Jackson
If there had not been people sitting in the lobby doing their usual pervy spying business, Jackson would have run to the elevator. He was late. He was never late. That was one of his things, like having excellent dress sense and immaculate hair. And to be late tonight of all nights, when he owed it to Elle to be on time…
He re-gripped his bouquet of native flowers and power walked toward the elevator. If she can forgive me, and I hope to God she can, this time tomorrow I might be a completely different man.
The thought made him dizzy.
“Evening, Jackson,” the elderly man whose name Jackson could never quite remember, called from the bench nearest to the elevator. “Are those for Elle?”
“Yes,” he said tightly, pounding the elevator button.
“Hmm, thought they might be for your lovely mother. I saw she went out tonight, all dressed up, she was.” The old man (was it Gary? Greg? Clegg?) eyed Jackson accusingly. “Where did she go?”
“I don’t know,” Jackson lied, pounding the elevator button again. “She’s my mother, I’m not hers.”
His throat was beginning to feel tight from stress. This was their chance, his and Elle’s, to be intimate for the first time in weeks, and he’d been late. He had a very, very good reason for being late, but he couldn’t tell Elle that. Not until he’d figured out the perfect time. The perfect moment to show her what he’d done—
“Is something wrong?” Clegg or whoever asked.
“With what?”
“With your wrist? Why’s it all red like that?”
Jackson swore and re-adjusted his watch strap. The guy had told him it needed to stay bandaged, but if Elle saw white gauze peeking out from the leather she’d be suspicious. He’d just have to tolerate the pain. He was good at that.
“There is nothing wrong with my wrist,” he told the old man. “Insect bite.”
“Ah, annoying little buggers, aren’t they? Anyway, do you know when your mum gets back? I have some home-grown garlic she might like. She was talking about making Coq Au Vin and I thought it might help with the flavour.”
“I don’t know when she’ll return,” Jackson said flatly. Coq Au Vin indeed. He’d never seen his mother cook anything more complicated than a Pisco Sour. And when had she found the time to twist this old geezer around her little finger? How did she consistently earn the favor of every man she met when she couldn’t spare a single scrap of kindness for the love of his life?
The elevator arrived, and Jackson stepped into it gratefully. “Have a lovely evening,” he called out to his mother’s admirer.
“You too.” Greg/Clegg looked dejected and Jackson felt a little guilty. The old coot couldn’t help having a crush on his mother. Few people could. He still had to punch his friends for calling her a MILF.
“I’m sure Mère would love some garlic,” he told the old man. “If you bring it up tomorrow morning, she should be home.”
Greg/Clegg perked right up. “I’ll see you then. Night, Jax.”
Jackson cringed a little at the nickname, but let it ride. Many people were surprised, French as he was, that he was called Jackson. But there was no mystery behind that. His father was a great admirer of the paintings of Jackson Pollock. As names went it was easy to say in French and English. Jackson’s parents, and all his former countrymen pronounced the word as ‘Jacqusonne.’ Elle teased him about it sometimes, calling him Jacquie-Boy.
Elle. She had been a dream during the waking nightmare of the past few weeks. If he had not witnessed her patience toward his mother with his own eyes, he would have thought it impossible. Elle didn’t take shit from anyone, but she’d taken it from his mother, day in and day out, without complaining. Sure, she’d developed some fairly paranoid theories about his mother trying to ruin their relationship, but she didn’t know Valeraine enough to know that was just how she behaved around other women. There was no legitimate malice behind her meanness. That aside, there was no denying his mother had been horrible to her and his little warrior had accepted it with grace. She’d given up her home comforts, her sex life and her right to speak her mind to keep his mother happy. To keep him happy. What man could ask for more?
Jackson had been thinking about proposing for a long time. Too long, considering they had only been together a couple of years, but that was the nature of his love for Elle. She made him feel as though for the first time in his life, things were finally as they were meant to be. That sense had galvanized, rather than faded, with time. Then a moment had come three nights ago when he knew he needed to act. It wasn’t a spectacular evening. He and Elle had been at Bohemian with his mother, drinking Tempranillo and he had looked at Ellie, exhausted from work, in a dress and heels when he knew she would have given anything to be in her tracksuit pants on the couch, watching Planet Earth. But she was there with him and his mother, who kept quoting articles about how underfed women were more prone to breast cancer. And, as Jackson stared at Ellie, thinking how wonderful she was, she met his gaze, and instead of glaring at him the way he’d expected, her mismatched eyes saying ‘fuck you, pretty boy, I knew this relationship was going to be nothing but trouble,’ she smiled and winked at him, as though this was one big game they were playing together. And Jackson had known, all the way down to his bones, that he would marry her. Had to marry her.
It wasn’t an easy proposition, Elle had many legitimate qualms about marriage, her hatred of weddings not the least of them. So he’d done something he hoped would give him a chance of persuading her to be his bride. But before he showed her, before they did anything else, dear lord, they needed to fuck. Jackson didn’t think his mother was conspiring to separate them, but her constant presence in their apartment had been as erotic as a blow to the testicles. He and Elle hadn’t been intimate in weeks, the longest instance of celibacy they’d had to endure since he went to Lyon alone two years ago. The pent-up energy coming from his little warrior was palpable, she always grew edgy when she had to go without sex. Jackson would fuck her soundly first and then he’d consider his proposal.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered, tapping his foot in the elevator. “Hurry, hurry, hurry.”
Elle wasn’t the only one who was pent-up, his cock was already semi-hard against his thigh. What would she have in store for him? Bondage, role-play, or was she simply so horny she’d tear his clothes off and ride him like the hellion she was? He could barely wait to find out. The elevator pinged, and he ran, actually ran toward their door, eager as a child on Christmas morning. He opened the lock, swung the door open, and was on the brink of calling out to his love when two words stopped him in his tracks.
“You’re late.”
Elle was standing by the dining table, her hands braced on the back of one of the wooden chairs. Her clothes were the kind he liked best on her, a tight black skirt and a transparent blouse, simple and chic, displaying her elfin beauty to perfection. She’d pulled her silvery blonde hair into a chignon and applied red lipstick to her perfect bow mouth. She looked both elegant and unattainably sexual. Jackson knew at once who she was pretending to be; a teacher who never needed to shout to control her class. A teacher who was very disappointed with his behaviour. He’d told her to set the scene for their rendevous tonight, and she’d gone and picked his favorite one, his ultimate fantasy. His cock, so long deprived of these games, was now fully engorged.
“I’m so sorry, Miss, but—”
“I don’t want to hear any pathetic excuses.” Elle pointed a red-tipped finger to the floor. “Put your bag down and sit at the desk before I lose my temper.”
When they played this game, Jackson could obey her demands like a good boy, or he could push back, force her to take a harder hand in getting him to do what she wanted. It had been so long since they’d been alone together, all he wanted to do was comply, but considering he’d been late, playing the pig-headed rebel was the obvious choice.
Deliberately eyeing Elle’s nipples, he gave her the smile she swore used to make her want to punch him dead in the face. “I’m sorry, Miss Sahlstrom, I got stuck talking to a friend, but I brought you these.” He held up the flowers. “Does that make it better?”
Elle’s expression betrayed none of her usual delight in receiving bouquets of prickly native flowers. “No, it doesn’t. You can leave them by the door with your bag. Hurry up and do what I asked.”
Slowly, so she knew he was being obstinate, Jackson placed the flowers on the floor and removed his leather messenger bag, letting it thump down onto the wood panelling. Though she hadn’t asked him to, he removed his suit jacket and tossed that on the ground and began rolling up his sleeves.
“What was the next thing you wanted, Miss?” he said, adjusting the cuffs.
Elle strode forward, her pumps—fuck, she had to be wearing thigh high stockings—clicking authoritatively on the floor. “I wanted you here half an hour ago, and now you are here, your uniform looks even more disgusting than it usually does.”
Jackson looked down at himself. It had been a hot afternoon, and with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie askew, he really did look like a wayward schoolboy. “I’m sorry, Miss.”
Elle pursed her blood-red lips. “Jackson, do you know what happens when you’re late for detention and then you show up looking like a complete mess?”
Jackson stared at her. Her beautiful eyes, one blue and one hazel, were lined with black, and appeared twice as large as usual, and bright with barely restrained anger. It was a look Jackson knew well, it meant his girlfriend was going to hurt him. Strange how the thought made him hard to the point of throbbing. “What happens when I show up looking like a complete mess?” he asked, stroking a casual palm over his erection. Elle followed his hand and her gaze grew even sharper. “You make it worse. Sit.”
Grinning, Jackson swaggered over to the dining table, making the chair scrape loudly across the floor as he pulled it out, sitting down with his legs wide so Elle could see his cock straining through his slacks. “Now what?”
Elle came strutting back toward him, her small breasts bouncing inside her silk blouse. Jackson wanted to suck her nipples through the cloth. Hard.
“I should have thought that was obvious,” she said. “You’re here to write lines.”
She leaned over the dining table and tapped the open exercise book in front of him. Jackson looked down and saw she’d written: ‘I will behave in class.’ Please repeat one thousand times.
“A thousand times?” he moaned in genuine horror. “That’ll take me forever, Miss!”
“Good, you deserve it.”
“But I didn’t even do anything!”
Elle’s nostrils flared. “Oh, and Mr. Hiscott’s a liar, is he?”
“Probably. What am I supposed to have done?”
“I think you know the answer to that.” Elle bent even lower across the table. Jackson could see down her top, see the pale peaks of her breasts dangling inside her blouse. His cock pulsed against his thigh. This was like being a teenager, feeling so horny it hurt, needing pussy so fucking badly it was an obsession. He wanted to look away for his own sanity, but he was playing a belligerent shithead kid, not a pent-up man, so he kept his eyes on her tits. “I really don’t know what I’m supposed to have done, Miss Sahlstrom. Can you please tell me?”
Elle’s small pink tongue slid out to wet her lips. “Okay, Proveaux, I will. You, filthy little animal that you are, were caught with your hand up Elizabeth Montgomery’s skirt on school property.”
Oh. That was a good one. Jackson shot his girlfriend his most shit-eating grin. “Right, I forgot about that. But there was a good reason, Miss, she said she was hurting between her legs and she asked me if I could—”
Slap! Elle brought her palm down on the table so hard Jackson started. “I thought I told you I didn’t give a damn about your excuses, Proveaux. Enough talking, pick up your pen and write your lines.”
He did what she asked, selecting a blue biro and putting it to the page. He read that number—one thousand—again and winced. Sometimes when they played this game, Elle really did make him do homework. Trying to concentrate on maths problems while she strutted around, showing off her ass and tits was a special kind of torture and not one he was sure he could endure tonight. Especially not for a thousand lines. He raised his hand. “Miss, can’t I do half or something? My wrist already hurts from writing too much.”
Elle gave him an appraising smile. “I know exactly what boys are like, Jackson, and I very much doubt writing’s what’s making your wrist hurt. Now be quiet and start your lines.”
He obliged, at least he made sure it looked that way. Elle chose to sit on the dining table in front of him. He heard the swish of material and looked up to see she’d tugged up her skirt to examine her stockings, he could see between her legs and noted with a moan, that she was in fact wearing thigh highs. Her palm hit the table again. “Jackson! Concentrate!”
He returned to his lines, keeping his expression sulky, as though she had denied him what was rightfully his. He could feel Elle watching him, examining him, his chest, his face, his hands. In his mind she was studying him as though she really was a teacher, sorely tempted by her troublesome student, trying to decide what she could get away with.
We’re all alone, he imagined her thinking. Would he tell anyone? Would it be worth the risk? I’m so wet, I need something. He’s had sex, that much is clear, could he give me what I need?
He shook his head, trying to bring his mind back to the present. If his cock got any harder, it was going to bruise. He’d had teacher fantasies for most of his life, and having them enacted like this was always a turn on but, combined with weeks without sex it was making his head spin. As he wrote, Jackson prayed Elle would approach him, say something, do something so he could rebel. Rebel and gain some access to her body.
To his delight, Elle got off the table, smoothing her skirt down. “How are your lines coming along?”
“I’m doing them,” Jackson said mulishly. “What are you doing, Miss?”
“Would you like to add another hundred lines to your quota, Mr. Proveaux?”
“No,” Jackson said at once.
“Then don’t be a little shit.” She strode over to him, and paused behind his chair, out of his line of sight. “For the record, I was looking at you and wondering why it is your peers can’t stop throwing themselves at you.”
Jackson shrugged. “They think I’m good looking.”
“Oh, I’m sure they do.” Elle smoothed her hands lightly across his shoulders, making his flesh prickle and his penis throb. The taboo of being touched like this by his ‘teacher’ felt only a shade away from authentic. It never ceased to amaze Jackson how real they could make role-play feel, even in their own home, on the dining table where they ate baked camembert and discussed the evening news. Elle’s hands met at his neck and she seized the back of it firmly.
“Miss, uh, what are you doing?” he forced out.
“This is detention,” Elle said sweetly, increasing the pressure on his neck. “I ask the questions here, Proveaux, and I want to know if you like making girls chase you around?”
He closed his eyes, imagining the violation this alone would be if they really were teacher and student. “Yes.”
The pressure on his neck increased further. Elle was a tiny slip of a thing, but she worked outdoors, and she was much stronger than she looked. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, I like it, Miss Sahlstrom. I like making girls want me.”
“Of course you do, you filthy boy.” Her breath tickled his left ear and he smelled her citrusy perfume. “Miss…”
“Don’t interrupt me. Does it make you feel like a big man using their bodies however you like and then turning them away again?”
Elle was referring to the character he was playing, his sleazy reason for getting ‘detention,’ but they were touching on the truth here. Once upon a time Jackson’s favorite hobby had been to drive girls out of their minds. With his looks and charm he learned early on that it was easy to enchant them, gain their trust. He gave girls whatever they wanted, be it sweet words or rough sex, and then—when he knew they were thoroughly attached to him—he ended things, taking perverse enjoyment in their tears, their demands to know what happened. He’d tried that trick on Elle when they’d first met, and she’d thrown a drink in his face. She was the first one to see him for what he was; a lowlife who got off on giving pleasure and then taking it away because he felt empty inside. He’d almost lost her trust forever. Almost lost the heart of the most incredible woman in the world. The mark he’d had drilled into his left wrist burned, and his erection softened against his thigh.
“Jackson?” Elle’s voice was dangerously soft, her hand tight around his neck. “You came here for punishment and punishment is exactly what you’ll get if you don’t answer my question.”
He shook his head. He needed to keep his mind on their game.
“Yes,” he said, with an attempt at another smug grin. “I like how they chase me. I like how excited they get over me.”
Elle let go of him, coming to sit on the table on his right side. “I know you do, because you’re vain and self-absorbed, but those girls can’t give you what you need, can they?”
No, Jackson thought, but you can. You always could. You knew what I needed from the moment we met. A firm hand, standards to live up to, loyalty, and love. You loved me, Ellie, even when you said you hated me, you loved me. I could feel it.
But that wasn’t what Miss Sahlstrom wanted to hear. He rubbed his watch, the pain of his freshly tattooed skin pulling him back into focus. “The girls here do give me what I need, Miss.”
“And what’s that?”
Jackson and his throbbing cock decided to go large in the hope she’d punish him. “Sex.”
Elle looked amused. “You think what you’re doing with your little girlfriends is sex?”
“Yes.”
“It isn’t. It’s just pumping yourself inside some poor girl who thinks you’ll take her to the year twelve formal.”
“I don’t know, they seem to like it, Miss,” he said, eyeing her legs. “I could show you if you like?”
Elle stood up. “Get back to work, Proveaux.”
She strode away from him, toward the kitchen, her pert ass swishing in her pencil skirt. Jackson’s hand tightened on his biro, hard enough to snap it. He couldn’t wait any longer, this needed escalation, and he had just the thing to do it. Leaning back in his chair, so that his erection was prominent, he said, “Don’t you want to see what I’ve written, Miss?”
Elle walked back to him, and while she resolutely ignored his hard-on, he could see her cheeks were pink. She was as aroused as he was, she just had better willpower than he did. Fortunately he knew how to dissolve it. She glanced down at what he’d written and sucked in an outraged breath. Jackson smirked. He was quite proud of his handiwork. On the page in his neat loopy writing were lines like:
Miss Sahlstrom has nice tits.
Miss Sahlstrom is a prick-tease who wears slutty clothes to school on purpose.
Miss Sahlstrom wants my cock.
I bet Miss Sahlstrom has a tight blonde pussy. One of these days I’m gonna put my dick in it.
“Jackson,” Elle said with frosty calm.
“Yes, Miss?”
“Look at me.”
He turned his face up so he could see into her eyes. Elle stared at him, her red mouth set with fury and Jackson felt a small stab of fear. That was the thing about submission, it came laced with genuine emotional distress; fear, pain, frustration and humiliation. Elle wasn’t physically intimidating in the way he would be if their roles were reversed, but she possessed a white-hot bellicosity, an aura of toughness that even in her daily activities screamed ‘fuck with me and pay the price.’ Whenever that anger blared out at him single-pointedly, it was very unnerving.
“You think I want your silly, schoolboy cock, is that right?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Jackson said, leaning back even further in his chair. “I think you do. Why else would you be dressed like that?”
“Like what?”
Jackson looked her up and down, taking in every inch of her body. “Like you want dick.”
Elle looked down at his swollen crotch and smiled icily. “Take it out then.”
“M-miss?”
“If you think I want it,” she said, her voice growing colder by the second. “Then why don’t you take it out and show it to me?”
“I…I will.” Jackson let his chair slam back down onto four legs and fumbled with his fly, his hands as clumsy as though this was all real. He allowed himself a teenage thought; I hope she sucks it. He yanked down his briefs and produced his cock, clenching the base and holding it up for her inspection. “You like it, Miss?”
Elle bent forward, her lace top gaping so he could see her tits again. “That’s it, is it?”
“Yes,” Jackson said, unable to keep the indignation out of his voice. He was rather well-hung, and right now, having gone weeks without Elle’s cunt, his cock was blood dark and leaking at the tip. He could scarcely recall looking bigger.
Elle reached forward, slicking the drop of pre-cum at his swollen head with her palm. He grunted at the contact. “Miss. Miss—”
“That thing might impress the schoolgirls you run around with,” Elle whispered, rubbing her palm in tight circles around his cock. “But I’m a woman. When I want my itches scratched, I find a man who can last more than five minutes in the back of his mother’s Toyota Camry.”
Jackson knew she was improvising, but he grew hot with jealousy at the thought of some other guy touching her fine white skin. “I can last hours, Miss, ask anyone I’ve fucked.”
Elle smiled. “That’s what all men say, Jackson. All boys too, for that matter. How old are you?”
“I’ll be eighteen in December.”
“Then you’re just a child.” Elle’s hand slipped down to jack his shaft. She knew exactly how he liked it, tight and hard, and it felt so good he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out.
“You’re a boy,” Elle said delicately. “A big boy who thinks he’s special because he’s had a few women sit on his dick.”
“I’m a man,” he snarled, forgetting that was objectively true.
“No, you’re not,” Elle said, still pumping his shaft. “You don’t become a man by aging a few months and getting a new photo ID.”
“Then how…?”
“By knowing how to treat a woman.”
Jackson licked his dry lips. “And how…how do you want to be treated, Miss?”
Elle smiled indulgently at him. “Now that’s the right question, Jackson. Good boy.”
She let go of his cock and he moaned his disappointment.
“Oh shut up,” she said, perching on the dining table again. “Take off your tie and give it to me.”
Excess arousal had his fingers feeling as fat and unworkable as sausages. After a few frustrating seconds he managed to strip off his tie and hand it to her.
“Thank you,” Elle said lazily. She shifted across the table so that she was right in front of him, her ass on his exercise book, her high heels coming to rest lightly on his thighs.
She looped his tie around his neck and pulled him closer. His eyes were level with her nipples but, though he longed to touch her, he kept his hands where they were. His cock was still hanging out of his pants weeping a constant stream of pre-come. He was going to have to get his suit dry-cleaned.
“Now…” Elle mused. “What am I going to do with you, Proveaux?”
“I—”
“That wasn’t a question.”
Elle tugged the tie harder. “You think I’m pretty, don’t you?”
“Yes, Miss Sahlstrom.”
“You think about putting your big dumb cock in me, don’t you? Making me scream?”
Jackson nodded, unable to say the words out loud in case he grew even harder.
Elle smirked, digging her heels ever so slightly into his thighs. “Cat got your tongue, big boy?”
Jackson swallowed. “Miss, I-I can do that for you if you like? Fuck you?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Gripping both ends of the tie with one hand, she reached back and released her hair so it fell around her shoulders in a silvery wave. Jackson had a thing about Elle’s hair, touching it, playing with it, feeling it pool in his lap as she sucked his cock. He felt another droplet of his arousal soak into his pants. “Miss, can I please touch you?”
“Why would I let you do that?” Elle slipped a hand between her own legs, reaching under her skirt and stroking herself. Jackson was willing to bet his life she wasn’t wearing underwear. “Miss, please—”
“Be quiet.” Elle’s heels dug even deeper into his thighs, and the kiss of pain took Jackson’s need to breaking point.
“Miss, I-I want to touch you,” he blurted out. “Anywhere, anyhow. If you want that too, maybe we could…?”
She offered him a flat, condescending smile, the kind a bank teller gives a man who comes in with bags of loose change and dumps them all over the counter. “You’re too young, Proveaux. Too inexperienced.”
Jackson felt his cheeks heat, as though he really was an adolescent, as though he really was new to sex. “I’m not too young, just fucking let me do it. I can make it feel good, I promise. You can’t just sit here in front of me and not let me touch you!”
There was an edge of hysteria in his voice now. Elle removed her hands from under her skirt and placed a cold fingertip under his chin. He could smell her cunt on her fingers, and the warm musky scent made his blood boil. Kill me, he thought. This is going to kill me.
“Proveaux,” Elle said sweetly. “Do you know how to eat pussy?”
Jackson nodded, his heart beating fast. “Yes, Miss, I promise.”
She tilted his head up higher, her mouth inches from his own. “And if I grant you the monumental gift of touching me, will you tell anyone about it?”
Jackson swallowed. He wasn’t a born submissive, at least he didn’t think so, but one of the best things about Ellie’s kinks was that her commitment to dominating him was one hundred percent. When these games took place, she didn’t play at being a cruel teacher, or an unethical boss, she became whatever character she had chosen. She came alive within the role, her pussy creaming, her domineering nature blaring out of her in all directions. Feeding off her energy made it a thousand times easier for him to comply, lose his self-consciousness and utter things that would have been tough otherwise. Things like, “please let me do it, Miss. I-I promise it’ll be good and I won’t tell anyone.”
Elle ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it as though he was a puppy. Then she removed her heels from his thighs. “Kneel in front of me.”
It hurt, kneeling on the floor, but Jackson found it easy to ignore the pain in his knees as well as the pain in his left wrist when he looked between her legs and saw her bare, swollen cunt. “Oh Miss, you’ve got to let me lick it.”
She smirked at him, moving closer to the edge of the table, tugging her skirt up her thighs. “Go on then, bad boy, show me what you can do.”
Savouring the view for a split second longer, Jackson all but dove between Elle’s legs, his mouth filling with saliva. This place was like home to him, a sweet warm space he knew as well as he knew anything. Eagerness made an amateur out of him and he found himself licking and lapping without any finesse, but perhaps Elle was on edge too, because instead of admonishing him as she usually would, she threw back her head and moaned. When he fastened his mouth over her clit and began to suck, he swore he heard her cry out to god.
“You can touch yourself while you do it,” she gasped at him. “But if you finish before I come, you won’t lay a hand on me again.”
It was a challenge, Elle thought he was too far gone for stimulation, even by his own hand. Determined to prove her wrong Jackson reached down, gripped his cock, and began to stroke. He’d make her come, then he’d rail her pussy until she cried out for mercy. At least that was the plan.
Unfortunately, Elle was a demon, and demons were smart. As minutes passed and his whole body began to shake, she didn’t get any closer to climax. Jackson was sure she was thinking about football, or the Great Barrier Reef dying, or whatever she thought about to make sure his efforts to get her off were in vain. Eventually, he had to stop jerking and grip his balls to keep from coming, but soon even that became too much.
Come on, he thought as he lapped at her cunt. Release me. Let me fuck you again, baby, we both need it. Please.
Finally, finally, Elle pushed on his shoulders. “Very nice, Proveaux, but I need more. Stand up.”
“Wh-what?” Jackson said, so dizzy and come-dumb he sounded convincingly stupid.
“You wanted to fuck me, didn’t you?” Elle hiked her pencil skirt higher so it barely framed her cunt. “Fuck me, Jackson. Give me your cock, right here, right on this table.”
“But Miss…”
Elle seized a handful of his hair and yanked him upward. Her eyes were wild, her cheeks and nipples flushed. She looked cruel and gorgeous. A seraph sent to punish him for his sins. “Now. Or detention is over and you can go make your wrist hurt the old fashioned way.”
Jackson stood between her outstretched legs and hesitantly rubbed his cock as though he wasn’t sure this was a good idea. Elle gripped his ass and yanked him closer. “Having second thoughts?”
“No, I just…you’re my teacher. You’re not meant to do this.”
A wicked smile. “I know that. I like that. But if it’ll make you feel better…”
She picked up his discarded tie. “Hands behind your back.”
Jackson obliged. “What are you…?”
“This is still a punishment for you,” Elle said, winding his tie around his wrists and pulling the knot tight. “You’ll use your whole weight to fuck me, your whole body, and you won’t get to lay a hand on my tits or my ass. If you make me come, I’ll release you. If you don’t, I’ll cane your pretty boy ass before I send you on your way. Do I make myself clear?”
Jackson nodded. “Yes, Miss. I promise.”
“Good.” Elle reached between them and guided his cock toward her entrance. She was wetter than he could ever remember her being. “What about a condom?” he panted. He and Elle hadn’t used them for ages, but it always turned him on to hear her say…
“You’re not wearing a condom today, baby.”
“But…” He groaned as Elle eased him inside her hot, slippery pussy. “Miss…we got taught we should always wear a—”
“I want to feel your come inside me.” Elle dug her fingers into his hair. “I want to feel you bare. That way I’ll know if you finish too soon.”
“I won’t.”
“We’ll see, pretty boy.” She raked her nails down his scalp. “Now move.”
And so he fucked her, hard and fast and graceless as a teenager, trying to keep his balance with his hands tied behind his back, trying even harder not to blow his load within seconds. Elle wrapped her arms around his back, binding him to her, her pussy contracting, soft moans escaping her mouth.
“Do you like it, Miss Sahlstrom?” he asked. “Do you like what I’m doing to you?”
She fisted his hair, tight enough to sting. “Don’t be needy, Proveaux. Just give me what I want.”
Jackson snarled like an animal as he pounded inside her. He knew he couldn’t maintain the speed for long, but mercifully her cunt had him in a stranglehold. She was going to go over and so fucking fast too. She must have been needing this even worse than he had. He pressed his face into her hair and gave her what he knew she needed to come.
“Please, Miss, say we can do this again,” he begged. “I’ll do anything for it, I promise. I’ll get detention every day if that’s what it takes.”
Elle’s teeth grazed his neck. “Don’t worry Jackson Proveaux, you’re gonna get in a lot of trouble with me. Now fuck me faster, make me come all over that fat cock.”
“Anything you want, Miss. Anything.”
He hammered into her, blind and deaf and dumb to anything that wasn’t Elle’s impending orgasm…and then it all seemed to happen at once.
The front door swung open, his mother shouted, “Jackson! Que faites-vous, Jackson?” And Elle, still writhing against his cock, still poised on the edge of climax, screamed, actually screamed in frustration. She sounded like she was being murdered. “What the fuck are you doing here? You’re meant to be out until midnight!”
“Maman,” Jackson’s body went taut with shock. His mother was here. His mother. His mother was watching him fuck his girlfriend with his hands tied behind his back. Fucking his girlfriend, who was dressed as a slutty schoolteacher, and who still had a fistful of his hair. “Maman, what—”
Elle cut him off. “Get out of here, you crazy bitch! Let us stop without you staring at us!”
“Non,” his mother shrieked. “What are you doing to my son, you sale petite pute?”
Elle clearly didn’t have to speak French to understand what she was being called, her nails dug into Jackson’s shoulder. “Get out of here! Now!”
“Non!” his mother shouted. “Dès que je suis arrivé dans cette maison, on m'a fait sentir comme un intrus—”
“Jackson,” Elle hissed. “She’s your mum, do something! Calm her down!”
Numb with fear, Jackson tugged uselessly at his bonds. “Ellie, I…can’t, I can’t move, I can’t think…”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Elle wriggled backward, separating their bodies and tugging her skirt down her thighs. She slid off the table, reached behind him, and tugged at the tie, somehow unravelling the mass of intricate knots in one swift pull, freeing his hands. Then she turned, blocking Jackson’s bare cock from his mother’s view. “Look, Valeraine, what are you doing here? The ballet should still be on.”
“I was sick,” his mother said with a contemptuous sneer. “And apparently I’m not the only one who is sick.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Elle snapped.
“You tell me, you’re the one who tied up my son!”
Elle’s upper lip curled. “Which you wouldn’t know about if you respected our boundaries like a normal human being.”
“I was sick.”
“The only place you’re sick is in the fuckin’ head! You came home on purpose to catch us together, didn’t you?”
“Non!”
“You’re lying.” Elle pointed a furious finger at his mother. “You’re a liar. The only reason you came to Australia was to fuck with me. From day one you’ve tried to break us up.”
“I am not! I would never—”
“Bullshit!” Elle was red in the face, her slender body radiating anger. “You’re bullshitting both of us.”
“I am not bullshitting!”
His mother’s voice had taken on the sharp mania that in Jackson’s youth, had always preceded flying ashtrays. The horrific realization that his mother was more than capable of escalating shouting matches into violence and that his girlfriend had never backed down from a fight in her life, snapped him into action. He tucked away his cock—still slick with Elle’s excitement—and zipped up.
“Ellie, calm down,” he said, taking her arm. “Everything is fine.”
“It’s not fine,” she shouted, wrenching her arm away. “Stop saying that! Can’t you see what she’s doing? Can’t you see she’s fucking with us on purpose?”
“She isn’t,” Jackson said in his most soothing voice. “She’s just upset she saw us…wouldn’t you be?”
“No!” Elle screamed. “And I also wouldn’t have been here, I’d have been at the fucking ballet! Actually, I’d be in fucking France where I belong! The only reason she came here is because she hates me!”
Before Jackson could correct her, his mother gave a great loud laugh. “I do hate you, Eloise Sahlstrom. You’re a rude, nasty, little girl, and Jacque deserves better.”
Jackson’s mouth fell open. “Maman! You don’t mean that!”
“Yes, she does.” Elle whirled around and seized him by his shirt collar. “She fucking means it. I’ve been trying to tell you that from the start. Why won’t you listen to me? Why don’t you believe me?”
“Ellie,” Jackson said, feeling as though he was losing his grip on reality. “My mother’s drunk, she’s upset that she saw us. Please be reasonable and—”
“Be reasonable?” Elle interrupted. “You want me to be reasonable?”
“Yes! Just stop being crazy for one second and think about the facts!”
It was the wrong thing to say, he knew it as soon as it left his mouth. Elle’s face went blank, a chalkboard wiped clean. “Right. Okay, then.”
She walked over to the kitchen bench and picked up her handbag.
“Ellie,” Jackson groaned. “What are you doing?”
“Being reasonable. I’m out of here.”
His mother’s smile could have been a template for the Miss Universe pageant style-guide. “Brava,” she said. “Be on your way, Eloise.”
“I am, you cantankerous moll,” Elle said. She stalked toward the door, and, for all her bravado, his mother backed away remarkably quickly.
“Ellie, please…where do you think you’re going?”
“Away.” She freed the deadbolt and opened the door. “I’ll come home when you decide which pussy means more to you, mine or the one you came out of.”
“Mon Dieu!” his mother shrieked, but Elle merely raised a middle finger and walked away, the front door snapping shut behind her.
“Fuck!” Jackson said, and in a hot burst of rage, he kicked the dining chair he’d sat on to write his ‘lines.’ It hit the floor and splintered. “Fuck!”