14. Cat
14
CAT
I ’m amazed at my own boldness in asking Dean personal questions.
Even more amazed that he answered.
To me, that interaction was more shocking than Dean’s apparent superpower for multiple orgasms.
He looked like the same devastated ten-year-old he must have been the day he came home to that empty house. He struggled to keep his face stern and composed, but I could see the awful pain in his eyes.
Dean’s past does not justify his actions. However, it certainly explains them.
He’s never known anything but shame and abandonment .
I understand the torment of a cold and demanding father, and the absence of a mother. But unlike Dean, I had Zoe by my side, always loving me, always keeping me safe.
Dean was completely alone.
My heart aches for him.
I wish I had Zoe here to tell me what the fuck to do about Lola Fischer. If Lola disliked me before, it’s nothing compared to her hatred of me after her disgrace in the Quartum Bellum —eliminated after the first round, she’s biting the head off anybody who even mentions it.
And she’s harassing me every chance she gets.
Which is very inconvenient with exams right around the corner.
I’m trying to study in the library when she attacks me yet again.
Rakel and I have our textbooks and half-finished papers spread out across our table. Rakel is arguing with me over the benefits of a wireless security system. We’re so engrossed in quiet debate that I don’t even hear Lola and Dixie creeping up behind me until Lola dumps an entire bottle of milk over my head.
My textbooks and papers are drenched, not to mention my hair and blouse. The milk is cold and sickly sticky, dripping down i nto my eyes. The papers are all ruined, the ink smeared into oblivion.
“Oops,” Lola giggles, shaking out the last few drops all over my history textbook.
Rakel leaps up from her seat, immediately shoved back down by the burly, freckled Dixie Davis.
I look up at Lola with cold fury.
“It’s your fault you lost,” I tell her. “You’re a shit leader.”
Lola’s smirk turns into a snarl of rage. She has such pretty, doll-like features that anger distorts them to a disproportionate degree. She’s like a harpy, transformed by fury.
She opens her mouth to attack me in return, only to be interrupted by Miss Robin’s surprisingly sharp voice.
“What happened here?” she demands.
Lola instantly reverts to her innocent smile and sing-song voice.
“Cat spilled her milk,” she says sweetly. “I told her food isn’t allowed in the library.”
“She spilled it on her own head?” Miss Robin says coldly. “How ingenious of her.”
Lola shrugs shamelessly. “She’s so clumsy. ”
“You’re banned from the library,” Miss Robin says without hesitation. “For one month.”
“What!?” Lola shrieks. “How am I supposed to study for our exams?”
“I really don’t give a shit,” Miss Robin says. “Now get out before I make you mop up this mess with that fancy little blouse you’re wearing.”
Lola is white with anger, her expression venomous.
The usually shy and gentle Miss Robin faces her unafraid, her hazel eyes snapping and her arms crossed over her chest.
Lola is wise enough not to argue further. She and Dixie skulk off down the ramp, while Rakel tries to gather up the sodden textbooks.
“Sorry about that,” I say to Miss Robin.
I really do feel awful about soaking the table and rug in milk, even though it wasn’t exactly voluntary.
I’m still dripping milk right now, which makes it difficult to help clean up. Also, my soaked white shirt is now transparent, a fact the boys at the neighboring table have not failed to notice. Corbin Castro mutters something to Thomas York and they both laugh. My face burns .
“There’s paper towels over by my desk,” Miss Robin tells Rakel kindly. “Cat, why don’t you come upstairs with me. I’ve got a sink; you can clean up. You can borrow a cardigan, too.”
“Thank you,” I say gratefully.
I follow Miss Robin up the spiraling ramp to the topmost level, trying unsuccessfully not to leave a trail of droplets along the rug.
The library is always chilly, which is probably why Miss Robin wears three or four sweaters layered over top of each other, the sleeves long enough to hang down over her hands. The milk was fresh out of the dining hall fridge, and I’m shivering.
Miss Robin stretches up on tiptoe to pull down the ladder that leads to her private loft.
I feel a little awkward following her up. I’ve never been inside a teacher’s quarters before.
The compact, circular space sits directly under the pointed roof. I notice at once how tidy and organized she is, not a single cup or book out of place. Despite the fact that the library is stuffed with thousands of books, Miss Robin keeps dozens more upon her personal shelves. A low couch, a narrow bed, and a hot plate all share the same space.
No art hangs upon the walls—instead, I see dozens of the weathered maps and schematics upon which Miss Robin labors in pursuit of her doctoral thesis on ancient monasteries. She ha s them pinned up all around, several marked with post-it notes.
“Don’t tell the Chancellor about those,” Miss Robin says with a conspiratorial smile. “I don’t think you’re supposed to stick a post-it to a seven-hundred-year-old document, but to be frank, they were hardly in pristine condition when I got them. The archives are an absolute mess. Half those charts were soaked in mouse urine and god knows what else.”
She opens a hobbit-sized door leading to her bathroom.
“Watch your head,” she laughs. “I think they expected all the librarians to be pocket-sized.”
“I am, so I’ll be fine,” I assure her.
I head into the bathroom, which is just as scrupulously clean as the rest of Miss Robin’s space. A fresh pat of soap sits upon a pristine dish, and the hand-towels are freshly laundered, folded neatly over their bar.
I can smell Miss Robin’s perfume. I can’t resist locating the glass bottle sitting on the toiletry shelf. Givenchy L’Interdit—orange blossom, jasmine, and dark vetiver. Exotic and rather thrilling for a librarian. But of course, I’ve long suspected that Miss Robin has hidden stores of adventurousness inside of her. After all, she came to this lonely island to work, and she certainly had no trouble telling Lola to fuck off .
I grin, remembering Lola’s livid face, as I carefully set the bottle back on its shelf.
Then I strip off my sodden shirt and rinse it out at the sink. Wringing it dry as best I can, I hang it over the rack and then wash the milk from my hair and face.
I hope Miss Robin doesn’t mind me using all her towels.
As I straighten up, I see something that even Miss Robin’s careful cleaning must have missed—a splash of red on the tiles behind the faucet.
It looks like blood.
I rub my fingertip across the spot. It stains the skin red. I inhale a faint chemical scent.
Frowning, I wash my hands again.
A faint patch of red remains on my fingertip.
I don’t mean to be so nosy. Whether it’s my Spy training or whether I had this incessant curiosity inside of me all along, I can’t help feeling that I’m missing something here. Something tantalizing, just out of reach . . .
I don’t want to be suspicious of Miss Robin. She’s always been kind to me. In fact, she saved me from Rocco just last year. I don’t think it was any coincidence that she snatched my bookbag out of Dax Volker’s hands right when Rocco was about to discover me hiding in the shelves .
Quickly, I carry my damp shirt and the used towels out to Miss Robin.
“Better?” She smiles.
“Yeah, thank you,” I say, standing there shyly in my bra.
Miss Robin doesn’t make me feel weird about it. Instead, she passes me a soft, warm cardigan that smells as freshly laundered as the towels.
“Keep it as long as you need,” she says, smiling. “As you can tell, I have quite a few of them.”
“Really, thank you so much,” I say. “You always look out for me.”
“Well, I liked Zoe. And I’m glad to see you following in her footsteps.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Zoe wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted,” Miss Robin says. “I see that in you, too.”
I have the distinctly uncomfortable sensation that for all I guess about Miss Robin, she sees far more about me.
“Right . . .” I say hesitantly.
“How is Zoe, by the way?”
“Very happy. She moved to Los Angeles with Miles. ”
“Good.” Miss Robin smiles. “I’m glad Rocco is no longer an impediment.”
Now I feel a distinct chill. Miss Robin looks as sweet as ever, but there can be no doubt that she feels not the slightest particle of sympathy for the untimely demise of Rocco Prince.
“Well,” she says, “I’d better get back to work. I’ll walk you down, Cat.”
I follow Miss Robin back down the ladder, uncertain how much I’ve enjoyed the added intimacy between us.
When I meet Dean that evening in the Bell Tower, he confronts me at once.
“What the fuck is this I hear from Corbin Castro that Lola Fischer dumped a bottle of milk on your head?”
“Yeah, she sucks.” I shrug, not really wanting to discuss it.
“Does she have a problem with you?” Dean demands.
I hadn’t told him that Lola was harassing me. Since Dean and I don’t share any classes, he hadn’t witnessed her aggression firsthand.
“She a little bit hates my guts,” I admit.
“Why?” Dean says .
I sigh. “No good reason.”
Dean’s eyes glint with that electric gleam I know so well. He says, in his deadliest voice, “I’ll deal with her.”
“No!” I beg. “Seriously Dean, please don’t. She’s just an asshole. I don’t want it to turn into a whole thing.”
Dean looks at me, stern and unsmiling. He grabs the ring of my collar and pulls me close, so I’m pressed against his furnace-like chest, having to tilt my chin all the way up to look into his face.
“She should know that you belong to me, little kitten,” he says softly. “That means she has no right to fuck with you. Because when she fucks with you, she fucks with me.”
Dean kisses me.
He’s still gripping the collar. The compression on my throat makes my head spin.
He releases me.
“Strip,” he says, as he selects the next song he wants to pla y.
I remove my clothes with trembling fingers. The closer it gets to Christmas, the colder the Bell Tower becomes, the chill let in through the gaps in the walls. But I know the minute I’m touching Dean, his blazing heat will warm me to the bone.
I’m shivering with anticipation more than with cold.
I can hardly stand the hours leading up to when I see Dean each night.
Our encounters in the Bell Tower have become more real than actual life. Everything else feels like a floating dream, compared to the intense sensation I experience here. I’m asleep in real life. I’m only truly awake with him.
“Kneel,” Dean orders once I’m naked.
I sink to my knees on the rough wooden boards, looking up at him.
Dean has likewise stripped off his clothes. He towers over me like a god. I want to be on my knees before him. I want to worship him.
His cock is already heavy and swollen, anticipating the touch of my lips.
“Suck my cock like you did last time,” he orders. “Softly.”
I know what he wants—he wants to see if we can replicate what we did last time .
I’m equally curious.
I run my fingers lightly down his shaft and flick my tongue gently around the head of his cock. As it begins to reach its full thickness and length, the pale skin stretching tight over the head, I take it in my mouth. I keep the pressure light, soft, and steady. I start to bring him to the edge, but slowly . . . holding him back as long as I can.
Dean breathes deep and slow, using his substantial powers of concentration.
I’ve never met anyone as disciplined as Dean. He has an intense level of willpower—I believe that’s the key to him taking control of this usually involuntary process.
His legs begin to shake, and he throws his head back and groans. His cock twitches and spasms in my mouth. Only a little clear fluid comes out on my tongue—he’s held back his actual load. I smile around his cock, knowing that means he’s going to be able to cum again.
Sure enough, his cock only grows harder, and I keep sucking it slowly, hardly able to hold back my grin.
I fucking love this.
I love making him cum over and over .
I increase the pace just a little, having learned last time that I can increase the intensity of each subsequent orgasm as long as I ramp it up gradually.
Dean thrusts his hands in my hair and fucks my face, even and slow.
I love when he lets me work, but I also love when he takes control like that, pushing his cock in deep until it hits the back of my throat, and then pushing it even a little further. It’s rough and dominant. It makes all the muscles stand out on his chest and arms. I grip the back of his thighs, gagging helplessly.
He cums again, holding his cock in the back of my throat while it pulses. He gives out a deep, guttural moan, a primal sound that makes my pussy soaking wet.
Dean releases me.
“Come here,” he orders.
I follow him over to the stack of cushions.
“Get on all fours,” he says.
I obey, waiting while he moves around behind me, gathering up some unseen objects.
Every time I come up here, Dean has some new plan in store for me. I can never guess what he’ll do to me. That endless invent iveness, and endless pushing of boundaries, is what keeps me in a fever pitch of anticipation.
Dean kneels on the cushions next to me, running his hand possessively down my spine and groping my ass. I wait, mentally begging him to take his hand down lower and rub me where I really want.
He knows. He knows exactly what I’m silently pleading for.
He slips his hand between my thighs, cupping my pussy. I groan softly. He parts my pussy lips and slides his fingers back and forth across my clit.
“Ohhh,” I moan.
“You like that, little kitten?”
“Yesss,” I sigh.
“What about this?”
He slips his finger inside me. I’m already so swollen and sensitive inside that his finger feels as big as a cock. I groan even louder.
He soaks his fingers in my wetness, and then he rubs his thumb a little higher, over the bud of my ass.
I stiffen up, instantly uncomfortable.
“Shh,” Dean says, his other hand on the small of my back, holding me in place .
He rubs circles around my asshole, then applies gentle pressure.
My whole body is rigid. I can feel my face flaming.
Dean has never touched my ass before. I know how much he hates anything dirty. I showered right before I came, but I’m paranoid that I might still be unclean somehow.
“Stay still,” he growls.
He begins to push his thumb into my ass.
The pressure is intense. I try to squirm away, but he’s holding me still with that heavy hand on my back.
I’m embarrassed, almost panicking.
The sensation is like nothing I’ve felt before. It feels totally wrong, and yet at the same time . . . it also feels good. Which only humiliates me all the more.
I close my eyes, unable to even look at the floor in front of me.
Dean’s finger is all the way in my ass now. It’s so intense that I can hardly stand it. It seemed to take ten minutes to push it in, and ten minutes to pull it out again.
Finally, my ass can relax again, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut, too embarrassed to look at him.
I hear Dean moving behind me. I hope that was the end of it .
Instead, I feel something else pressed up against my anus. Something bigger, and colder.
“Dean!” I squeal in protest.
“Quiet,” he growls.
He pushes the plug against my ass. It’s too big to go in, despite the fact that he’s lubricated it.
“Relax,” he orders.
Immediately, without conscious thought, I obey him. My ass relaxes enough for him to begin to push the plug inside.
If I thought his finger was intense, it was nothing compared to this. The plug feels the size of a fist. I’m impaled.
“It’s too big!” I squeal.
Dean gives a low laugh. “It’s tiny,” he says.
Dean never lies, and yet I can’t believe that. Every nerve in that highly sensitive area is screaming from this unprecedented friction.
Dean reaches down with his other hand to rub my clit while he pushes the plug inside.
The pleasure of his touch helps so much. As I’ve already learned, sexual pleasure can override an immense amount of discomfort .
The sexual sensation seems to confuse my brain, convincing it that not only are Dean’s fingers on my clit pleasurable, but also the plug itself. It seems to re-write the neuron response.
The plug stretches and stretches me, until all of a sudden it sets in place as if it were made for me.
I sigh with relief.
“How does that feel?” Dean asks.
I consider. The plug gives me an acute sense of fullness and pressure. But there isn’t any pain—it fits perfectly.
“It’s . . . strange,” I say.
“Good,” Dean growls. “Now climb on my cock.”
“Right now?” I squeak. “With this?”
“That’s right,” he says. “This is for me, not you. I want to feel it while you ride me.”
Dean lays back against the cushions, his cock jutting upward, expecting me to climb on.
Swallowing hard, I shift positions.
Every tiny movement makes the plug move inside of me, reigniting the nerves, reminding me of its existence.
It’s a little uncomfortable .
But also . . . it feels good in a way I’ve never felt before. An entirely new sensation.
I straddle Dean, worried that the plug might fall out.
No chance of that—the flared shape keeps it exactly in place inside me.
Slowly, I lower myself down on his cock.
“Oh, fuuuck,” I groan.
Dean’s cock has never felt so enormous, not even the first time.
There’s no space inside me for both his cock and the plug, and yet I’m forcing them both in.
The tightness is insane.
Dean groans simultaneously, feeling the pressure and grip as intensely as I am.
“God yes,” he moans. “I can feel it rubbing against my cock.”
I slide all the way down on him. Then, carefully, I begin to rid e him.
The sensation is so extreme that we can barely breathe, let alone speak.
It feels good. I mean really fucking good.
I’m ashamed how good it feels, but it’s too pleasurable to care. I want more.
I increase the pace, and Dean instantly begins to cum. He grips my waist, making a desperate moaning sound, his whole body shaking beneath me.
I fucking love being on top of him.
I love riding a man like Dean.
Every tendon stands out on his neck, his chest and shoulders swollen with the effort of fucking me. He looks more powerful and muscular than ever before.
And yet, he’s completely at my mercy.
I’m the one dominating him now. I’m the one in control of his pleasure.
I can ride him faster or slower, I can grind or bounce on his cock.
I can tease the pleasure out of him at my will. He’s shaking beneath me, kissing me ferociously, utterly obsessed with me in this moment.
I think I could ask him for anything, and he’d give it to me .
I could never get this rush fucking a lesser man.
The more violent and vicious Dean behaves, the more of a thrill it is to see him like this: gasping, vulnerable, and totally wrapped up in me.
I’m high on it.
I make him cum over and over, and every time he does, I cum too, because I’m drunk with the eroticism, with this sense of omnipotence.
I will never be physically strong, not like Dean.
But I feel powerful when I have power over Dean.
“You like that?” Dean growls, his hands gripping my waist. “You like riding me with that plug up your ass?”
He said it was for him, but he knows how good it feels for me, too. It’s a doubling of pleasure, like I’m being fucked twice over.
“Yes,” I admit, blushing with the taboo of it. “I fucking love it.”
“Good girl,” Dean says.
I cum again, melting with pleasure and satisfaction.
“I want to see it,” Dean says .
He flips me over and shoves my face down in the pillows, pulling my hips up so my ass is in the air. He drives into me from behind, fucking me hard and fast.
I know he’s looking at the plug in my ass. I should feel embarrassed by that.
But right now I don’t give a fuck. We’re way past shyness. I want Dean to take his pleasure out of me any way he likes. I want my body to be his plaything.
“Harder,” I beg. “Fuck me harder.”
I want more, more, more.
There’s never enough.
Dean roars as he explodes into me, what feels like a gallon of cum pumping out of him.
I turn my face into the pillows, grinning with delight.