Chapter 36 Bechora
“We should be doing something, ” I grumbled, as I paced in front of Caulder’s desk. “It’s been weeks since we found that list and confirmed the missing students’ files were also missing.”
“What do you propose we do?” he asked, eyes tracking me from where he sat in the chair behind his desk.
“I don’t know! Something… Anything. Instead of just sitting here waiting around for who knows what.”
“Bechora.”
“What?” I snapped, pausing to turn and look at him.
“The best thing you can do right now is work on gaining control of your magic. You need to be ready when the time comes to fulfill the prophecy.”
My shoulders sagged, head dropping forward as I let out a sigh. “I know. I just… I don’t like feeling like I’m sitting on the sidelines doing nothing, while bad things are happening around me. That’s not who I am.”
“Come here,” he said softly.
I shuffled around his desk until I was standing in front of him. Caulder shifted his chair back slightly before grabbing me by the waist and sitting me on his desk in front of him.
“This isn’t the human realm where you can use your words and fists alone,” he said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before cupping my face in his hand.
“Whatever is happening with these students, the Dean, the king… the prophecy, we will figure it out and put a stop to it, but you need to learn to control your magic first.”
I placed my hands on either side of me and gripped the edge of the desk, leaning into his touch.
“I know,” I sighed. “I’m trying, I really am.
I just feel like I’m getting nowhere with my magic, too.
Nothing Archer’s translated from the journal my mother left me has been helpful, and I’m just… failing.”
“You’re not failing,” he replied, shifting his hand to lift my chin until my eyes met his.
“Trying to master four abilities and any others you may copy, in a fraction of the time it takes your peers to master one or two, isn’t failure.
” I opened my mouth to argue, and he cut me off with a stern look.
“I understand the urgency. I’m not denying that you need to master them so much more quickly than if you were simply another student at the Academy.
I’m simply saying to give yourself some grace. ”
“I still need to feel like I’m doing something productive,” I insisted, my voice tight with frustration.
“And you are, Bechora,” he countered softly, maintaining eye contact. “Between classes and our sessions, you’re learning to control the abilities you’ve copied permanently. You just need to work on maintaining that control when your emotions are running high.”
“How do you propose I do that, Professor? ” I snarked.
Caulder’s thumb caressed my jawline, and his other hand moved to my thigh.
“I may have a few ideas for that.” His eyes held mine, a silent challenge in their depths.
“We start by pushing your boundaries,” he murmured, thumb still tracing lazy circles on my jaw.
His words sent a jolt through me, a shiver of anticipation mixed with apprehension.
“What if we raise the stakes in a controlled environment?”
My breath hitched as the hand resting on my thigh began to move, sliding up my leg in slow, deliberate exploration.
His fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, causing me to shiver.
My hands gripped the edge of his desk tighter as growing desire pushed out every thought in my head.
Caulder’s nostrils flared, as if he could smell the growing wetness between my thighs.
“Summon a flame in your hand, Bechora,” he ordered, dropping his other hand from my face and grabbing my other thigh.
“Wha—”
“Flame,” he repeated.
I blinked my eyes, trying to clear away the fog of desire that had descended at his touch. Letting go of his desk with my left hand, I raised it, palm up, and called forth a flame. It sparked and sputtered to life before forming a fiery sphere barely the size of a baseball.
“Good,” the words seemed to rumble from his chest. “Now, hold it. Don’t let it go out or change size, no matter what.”
His hands began to inch up my thighs again, sliding beneath my uniform skirt. My breath hitched again, my focus wavering with every inch his hands traveled. The flame flickered, shrinking slightly, and I had to clamp down on my runaway thoughts, forcing myself to push more energy into it.
“Maintain, Bechora,” his voice was a low growl, barely a whisper, yet it seemed to echo through his office.
His thumbs found the elastic of my underwear, tracing the delicate fabric lightly.
My thighs tried to clamp shut, and Caulder chuckled, sliding his hands down to grip them and pull them apart before he moved them back to dip a finger beneath the lace of my panties.
A soft moan escaped me, and I bit my bottom lip trying to regain my composure. The flame sputtered once more.
“Don’t lose it,” he urged, voice laced with a dangerous edge that spiked my desire.
His finger danced along the edge of my warmth, not quite touching, yet promising every delicious sensation. My hips shifted involuntarily on the desk in a silent plea for more. My entire body hummed with tension as a desperate ache built in my core.
“Caulder, I… I can’t,” I managed to choke out, the flame in my hand beginning to waver.
“You can,” he countered, his eyes dark with intensity. “Focus. You need to learn to control yourself, control your magic, even when the distractions are overwhelming. This is exactly what we’re trying to achieve.”
His touch intensified, a teasing press against my throbbing core, and a gasp tore from my throat.
The flame in my palm flared erratically, then dimmed, threatening to extinguish completely.
My entire body trembled under his probing touch, a delicious agony that had me squirming on the cool surface of the desk.
My breathing was shallow, ragged gasps that did little to soothe the fire building within me.
The flame in my hand was a tiny, defiant beacon, flickering precariously, a direct mirror to the precarious hold I had on my own control.
His finger, still tracing the delicate edge of my most sensitive skin, shifted, pressing ever so lightly against the entrance, not quite breaching it, but offering the tantalizing promise of more.
My hips arched upward reflexively, betraying my desperation.
The flame in my hand dipped, shrunk to a mere spark, threatening to vanish completely.
“Control,” he whispered, his other hand moving from my thigh to rest gently on my waist, pulling me ever so slightly closer. “Keep it steady. Focus on the flame.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to re-center, trying to force my runaway magic, and my even more runaway body, back into submission.
The image of the missing students, of the prophecy, of the looming threat, flashed through my mind, a desperate anchor in a sea of sensation.
With a surge of renewed will, I pushed energy into the flame, coaxing it back to a hesitant, baseball-sized sphere.
Caulder let out a pleased hum that vibrated through my core.
“Good girl,” he praised, his finger continuing its soft, maddening dance, moving now in slow agonizing circles around my soaked entrance.
He leaned back slightly, eyes still burning into mine.
“Can you continue to hold the flame, Bechora? Can you hold this intensity without breaking it?”
The question hung heavy in the air, a steel trap closing around my already fraying composure.
Every nerve ending in my body screamed, stretched taut by his calculated torment.
His finger slipped inside me, causing me to groan.
My hips bucked instinctively, and the flame in my hand flared, momentarily forgotten by the overwhelming rush of sensation.
My vision swam as his finger began to slide gently in and out of me, tearing a guttural moan from my throat.
“Easy,” he murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble against the tempest raging inside me. “Maintain the flame.”
But the flame was a distant memory. His finger moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each slow thrust sending fresh waves of heat rippling through me.
My body was a live wire, humming with an almost unbearable tension.
My head lolled back, exposing the sensitive skin of my throat, as my mouth opened on a silent scream.
I was on the brink, dangling precariously over an abyss of pure sensation.
“Caulder, please…” I begged, the word ragged, broken.
My magic, which had flared in response to the intense pleasure, now sparked uselessly around my hand, unable to coalesce into the steady flame he demanded.
My core tightened, a delicious agony that promised imminent release.
Every nerve ending screamed for more, for an end to this exquisite torture.
His thumb, still pressing against my clit through the fabric, increased its pressure, mimicking the rhythm of his finger inside.
I whimpered, my entire body convulsing. The peak was inevitable, unstoppable.
I felt it building, a crescendo of pleasure that would sweep everything else away.
Then, just as I was about to shatter, he withdrew.
I let out a frustrated sound, somewhere between a whimper and groan.
“The flame went out, Bechora,” he stated, voice devoid of any hint of the intense passion that’d just consumed me.
“Asshole,” I muttered in response.
Caulder chuckled darkly and raised a brow, leaning forward to grip my thighs again. “Summon the flame, Bechora,” he commanded, sending a shiver up my spine. “If you can maintain it, maybe I’ll let you cum.”
My eyes snapped to his, a fresh wave of heat, this one born of fury and renewed desire, surging through me as I tried to repress the shudder his words sent through me. “You really are an asshole,” I grumbled, summoning another flaming sphere to my palm.
He merely smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. “Am I? Or am I simply helping you learn how to maintain control? Now, hold the flame just as it is. You want to cum? Earn it.”
He didn’t give me a chance to respond. Releasing my thighs, he slid off his chair and kneeled on the floor between my spread legs.
Pushing my skirt over my hips, he slid a finger under the waistband of my underwear and ripped them from my body.
I fought to keep my focus on the flame as he dove forward, lapping at my soaked sex.
My stomach clenched as his tongue swiped through my slit before circling my clit.
A gasp tore from my throat, the flame in my hand flickering violently, threatening to vanish. “N-no, don’t,” I choked out, desperately trying to steady it.
He lifted his head, a single, exasperated sigh escaping his lips. “The flame, Bechora. It was almost out.” His gaze was stern, unwavering. “Control!”
I nodded frantically, panting, focusing every ounce of my will on the incandescent sphere. It steadied, glowing with renewed, albeit fragile, intensity.
“There you go,” he praised, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Now, let’s try again.”
And he did. His tongue found me once more, this time more insistent, delving deeper, swirling, teasing, tugging.
Sensations exploded through me, blinding me, deafening me to everything but the rhythmic suction, the skilled dance of his mouth.
My body arched, bucked against his face, desperate for more.
The fire in my hand spasmed, shrinking rapidly as my focus shattered.
He pulled away again, his expression unyielding. “Bechora! Flame.”
Tears of frustration pricked my eyes. It was impossible!
How could I possibly maintain magical control when my body was screaming for release?
But the stubborn challenge in his eyes wouldn’t let me give up.
I forced myself to visualize the fire, feeding it energy, pushing back against the delicious ache in my core, forcing the flame into a steady glow.
“Better,” he acknowledged, a hint of approval in his tone. “Again.”
This time, as he returned to me, I fought.
I gritted my teeth, digging the nails of my free hand into the desk, focusing solely on the warmth and light in my palm.
His mouth worked wonders, relentlessly driving me higher, closer to the edge.
My muscles trembled, a fierce moan vibrating in my chest, but I held on.
The flame flickered, dimmed, but I forced it back, drawing on every last ounce of my willpower.
He continued, his pace relentless, pushing me closer and closer, and I focused on nothing but the tiny sun in my hand.
My vision swam, punctuated by flashes of white, my body vibrating with an almost painful intensity.
My hips ground against his face, desperate and raw.
The peak was here, undeniable, overwhelming.
“Caulder, I can’t—” I cried out, losing the battle to hold back.
“You can,” he whispered against me, his voice rough with triumph. “Hold it, Bechora. Hold your flame.”
And I did. Against all odds, amidst the shattering waves of pleasure, I held it. As my body convulsed around his tongue, as every nerve exploded in a magnificent orgasm that stole my breath and left me gasping, the flame in my hand remained. It danced, it swayed, but it did not extinguish.
When the last tremors subsided, I lay panting against the desk, limp and utterly spent, but the small fiery orb still burned brightly in my hand.
Caulder lifted his head, his eyes shining with a deep, primal satisfaction.
He was breathing heavily, his lips glistening.
He met my dazed gaze, a slow, proud smile spreading across his face.