Page 55 of Under His Control

“I wouldn’t still be in this chair if I didn’t.”

His implication sharpens my tone.

“Are you going to stay there?”

“Sit on the edge of the bed and lie back.”

I’m unnerved that he ignored my question. Even while seated, Jacob has an authoritative air that compels obedience. My legs dangle over the side when I’m on my back.

“Perfect.” I can’t see his face but I hear the satisfied smile in his voice. “Let the show continue.”

I scowl up at the white ceiling.

“The only thing I want to show you are the third fingers on my hands.”

He chuckles. I hate that some pathetic part of me likes it because his laugh says a lot. He finds my weak attempt at agency amusing when he has all the power.

Humiliation courses through me as I widen my thighs and slip my hand between them. Now I understand why he said “perfect.” In this position, I’m giving him a clear view of my pussy while I rub it.

For him.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forced to use my imagination to get things going. I stroke my uncooperative clit harder as I try to recall a fantasy I’ve had for years.

Back in college, I had a hot art professor from Québec. Just about everyone wanted Professor Lemire. He treated us with utter disdain because his true loves were trains and Victorian art.

In my mind, I’m straddling Professor Lemire. We’re making out while others are walking around just outside. When my sexy professor hoists me onto his desk, I start warming up under my fingers in reality.

However, the fantasy gradually changes. The sandy-haired guy with the man bun becomes someone else. I fight to correct the details. The movie in my head refuses to be edited and the man ripping my panties down my legs is too familiar—

“What are you thinking about as you touch yourself?” Jacob asks.

“My... my art professor.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s… blond...” No, his hair is dark like yours. “Green eyes...” Ocean blue like yours. “…nice lips.” They’re your lips.

Try as I might to change the fantasy back to my professor, it’s Jacob’s lips against my ear, his hard cock rubbing against my naked pussy. I’m steeped in shame while my fingers circle my swollen clit faster and between my legs grow wetter.

“What’s he doing to you, sweetheart?” His voice is silken.

“He’s... he’s...” I pant, struggling to form words, my eyes squeezed shut as I play out the dirty fantasy. “He’s about to fuck me... on his desk.”

“Did he lick you first?”

“No… he didn’t...”

“Your professor is a stupid son-of-a-bitch.” The smile in his voice is still present. “Your pussy looks like the sweetest fucking thing in the world. If it were me, I would never pass up the chance to taste it.”

My body isn’t the only traitor. My mind is one too. I should be appalled at Jacob’s filthy remark—he’s not supposed to say that to me—instead the fantasy changes to suit it.

Jacob is on his knees, his face between my thighs. He’s holding my gaze as his mouth and tongue moves against me, tasting me, worshipping me. A soft moan escapes me and my legs fall open wider.

“But before I made you come on my face, I would’ve played with those amazing tits. Why don’t you do that for me?”

His low, persuasive voice and the need between my legs suppress my sense of right and wrong. For the first time, I obey him without reluctance or protest, sliding my hands to my breasts.

No, in my mind, it’s Jacob’s hands cupping and caressing them, squeezing them, pulling and twisting my nipples until they’re firm between my fingers.