My body begging for him.
And then he’s kneeling behind me. Tasting me with his mouth. Fucking me with his tongue while I
draw his face.
It’s so dirty and wrong and intimate. The sounds that he makes.
The sounds that I make.
I’m possessed by something else right now. A demon that hungers for more. He gives it to me.
Gripping my hips and eating me out.
My professor and my mentor.
Teaching me how to be his good girl.
I’m so close. So, so close. But I’m impatient for more. For all of him.
He rises up and gives it to me in one thrust.
A possessed sound moves up my throat and out of my mouth, but I don’t allow the pencil to stop
moving. Even as he pins my hips and begins to fuck me in earnest.
Even when his palms skate up my leotard and beneath the material to stroke my breasts. I arch my
back to accommodate him, but the pencil never leaves the paper. The lines are jerky now. Rough and
edgy. It doesn’t matter.
I just need his hands on me. I need him inside of me. Sating the addiction he has created. He’s the
only cure for this madness.
“My filthy little ballerina,” he murmurs against me. “Do you like being dirty for me?”
“Yes, Mr. Vaughn.”
“Reach down and touch yourself with your other hand,” he tells me. “Make yourself come on my
cock. But don’t stop drawing.”
I do as he asks. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I can’t focus on anything but the feelings. His
cock moving inside of me. His fingers on my nipples, his mouth on my throat.
I come hard around him, grinding the pencil into the paper as I do.
Mr. Vaughn grabs hold of my hair and my hip and thrusts hard and fast until he’s breaking apart.
Jerking inside of me. Filling me with his come.
He collapses against me and retrieves the pencil from my hand, tossing it aside. And then he’s
pulling us back, into his chair. I fall into his lap and he leans his head back against the cushion, both
of us catching our breaths.