Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
I take his finger into my mouth slowly, never breaking eye contact. He watches me carefully. Like he really is my teacher and he might assign me a letter grade when this is over.
My desire builds and builds. And my hand is still rubbing him. I don’t know what comes next. With Locke, it’s an orgasm. First him, then me. Then both of us.
But with Mercer, I’m not sure.
So I suck, and I rub, and he watches.
His eyes dart over to the desk, then back to me. “Lunch is over, Nova. Get up, please.”
What? I kinda tilt my head at him.
“Silly girl,” he whispers, cupping my chin with his fingers. “You will not have an orgasm until we arrive in New York on Friday.”
“What?” This time I say it out loud.
“We’re going to New York this weekend.” He pauses here to smile warmly at me. “You’re so perfect. I would like to introduce you to the rest of the Institute.”
“Who?”
“And you will not”—he pauses again, then emphasizes this word—“not. Be with Locke or Olsen this week. You will have no orgasms until I tell you that you may.”
Hmm. A twist. Deprivation.
I’ve done this before. Several times, actually. I dated a man in undergrad who loved the deprivation thing.
Not my favorite. Though I will say this, that first orgasm, once allowed—yeah. It’s amazing.
“Do you understand, Nova?”
I nod. “I do. I understand.”
“Good. Now stand up, please.”
I do this. He places his hand on my hips and pushes me backwards a little, just enough so he can stand as well. Then he’s kissing me. His lips on my lips. Licking me. This is when I remember that there’s pudding all over them and he’s kissing and licking it off.
A chill runs up my whole body and I begin to tremble.
“It’s OK,” Mercer says. “It’s overwhelming when we get to this point. But you’ll be OK, Nova.” Then he pushes past me, walks over to his desk, and sits down.
“Now.” Our eyes meet. “Please. Get back to work.”
We play this little game all week.
I will be in my lab, Mercer will appear in the doorjamb at noon, and he will say, “It’s time now, Nova. Come into my office and assume your position.”
And I will get up, and follow him, and sit on his suit coat, between his legs.
Then he will place my hand on his hardening cock and help me rub him.
I don’t know how he doesn’t come right then and there. He has a lot of self-control. Because if his fingers so much as flicked against my pussy I’d gush. That’s how worked up he’s gotten me.
He never said I couldn’t masturbate. He said, “You will have no orgasms until I tell you that you may.”
I know that includes masturbation.
So I don’t do it.
I think about him endlessly though.
On Tuesday, he spoons pudding into my mouth. He does this carefully, paying very close attention to just how much is on the spoon and telling me how wide he wants my mouth open.
At first he wants to force it past my lips. But just before our lunch break is over, he wants me to open my mouth as wide as I can. And then he plops pudding on the back of his hand and presses it against my stretched-thin lips. He wipes the pudding off. On my tongue, on the side of my cheeks, and on my lips. Then he uses his fingers to wipe it away and we end that session with me sucking it off his hands.
On Wednesday, he wants me to lick his cock through his pants.
Not suck him, not grab him, not rub him—but lick him. I lick until there’s a big wet spot across his thigh. And I think about that wet spot all afternoon.
On Thursday he simply pets me. My cheek on his thigh, my lips pressed up against the hard bulge under his pants. That’s it. I’m dying for more, but I don’t complain. I say nothing, in fact. Not a single word do I speak after that first day.
He ends each session with comforting words. “Good, Nova.” And, “Lovely, Nova.” And, “Excellent, Nova.”
Locke never appears on the edge of the woods. He’s not hiding in the bushes, ready to beckon me to him. Olsen doesn’t knock on my door. It’s like they know.
Like Mercer has declared me off limits.
Like Mercer has claimed me.
I float through the week. And even though, each night, all I would have to do is straddle my blankets the wrong way in bed and I would gush out an orgasm, I am careful not to.
And when I wake up on Friday, I am ready for my reward.
Mercer appears at my cottage door at noon, just like he did last weekend.
There is a sports car, there is a boat, there is another car, there is a plane.