Chapter 38 Elle
ELLE
With a little over a month until the end of the semester left, Sutton posts the casting list on a white sheet at the back door of the auditorium. Sabrina and I make a beeline for it after class, and I immediately wish I could combust at will.
I stare at the names, my face hot. “Bianca?”
Sabrina winces, and for some reason, that pisses me off more.
I shove my finger in her face, rage making me vibrate all over. “What, did you say something to make him not want to pick me?”
“Huh? Of course not! I wouldn’t do something so low just for a part,” she says. “Seriously, Elle, I’ve been trying to—”
Releasing a dissatisfied growl from between my teeth, I curl my finger back in and stomp down the stairs, ignoring her. The whole class watches, and I realize I’m acting like a petulant child again, but Bianca?
Is that really all he thinks of me?
My steps get softer as I push open the side door to the back halls, veering right for Sutton’s office. He’s leaning against the front of the desk when I stomp inside.
“Is there a problem, Ms. Anderson?”
“Your cast list. My audition was ten thousand times better than everyone else’s in this class. You said so yourself.”
“What’s wrong with Bianca? She’s a beautiful courtesan who enthralls everyone she meets.”
My throat burns like he’s poured acid down it without even knowing. “Is that how you see me? As a shiny toy that’s fun to look at? You said the stuff with Aaron didn’t matter, but—”
“I didn’t say that’s all Bianca is.” His green eyes narrow slightly.
“Though perhaps I took how well a person might get along with her castmates into consideration as well. Working in a production isn’t all about raw talent.
This isn’t Hollywood. The play gets put on, and we have to come back to finish our class. Your castmates are your classmates.”
My face flushes, and my hands drop to my sides.
“I’m teaching skills that go beyond the stage. Cooperation, determination, compassion—all of those are important tenets I’m trying to instill in my students. If I think an important role might impact that for someone, then I might not give it to them. Far be it from me to exacerbate an issue.”
I scoff. “And here I thought we were making progress in our relationship. I guess you’re still mad about the Maiden thing—”
“I had no malicious intent when I posted the cast list,” he says in a dark voice that makes me cold all over. “But if you’d like me to punish you, I can think of more effective ways.”
He walks around me, crowding me until I’m forced to shuffle forward against the desk. I’m staring at the wall and his chair and the plethora of papers and ink pens scattered across the surface.
My breathing hitches when his words graze the shell of my ear. “Is that what you want, temptress? For your professor to punish your bad behavior?”
I slide my fingernails against the wood. “Should we—”
“Answer the question.”
My heart hammers inside my chest, tension threading through my muscles. “Yes,” I whisper faintly. “Yes, please.”
I hear him swallow. The change in our usual dynamic ramps up my pulse; I’m so used to being the one to initiate, in control, that I’m not totally sure what to do with myself.
Breathing becomes a concentrated effort the longer we stand there, a hairbreadth away, before he presses a hand against my lower back.
Pushing forward.
“Bend over,” he commands softly.
Resistance is a reflex. “But the class—”
“They won’t come in.”
“The door is open.”
“Then you’d better be quick.”
I’m breathing through my mouth when I obey.
“Stretch your arms out, and grab the edge of the desk.”
Slowly, I do that too, gripping the wood so tight that my hands cramp. Excitement swims in my stomach, making me extra sensitive when he finally slides his fingers over my hips, down the sides of my thighs.
“You have no idea what you fucking do to me,” he groans, moving all the way to my feet.
He lifts them one at a time, dragging my boots off and letting them fall to the floor with a resounding thud I feel in my gut.
“My productions are business only. I don’t make personal decisions when it comes to casting, and I would never use your passion as some sort of correctional device—not your passion for the stage at least.”
Both his hands glide up the outsides of my legs, shoving my skirt up over my hips. His palms are cold but warm the longer he caresses me.
“Not getting the lead isn’t a reflection of you. It just means we had a lot of talented people, and I tried to be fair.”
I raise up on tiptoe, blood pumping like lava through my extremities. He hooks his icy fingers in the waistband of my tights and drags them toward my feet with painstaking measures. Each new inch of exposed skin is caressed by his hot breath, making my pulse ratchet up between my thighs.
This is the most reckless he’s ever been with me, and I can’t deny that I like it. A lot. Or that I needed this.
“Doing okay?” he murmurs, right against the back of my thigh.
I swallow. Nod.
“Words, Elle.”
“I’m fine,” I breathe.
“If you want me to stop—”
“Didn’t you say this was a punishment?” I ask, turning to look over my shoulder at him. “Quit fucking around and—”
The first blow comes out of nowhere, a stinging sensation that ripples the meat of my ass. I drop my head, my mouth falling open.
My toes curl against the floor.
“Good?”
Again, I nod and then remember his request. “Yes, that was—”
Another strike against my ass, slightly higher than the last but still in the perfect spot. A surge of annoyance pulses in my stomach at the thought of him doing this with someone before me, and I grit my teeth when he lands a third and fourth smack.
The hits are light, but their bite sends liquid heat through my limbs. Pressure builds in my pussy, catching me a little off guard with how quickly it shows up. Each subsequent slap makes my body quiver, and I’m practically trembling when he pauses next.
“In a small-scale production like Othello, I want a lead who can share the stage so everyone’s part feels equal. You’d have eclipsed the entire cast if I made you Desdemona.”
Sutton delves between my legs, rubbing my clit and then exploring me. I let out a strangled noise, barely able to concentrate on his words.
He tsks, wiping a drenched finger on my ass. “Such a temptress, getting wet so easily. Do you enjoy being punished that much, Ms. Anderson?”
When I don’t answer, the spanking gets harder. He delivers another series of slaps, soothing my inflamed skin with his cool, soaked fingers.
His breathing is labored. It’s all I can hear above my own as I grasp the desk so tight my knuckles are white and going numb.
My mind drifts to the hallway and auditorium. Will no one really come this way? He’s stationed at the very end of the hall, but still. Worry and adrenaline pierce my mind, fighting with the bliss, until he inserts two fingers, drawing an orgasm out of me when he curls them.
I pant, breathless, as he eventually withdraws and barely notice him retrieving a bottle of lotion from his desk. I hiss when he slathers it over my inflamed skin, smoothing in slow circles.
“Feel better?” he murmurs, dragging his free hand over the back of my head like he’s petting me.
For some reason, I find it incredibly comforting. I don’t know that I agree with his assessment, but I suppose it’s not my call either. A part is a part, and he’s the director.
He smiles when I nod, then adjusts my clothing.
“Good. Now get back out there. We have a show to put on.”