crotch. He gasps and drops his head against my chest. I know exactly how worked-up he is, and I’m going to use it.
“You make a pretty picture, Little Sin—hard as fuck and ready to shame yourself for a murderer.” I breathe near his ear, letting each word rumble against his skin. “All this from licking my boot? Does degradation get this Christian cock off?”
I roll my palm once, feeling the shape of him against my hand, and he makes that sound—half-hitch, half-plea—that tells me he’s right on the edge already. Pathetic. Perfect. I keep the pressure feather-light, just enough to keep him frantic without tipping him over.
“Answer me,” I murmur, turning my head so my lips brush the shell of his ear. “Does the good little TA get hard when I call him filthy? When I tell him to lick dirt off my boots?”
His breath stutters, and I feel it more than I hear it. “I… I don’t…”
I tighten my grip on him a fraction, squeezing the head through the fabric. His knees dip. “Try again, Brendon.”
A tremor ripples through him. “Yes.” Barely a whisper, cracking on the s. “Yes, Dominic.”
I slide my hand from his cock to his hip, then wedge my thigh between his legs.
I grab his wrists, pin them high over his head in one hand, and flatten my other palm on the small of his back, forcing him forward until his zipper drags along the seam of my thigh.
The contact rips a gasp from him, choked and helpless.
“Ride it,” I order, voice pitched low enough that it vibrates in the narrow space between us. “Rub that good-boy cock against me until you ruin those pretty slacks. Show me how badly you need the degradation.”
Brendon’s eyes are glassy with panic and want, but he doesn’t move. So I flex my thigh once, grinding up. The friction punches a sob out of him, and his hips buckle before he can stop himself. One jerky thrust, then another, and he catches the rhythm like a drowning man latching onto breath.
“That’s it,” I breathe against his hairline. I keep my mouth off his lips—kissing is a mercy he hasn’t earned—but I give him my breath, my words, and the filth he’s begging for. “Feel how fucking hard you are for me, dirty boy?”
Power has a taste, and right now it sits sweet on my tongue.
His pupils are blown wide, the dark swallowing the green, and sweat beads at his hairline. He grinds harder, chasing the pressure. Every inch he takes is a confession written in motion: hips snapping forward, breath stuttering, thighs trembling.
“Please,” he breathes, voice cracked, head tipping back until it rests against the doorframe.
“Begging already? I thought I was the pathetic one, Little Sin?” I dig my thigh upward, a cruel nudge that knocks a choked sob out of him.
His hips jerk faster, frantic now, breath hitching on every upward drag. I loosen my grip on his wrists just enough that he could break free if he really wanted. He doesn’t. He keeps them pinned, offering me the illusion of prayer while he fucks himself toward oblivion.
“Good fucking boy,” I hiss. “Make that cock suffer for every stroke.”
He shudders once, then breaks with a strangled cry, hips slamming forward as an orgasm rips through him, heat flooding between us.
I feel the wet pulse against my thigh, feel the tremor roll up his spine.
He tries to muffle the sound, bites his lip until it pales, but the whine that slips out is pure surrender.
I hold him there, pinned and trembling, until the aftershocks taper into shivers. His forehead rests against my chest, breath hitching, body slack except for the twitch of overstimulated nerves.
“Look at the mess you made,” I murmur, releasing his wrists. I ease back just enough to see the dark stain spreading; proof of his humiliation. He can’t meet my eyes, so I cup his jaw and tilt his face up anyway.
“You did well,” I say, letting a hint of approval bleed through.
The red on his cheeks is stark against the already tear-slick flush, but he doesn’t deny it. He can’t. The evidence is cooling against his skin, seeping through the cotton to cling damply to his thigh. “You’re a bastard.”
“And you’re still hard, Little Sin. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Don’t be late.” I pull him from the door and pause, looking over my shoulder at the picture he makes: hair mussed, cross askew, cheeks flaming.
Finally alive—painfully, beautifully alive.
“Take this time to thank God I was in a generous mood.”
Then I’m gone, leaving him trembling, sticky, and beautifully broken behind me.
Fuck, this is going to be fun.