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Tutor Sessions #1
With Olivia Ponton
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Blowjob, Cheating, Fingering, Rimjob
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.
(https://thumbs2.imgbox.com/ed/03/hCcj3WJZ_t.jpg) (https://imgbox.com/hCcj3WJZ) (https://thumbs2.imgbox.com/bf/db/SHt6WSIo_t.jpg) (https://imgbox.com/SHt6WSIo)
I answered the door myself.
The Whitmore house had a way of amplifying moments like that. Limestone columns framing the entry, glass stretching upward into nothing but space and light. The kind of foyer that made visitors straighten their posture without realizing they’d done it. The estate wasn’t designed to feel warm. It was designed to feel intimidating.
Olivia stood on the threshold with assurance.
She was dressed in black, a fitted turtleneck, high-waisted shorts, sheer tights, boots with a subtle fringe that shifted when she moved. Her blonde hair was pulled into a neat bun, pinned with two yellow pencils crossed through it, an almost academic affectation that felt intentional rather than casual.
And yes, I noticed her legs immediately. I’m a leg man. Always have been. The point was not that I noticed, it was that she clearly expected me to.
“Mr. Whitmore,” she said. “I’m Olivia.”
I stepped aside and let her in.
Upstairs, my teenage son was already seated in the study, books spread across the desk. This was why she was here. His grades had been slipping for months, careless mistakes, lack of focus, a refusal to engage. My wife Eleanor and I had agreed he needed structure, not indulgence.
I stayed in the room, seated near the window, tablet in hand. Oversight, I told myself.
Olivia wasted no time.
“Let’s start with fundamentals,” she said, calm and firm. “Walk me through your reasoning. Don’t guess.”
She leaned slightly over his work, not intrusive, but in a professional way. The pencils in her hair didn’t shift as she moved.
I watched my son respond to it.
He stopped rushing. Thought before answering. When he was wrong, she didn’t soften it, she made him understand why. When he was right, she acknowledged it once and moved on. No flattery. No theatrics.
It was, undeniably, good tutoring.
At one point, she stepped back and crossed her legs as she waited for him to finish a problem. The movement was small, unconscious, or maybe very carefully chosen. I looked away, then didn’t.
Our eyes met briefly.
After nearly an hour, she closed the book.
“That’s enough for today,” Olivia said to my son. “You did better than you think.”
He looked relieved. Like he earned it.
“I’m going to grab a coffee before I head out,” she added, gathering her bag. She glanced toward me. “If that’s alright.”
“The kitchen’s downstairs,” I said.
She left the study first. I stayed behind long enough to ensure the session ended cleanly, appropriately. My son packed his things and headed to his room, thinking only about school and progress, exactly as he should have been.
Only then did I follow.
The kitchen was quiet, marble and steel reflecting the afternoon light. Olivia reached for a mug. The fringe on her boots swayed again as she shifted her weight, and I couldn’t resist letting my eyes travel briefly down her legs.
“You have amazing legs,” I said, letting the words hang in the air. “I mean it. They’re... hard to miss.”
She looked at me over the rim of her mug, a faint smile tugging at her lips, her posture effortless. “I know,” she said softly, leaning slightly against the counter. “I’ve always had a thing for married men.”
“Is that your way of warning me, or… tempting me?”
“Maybe a little of both,” she said, her tone light but confident. She took a sip, then tilted her head, watching me carefully. “Some situations just… appeal to me.”
I set down my own mug, closing the distance by a step. “I’d argue this is one of those situations,” I said, letting the comment linger.
“Perhaps,” she said.
She turned back to the counter and reached for the sugar, leaning forward just enough that the movement couldn’t be mistaken for accidental.
I stepped in behind her, close enough that there was no longer a pretense of personal space. Close enough that my lower region brushed up against her ass. As I reached past her for the jar, my hand brushing the counter beside hers, she didn’t straighten. She didn’t flinch.
Olivia inhaled slowly.
“That’s... closer than necessary,” she said.
“And yet,” I replied quietly, “you didn’t move.”
Olivia's shoulders eased back a fraction, as she grinded against me, meeting me halfway. Her eyes looked briefly toward the hallway, upstairs, then back to me. A confirmation that we were alone.
She tipped her head slightly to the side, exposing the line of her neck, her voice lower now. “If you’re going to do something,” she added, “don’t pretend it’s accidental.”
The sugar remained untouched.
She pressed back just enough to make the intention unmistakable, a silent confirmation rather than a question.
I leaned in, close enough that my words were for her alone. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I am.”
I didn’t wait for her to lose momentum, or for either of us to stage a retreat. My hands found her hips with a firmness that neither of us could rationalize away, and when she looked back at me I saw the amusement in her eyes. Challenge met. She arched her back just enough to intensify the invitation.
We could have dragged it out, some slow, feline dance around the perimeter of possibility, but there was a clarity between us, shared and acknowledged and already set in motion. The excess of the marble kitchen, the illusion of coldness, made our heat a secret, walled and precious.
Olivia braced herself against the counter, palms spread out wide. If I’d hesitated, I’d have talked myself out of the insanity, but I didn’t hesitate. My hands roamed the length of her legs, up the silk of her stockings, dragging over the seam, then under the hem of her shorts, two fingers tracing the outline of her ass like it was something essential.
She let out a long, steadying breath. She wasn’t nervous, just impatient.
I knelt and pressed my face into the backs of her thighs. The sheer stockings ran endlessly up her legs, and I tongued the seam at the top, teasing that border where fabric ended and skin began.
Olivia made a noise.
I tugged her shorts down, just enough to expose her hips and the curve beneath. The waistband snapped against her skin and she gasped, sticking out her ass in a way I suspected she meant to look like control but registered as pure submission. The waistband clung momentarily between her cheeks, then surrendered, and I traced my hand over the exposed skin, warm and goosebumped.
Her voice, as she exhaled, was only a whisper of sound, breath against the tile. "You're thorough," she breathed.
I slid the shorts all the way down, letting them rest around her knees just long enough for her to feel the restraint. The stockings were thigh-highs, a narrow band of lace biting into her flesh and leaving a faint redness, her ass now fully framed by black and nothing else.
I gripped her, thumbs bracing the soft globe of muscle, marveling at the flex under my touch. She made a pleased, almost relieved sound at the appreciation, neither coy, or embarrassed, just an acknowledgment of mutual intent. I spread her gently, tracing along the inside, and when my breath ghosted over her, she shuddered.
"You have no idea what I've thought about doing to you," I murmured, almost to myself.
I pressed my mouth between her asscheeks, letting my tongue lick and explore along the cleft, flicking, searching, teasing the tightest muscle before circling it, painting it slick. Olivia made a high, unexpected sound, and pushed back, like she was daring me for more. She tasted promising.
When I slid a finger into her, slowly at first, she absorbed it with a greedy ease. The muscle tensed briefly, then softened as I curled a second finger. Her head dropped, forehead pressing to her forearm, and she let the longest sigh escape her, like something she’d been holding onto all this time, dissipated all at once.
Adjusted my stance, I lowered myself further, tongue busy, hands occupied. My own arousal was uncomfortable in my pants, a compressing, insistent ache, and for a moment I felt a guilt so sharp it almost derailed me. My wife could have been two rooms away, or out running errands, it didn’t matter. For once, it was the unreality of the kitchen, the brightness, the sterility, that made Olivia’s flesh and sounds immediate and overwhelming and, above all, real.
I set my jaw and let the guilt slide behind the animalistic need in me.
I tongued the rim again, circled, then pressed just the tip of my tongue into her. Olivia jerked so abruptly I worried for a split second she might lose her balance, but she caught herself.
“Fuck,” she said.
I barely remembered to keep breathing. All I could process was the way her body urged me forward, her muscles tightening and then easing with every push of my tongue, each provocation landing and then rippling outward. I pushed a finger forward, feeling the heat and wetness inside her, and moved with careful, reverent pressure, slowly at first, then matching the desperate pace Olivia’s hips began to set.
I twisted my wrist and pressed the heel of my palm against her clit, feeling the trembling in her thighs as I alternated between shallow and deep. Every time my tongue dipped further, she moaned, muffled by the crook of her arm. The noises she made, low, pleading, almost musical, felt engineered to undo me.
I pulled her hips back against my face, letting her ride the motion, my tongue and fingers working in tandem. Her knees wobbled, and the shorts around her calves bunched and tugged at her rhythmically, the small restraint only heightening her tension. I slid in another finger, two now buried knuckle-deep and curling upward, and her whole body tensed, her calves flexing, toes momentarily dragging along the tile before she strained to keep her balance.
Her ass clenched rhythmically around my tongue, and I felt the tremor begin in her thighs. I pulled away only far enough to catch my breath, to watch the muscles in her legs quiver with effort, then pushed my tongue back in.
I worked my tongue and fingers in concert, keeping her always off-balance. When I slipped a third finger inside, pushing deeper, she arched her back until her cheek rested against the countertop, her hand smearing a print across the marble. She whined, almost sang, when I curled my fingers just so. The sound was less submission, more challenge, a call to outdo myself.
“Harder, please,” she said, but it didn’t sound like a plea. She met every movement, set the pace, until I wasn’t sure which of us was doing the taking.
She pressed back against my mouth with a force that surprised me, as if she wanted to disappear into my face, or maybe the urge was to force me deeper, as though my tongue might reach something in her that she didn’t know how to describe. When I licked the soft skin around her hole, she moaned louder, abandon sneaking into her voice.
I rimmed her again, this time sealing my mouth around her and creating a pressure like a kiss, my tongue burrowing, my jaw aching slightly from the angle. My hand not busy between her legs steadied her by the hips, my thumb digging into the hollow where bone turned to muscle, holding her in place.
My other hand worked in and out of Olivia, fingers slipping easily into the wetness of her cunt. She was tight even as her body welcomed the intrusion with a slickness that seemed designed for the act. I pumped my fingers, curling them ever so slightly with each thrust so I could feel the spongy patch that made her knees buckle. She hissed, and the hiss resolved into a desperate “yes” that was only partly for me.
I withdrew my tongue just long enough to say, “You taste incredible,” before sealing my mouth to her ass again, licking her like I was starved for it. I alternated the pressure of my tongue and the pace of my fingers, experimenting with what made her body shudder most, sometimes a slow, circling motion around her ass, sometimes a sudden, greedy invasion of fingers into her cunt. The two channels of sensation seemed to echo and feed one another, her ass clenching when my fingers thrust in, her wetness increasing when I licked her rim with my tongue.
She was making noises now, no shame whatsoever, Olivia wasn’t even trying to restrain herself, but letting the pleasure broadcast out in small, uncontrollable gasps every time I changed my rhythm. There was something addictive about it, the absolute awareness that I was making her react, over and over, using only the tools at my disposal and the exposed skin in front of me.
I pulled back once, just to watch, to see how perfectly vulnerable she’d gone, her face against her forearm, jaw slack and eyes squeezed shut. Such rigid intention at first, now liquefied into pure, responsive need. I wanted to push her further.
I spat on my fingers and drove them hard into her, twisting my hand so I could thumb her rim while I fucked her pussy. She flinched, then moaned loud enough I was certain the sound had to echo upstairs.
That fear only made me hungrier.
My cock throbbing in my pants now, so hard and insistent that the need to be inside her, to fuck her against the counter and fill her with every bit of me, was an ache bordering on pain. But Olivia hadn’t asked for that, not yet. Instead she rolled her hips against my hand and let out a moan.
“Fuck, you are committed,” she said.
I looked up along her spine, watched the muscles shift beneath her shirt, the bun of hair threatening to collapse as she rocked back and forth on my fingers. I wanted to tear it free and watch her unravel, but I waited.
“It’s my job,” I said, “to make sure you can’t forget this.”
She snorted, but the sound melted into something like a moan as I twisted my fingers inside her, thumbing the tight circle of her ass at the same time. I wondered if she’d ever let someone do this before, a suspicion confirmed by the slight tremor in her voice, the way her hips moved more greedily with every second.
With some effort I eventually got back to my feet, steadying myself along the way, and ground my hips against her ass, letting her feel what she’d done to me. Olivia pushed back, greedy now, and fumbled blindly behind herself for my belt. She was out of patience.
“I want it,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the stovetop, as if looking at me would cost her the last ounce of restraint.
I freed my cock, not caring about anything but the next second as I lined up and pressed in. Her body opened around me, easy and hungry, and when I buried myself to the hilt, her knees buckled and she had to brace hard against her arms, palms flat to the marble.
There was no need for coaxing, no last chase for deniability or conscience, just the fact of it, and the wild, contorting grip of her body as she braced herself for the next thrust.
The feeling was obscene. I was inside her in the most direct, uninterrupted way, nothing between us but friction and greed, and Olivia’s body took all of it, none of her earlier composure present anymore. I had imagined it would be power, some assertion of dominance, but it was messier in reality, a need sharpened to a point where I thought something in me might break.
“Please, give it to me,” she said, her voice flat and hoarse and urgent.
Olivia didn’t have to ask twice. I set a rhythm that was punishing, holding her hips tight and drawing her back onto every thrust, the impact loud enough to resonate off the counters and tile, a dangerous certainty in the collision of our bodies.
She liked the roughness, scraping her nails along the marble as she rocked against me, legs spread wide and steady despite the tremor I felt beneath my grip. Each time I bottomed out, she groaned, the sound less about pain and more about the insistence of finally being filled.
The boots stayed on, the fringe swayed with every impact, shaking with every thrust into her snatch. Her hair had started to come loose, pencils no longer arranged in perfect parallel but jutting haphazardly, as if even her careful construction had to yield to the mess of our need. I watched her hands flatten, then curl into fists, her forearms braced and trembling.
Her moans became less contained. “Oh fuck. Oh god, fuck, oh my God…” Each word ran straight into the next, chopped by the tempo of my body splitting her open. I grabbed the cinched waist of her turtleneck and yanked upwards, exposing the subtle arch of her back, catching sight of the curve where her body met mine.
It was obscene, watching myself vanish again and again inside her, the dark silk of her stocking contrasting so starkly with the pale, shaking legs beneath. The sight pushed me, made me feel predatory, ravenous. I pulled out nearly all the way, just to see the swollen, flushed lips of her cunt hug the head of my cock, then slammed forward, drawing a gasp from deep in her chest.
“So fucking good,” Olivia hissed, barely above a whisper. “So fucking deep...”
It was as if every word she let go granted her permission for more. I needed no prompting. My hands roved over her, sliding up along her waist, dragging the hem of her turtleneck higher until I could see the awkward arch of her spine and the subtle dip just above her ass, beckoning me. I pressed my palm flat between her shoulder blades, holding her steady, and drilled into her. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the empty kitchen.
Every time my cock hammered inside of her, she gasped like it was a fresh surprise, legs trembling but refusing to give out. The sound of her body, the way she shuddered, each detail stripped away my mind clean of guilt. This was not seduction, but sport, the mutual assurance that what happened here was pure appetite.
kept fucking her like that, unable to stop, feeding off every new flex and stutter in her hips, greedy for her next reaction. I could smell her in the air, sweet and a taste of sweat and perfume unspooling into something bottomless. My balls slapped against her, the sound sharp and urgent, and she took it all, savoring it, fucking back onto me with a hunger.
“Ugh, so good,”
She reached between her legs and clutched her own clit, desperate, and I could see the way her breath shortened, went ragged and erratic. I watched the muscles in her thighs spasm, the tension knotting up every line of her, and I could feel through her that she was getting close.
I reached around to cover her hand with mine, pinning her palm to her cunt and working her faster, letting her grind against my fingers with every thrust. She went silent then, the words gone, just a rising hum, breath fraying into nothing. I wanted to keep her like that forever, suspended, but she was already falling. She came with her whole body, knees almost buckling, her pussy clenching like a vice around my cock.
Olivia didn’t just shudder or twitch, she convulsed, her body climaxing with a violence that nearly took us both to the ground. I had to clench my teeth to keep from finishing inside her that instant, and only pulled out at the last possible second, like I was denying myself a basic human right. I planted my hand on her ass to steady her, and my cock slapped upwards against the smooth plane of her lower back, slick and angry and wanting.
She turned on unsteady legs, face flushed, not a single line out of place except the pencils now crooked and threatening to fall from her hair. She reached down and with both hands, grabbed hold of my cock and pumped my dick a few times.
“Sit,” she said, her voice rasped from the moans, gesturing to the cool marble edge behind me.
I did. She dropped to her knees in front of me, the shorts now around her ankles, the stockings now flecked with moisture. Her hands never let up. She stroked me, alternating grips, one hand angled up, the other cupped beneath, rolling my balls and sweat-smudged, the sight of her mouth hungry and a little wild.
She wasted no time wrapping her lips around the head of my cock, tongue swirling slowly then fast, as if chasing the taste of herself left on my skin. Her lips were plush and warm and decisive, and the first suck was hard enough to make my eyes shut, my hands flexing on the edge behind me. She had a way of taking it, like she’d already decided how deep she wanted to go and would neither settle for less nor ask permission.
Olivia took me to the back of her throat in a single sequence, and held, swallowing around the tip as she hummed a filthy, pleased little moan. I almost lost it right there. She was efficient, never wasting a movement. Her tongue found the sensitive ridge under the head and licked it, a metronome of sensation that built and built, and her eyes never left mine.
She wanted me to watch her. To see the authority she claimed, even here, on her knees. I did.
When she came up for air, she smiled, and without a word, angled my cock down so it thumped softly against her cheek before she opened wide and devoured me whole. She kept me in her mouth, smooth and deep, the pressure relentless and designed for maximum effect.
Olivia twisted her wrist as she stroked, a rhythm that threatened to undo me with humiliating speed. I fought to prolong it. She bobbed and swirled and sucked, face angelic and knowing and a bit cruel, proving with every movement that this wasn’t new to her.
I warned her, or tried. “Careful,” I managed, my voice little more than an exhale. “I’m close.”
Olivia responded by locking her eyes on mine and swallowing me to the root, lips sealing tight at the base. She moaned again, a vibration so direct it short-circuited any remaining resistance. My hips thrust once on reflex. I spilled everything, more than I thought I could, and she took every jet streak of cum, neither flinching or pulling away, as every last drop hit the back of her throat. When the throbbing finally waned, she let up enough to breathe, with a final, hungry suck that left me shaking.
She pulled off, and stood.
“Better than you expected?” she asked, voice dry and almost congratulatory.
I nodded, regaining my breath.
“So Mr. Whitmore, the next tutor session is Thursday,” she said, professional on the surface, her tone even. “Same time.”
I nodded once, then let a small smile surface. “If it’s anything like this one,” I said, “I can’t wait.”
That earned a look, brief, knowing, entirely intentional. The corner of her mouth curved upward, as if the comment had landed exactly where she intended it to. She opened the door and stepped out into the afternoon light without another word.
To Be Continued
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Tutor Sessions #2
With Olivia Ponton
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Anal, Cheating, Oral, Spanking
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only
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Four weeks later, the improvement was no longer incremental. It was measurable.
The latest report arrived on a Friday afternoon, folded neatly into a slim envelope Eleanor opened at the kitchen counter. She read it twice, slower the second time, then looked up at me with something close to relief.
“This is the best he’s done all year,” she said. “Not just grades, but the comments from his teachers. He’s more focused. Taking more Initiative.”
She didn’t say Olivia’s name immediately, but it hovered there between us, obvious and earned.
By then, Olivia had become part of the household’s internal routine. Same arrival time. Same calm efficiency. Sessions that ended precisely when they should. Our son no longer resisted them, he prepared for them. That alone told me everything I needed to know about her competence.
What Eleanor saw, and appreciated, was structure.
What Olivia and I had built alongside it was something else entirely.
The past four weeks had been a study in restraint and timing. Nothing careless. Nothing that left marks. Stolen moments threaded through ordinary days, a pause too long in a doorway, a quiet exchange masked as logistics, an understanding that never required clarification. We avoided patterns that could be noticed, never took more than the situation allowed. The discretion wasn’t negotiated, it was assumed.
Olivia remained impeccable in her role. With our son, she was focused and exacting. With Eleanor, polite, engaged, appropriately distant. If there was any strain in carrying both realities at once, she never let it surface.
It was Eleanor who suggested dinner.
The invitation came easily, almost casually, after a particularly productive session. “You should stay,” she said, already moving toward the kitchen. “You’ve been such a help. We’d love to have you.”
Olivia accepted with the same composure she brought to everything else. Gratitude, expressed cleanly. No hesitation. No performance.
Yet tonight was different.
The house was full in a way it hadn’t been before, occupied, layered, alive with variables that couldn’t be controlled. My son was across the hall in his bedroom, headset on, immersed in his PlayStation, the muffled sounds of the game bleeding faintly through the floor. Eleanor was downstairs in the kitchen, moving between counter and stove, focused and unhurried, preparing a dinner she had insisted Olivia stay for.
And Olivia... Olivia was standing in the study with me.
Nothing about her demeanor suggested hesitation. She reviewed her notes, slid a book back into her bag, adjusted the strap on her shoulder. Perfectly composed. Perfectly appropriate. Anyone walking in would have seen only a tutor wrapping up a productive session.
But when our eyes met, the calculus changed.
This wasn’t the careful distance of the past weeks. There was no convenient excuse, no empty hallway, no margin for error. Every sound carried. Every step mattered. The risk wasn’t abstract, it was immediate, structural, built into the walls around us.
“This house,” she said, “has a way of making things feel... intensified.”
I watched her for a moment before answering. “You didn’t seem overwhelmed a few weeks ago.”
That earned a smile.
“I think about that night more than I expected to,” she said. “I’ve been with very few men who could hold their own like that.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it either,” I replied. There was no bravado in it. Just a fact.
From downstairs came Eleanor’s voice, distant but clear, asking our son if he wanted his plate warmed later. Across the hall, muffled laughter burst through a headset, friends, a game, an entire world sealed behind a closed door.
I lowered my voice. “They’re occupied. Both of them.”
Olivia’s eyes sharpened, not with surprise, but with calculation. “Which means,” she said evenly, “we have time.”
“A little,” I said.
She stepped closer then, close enough that the decision was no longer theoretical. “So,” she asked quietly, “what do you have in mind?”
The house creaked softly around us, settling, unaware.
And for the first time that evening, neither of us pretended this was just another tutoring session winding down.
I didn’t give her time to reconsider.
I closed the space between us and kissed her, directly, urgently, the kind of kiss that abandoned pretense the moment it began. There was nothing tentative about it. It wasn’t a question. It was a decision finally acted on.
For a split second she was still, registering it.
Then she answered.
Her hand came up to my chest, fingers pressing in as if to steady herself, before sliding higher, anchoring me there. The kiss deepened, nothing frantic about it, but hungry, with weeks of restraint from their last hook up, snapping all at once. She turned her head slightly, matching the urgency without hesitation, without surprise.
Somewhere downstairs, a timer chimed. Across the hall, shouting burst through a headset.
Neither of us broke away.
When we finally did, it was only far enough to breathe. Olivia’s forehead rested briefly against mine, her breath uneven but her voice steady.
“So,” she said quietly, eyes locked on mine, “that’s your move.”
“For now,” I replied.
Her mouth curved.
A moment later, I lifted her up onto the desk that Olivia usually sat at, while tutoring my son. From there, I dropped to my knees, and saw that she wasn’t wearing any panties under that extremely short black leather skirt she was wearing. Which admittedly was fine, considering I planned on going down on her anyways.
Her thighs parted without ceremony, a silent relay of permission. The desk’s edge cut a clean line beneath her, hard and cold, but her calves tensed around my shoulders, and the rest of the world was pushed beyond the closed study door. I inhaled her scent, faint floral notes from lotion, a musky sweetness. Her skin was plausibly innocent, but her cleft was swollen and glossy, already leaking need onto the polished woodgrain.
I ran my hands up her legs first, fingers indenting the sheerness of her skin, and then let my palms slide under her ass, cupping her, steadying her. A slick drop shimmered at the fold of her labia, which I chased with my tongue. She made a sound, tiny, involuntary, quickly caged between her teeth.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Not so loud.”
She caught her lip, looked at the door, at the ceiling, anywhere but down. I ran my tongue up her seam again, slower this time, teasing her sex mound and the exposed pinkness above. By the third stroke of my tongue, her hand was tangled in my hair, fingers tight and directive.
Olivia pushed her hips forward, as if trying to force more of herself into my mouth. I obliged, running the flat of my tongue up to her clit, teasing it, then sucking it between my lips. This time the sound she made slipped out, a breathless "fuck," barely air, and I heard her back arch onto the desk, hands clutching the edge as if she’d drift away otherwise.
I glanced up, catching her expression switching between need and terror at the possibility of being caught. The door wasn't locked. Anyone could walk in. That was the calculation. That was the thrill. I could almost see her mind make peace with the risk, surrender to it, and after that moment there was nothing but her body twisting in rhythm to the pleasure of my tongue.
Of course I didn’t stop. I worked her harder, changing up the pattern so she never got used to it: quick flicks, slow licks, tight gentle suction, letting her hips show me what worked and what pushed her closer to the edge. She tasted incredible, warm and sharp, citrus and sweat. I avoided her clit for a stretch until she made this frustrated little whine, almost a growl, and then rewarded her with a soft pull that made her whole body snap taut.
She came, silent but shaking, her thighs clenched so fierce I thought she might pop my head off. I licked her through it, greedy for every stifled quiver, every hitched breath, until she let go, exhaling with a shudder that registered all the way down my spine.
When I looked up, her hand was covering her mouth, eyes blown wide. For a second, I thought she might shriek out loud, but then she started to choke out a laugh, breathless and wild, and mouthed, “Holy shit.”
It didn’t take long, for the two of us changed our positions, with Olivia Ponton now bent over the desk ass sticking out. I gripped her hips, drew back, and couldn’t help myself, as I brought my palm down sharp across both cheeks.
The sound was obscene, explosive in the hush of the study. She recoiled, gasping, and nearly lost her balance before I steadied her with a hand in the small of her back. The red bloom of my mark was immediate, hot against her white skin, and her entire body sang with it. I could see it in the way her fingers dug into the desktop, the tremor running up her spine.
Another slap, angled for the opposite cheek, and this time she braced, like she needed it, wanted it. There was a melodic edge to the gasp she gave next, high and desperate, muffled by her own arm where she buried her face. My cock throbbed at the sound.
"Don’t," I said, voice low, "stifle it on my account." I brought my mouth to her ear, close enough that she’d feel my breath. "Just don’t be so loud you get us caught."
She answered with a whimper, nodded, and arched back, presenting herself.
I did it again, three in a row now, short and controlled, watching her pale skin flush under each hit. Her breaths came faster, little panting moans she tried to swallow, but couldn’t. With every strike, her ass wobbled and tensed, and the wetness between her thighs seemed to multiply.
Jesus,” she managed, voice muffled by her own arm.
“You wanted this,” I said, letting my palm linger on the redness I’d raised.
She nodded, eyes squeezed shut, skin electrified.
I undid my belt, let my pants and boxers drop. My cock sprang free, heavy and already leaking, glistening in the lamplight that splashed across the study. Olivia didn’t look over her shoulder, but she shifted her stance, the way someone does when they know in their bones what comes next. I spat in my hand, twice, generous, and slicked the length of my cock, then pressed the head up against the tight, puckered ring of her asshole. I let it rest there, not pushing, giving her the chance to tell me no.
She didn’t.
Instead, she reached back, fumbled, and spread herself wider, hips rotating just enough to guide me in. I leaned forward, one hand bracing her shoulder for balance, and eased the head in slow. The initial resistance was fierce, a living thing, but Olivia exhaled in a long, trembling hiss and I felt her body relent, softening, letting me breach her there.
The first inch was pure pressure, a vise of heat. I let her adjust, rocked back again, circled my thumb on her hip while the trembling in her thighs subsided. She was still tight, impossibly tight, but as I began to slide forward, I could feel the sudden surge of relief that came with her surrender.
Olivia choked back a gasp and braced both palms flat against the desk to absorb me. My thighs pressed flush to the backs of hers. We didn’t move. I didn’t fuck her yet. I let the stretch sit there, let her feel it, let my own restraint throb in the narrowed world between our bodies.
She started rocking first, barely perceptible, just a trembling clench, a needy backwards tilt that drew me fractionally deeper, then retreated. Her whole body strummed with anticipation. I pressed my hand between her shoulder blades, holding her in place, and began to move, slow at first, with a patient rhythm meant to keep the risk of sound down, but that only seemed to make it worse.
Each stroke was raw, each slow thrust wrung a whimper or a hiss from her, and if her signals crossed between pain and pleasure, neither of us corrected the balance. I got a little deeper, then more, each push seating me further in her backdoor, until my balls slapped lightly against her pussy with each shallow thrust.
I ran my hand up her spine, slowly, to the base of her neck and then knotted it into her hair, not to yank her back but to control, to own. Her body went rigid at the new dominance, and I felt her shudder as I held her there, the leverage perfect to guide each new inch inside her, the whole of me, now, buried to the hilt in that incredible ass of hers. Olivia exhaled so hard I could feel it echo in my own chest.
“Good girl,” I breathed into her, not loud, but unmistakable.
I pulled just enough to raise her chin, to force her back into a deeper arch, and the next stroke was pure, greedy friction. Her hand came up to grip my wrist, nails digging in, grounding herself against the desk. Her other fist balled at the edge of the wood, knuckles white. Sweat beaded at her brow.
I set a patient pace, the angle just enough to make her gasp into each thrust, and each retreat. Olivia tried to stifle it, biting down on the flesh of her arm, burying every sound she could. But she lost ground every third or fourth thrust, noise leaking out of her in strangled whimpers, desperate to pass as a cough or a sigh.
This was a different Olivia than I'd seen even that first time, her composure shredded, the sharp-tongued academic now unraveling with each new wave of sensation. It was breathtaking.
I let go of her hair, traced the length of her back, slick with sweat and heat, and dropped my hand to her shoulder, pulling her upright against me. Olivia followed, the curve of her spine molding to the line of my chest, and now she was half-standing, impaled, her head turned away but close enough I could taste the salt of her skin when I pressed my cheek to hers.
The sounds she made were softer now, almost defeated, shivering as I moved deeper, slower, drawing the moment out until her knees buckled. I hooked an arm under her, kept her from collapsing. The edge was so close I could taste it, when she whimpered and pushed herself back hard, like she wanted to impale herself on me, harder, deeper, now. I let her, and together we rocked in furious movements, her ass clapping against my hips, her gasps getting louder, reckless.
I reached around, found her clit, swollen and needy, and rubbed it in little circles that matched the tempo of my thrusts. It was too much now, her body lost to it, and she came again, buckling, almost collapsing into my arms as I let go, pouring everything I’d been holding back into her. The end was sharp, shattering, and the room shrank around us, silent except for the pounding of blood in our ears.
My own climax was mounting, sharp and insistent, and I knew I couldn’t hold back for much longer. I pulled out for a second, letting the head of my cock rest between her cheeks while I caught my breath. Olivia made a desperate whine, rocking back as if to refuse the pause. I fumbled for her hand, brought it behind her, and wrapped her own fingers around the slick shaft, her nails digging into me.
I guided myself back to her entrance, this time pressing lower, trailing down, and with barely a wordless warning, drove forward again, filling her pussy. She was so wet it was almost comical, the friction completely gone, just a wetness and pressure and the impossibility of not cumming almost instantly. She bucked hard, grinding her ass into my hips.
I lasted two more thrusts, maybe three before everything inside me ripped loose. I came hard, so hard I had to bite Olivia’s shoulder to keep from moaning out, hands gripping her hips, holding her down as I emptied myself inside of her, rope after rope of hot gooey baby batter filling her up.
I wanted to make Olivia come again, this time with my fingers, but the timer in the kitchen had gone silent, and I knew the window was closing. I pulled her up, the skirt bunched around her waist, and stood her upright, steadying her as her legs threatened to collapse. She regained composure instantly, hair perfect, face flushed but otherwise immaculate.
She straightened her blouse and looked at me, nothing in her gaze was uncertain. “We better go,” she whispered. “Before we’re missed.”
We didn’t touch in the hallway, didn’t even exchange a look as we maneuvered past the closed bedroom doors. In the kitchen, Eleanor was plating salmon, a magazine open next to the stove. She smiled brightly when we appeared, as if nothing could be more natural than Olivia at our side, cheeks still pink, tucking a stray braid behind her ear.
Dinner was normal. The conversation never strayed from school, upcoming exams, the new soccer schedule. Even our son, who’d never been a fan of dinner table conversation, glanced up more than usual, as if sensing the shift in atmosphere, though he would never have guessed at the arrangement hiding in plain sight.
To Be Continued