Sin and Swoon Read online

  “Do you like it?” He tilts his head, staring deeply into my eyes.

  I nod slowly, realizing this might be the first time for us. We may actually make love.

  The mischief in his eyes tells me we won’t be kissing and admiring purity rings much longer, that tonight I might be in for something I have never had before. Sex with an adult is amazing—in my head. I don’t know how it’ll be in real life, but my expectations are quite high. Teenage boys are not great at it. I have experienced that a few times and have never come away feeling like I understand the greatness that is sex.

  He crosses the room, lifting his hands to my face, cupping and lifting to a nearly impossible angle. He kisses my forehead and stares out the window over top. “I want your permission to make—love—to you.”

  I gulp as an involuntary twitch between my legs jolts through me. I nod, not saying it aloud.

  “Say it.”

  “I give you my permission.” My voice shakes but it isn’t nerves, it’s excitement. And about bloody time.

  “You give me permission to ravage you in every way I know how?”

  I nod again, not even sure what the fuck I am agreeing to. Don’t cuss! I reprimand myself.

  He lowers his gaze and mouth, crashing it upon mine. The feeling of his lips engulfing mine is unexpected. He kisses like he might actually devour me, and I don’t know if I like it or if I think it’s weirdly fetish-like. His saliva coats my lips, greasing the way for our kiss. I’m not sold on the way he kisses. I’m not sold on anything as he lifts me into the air and carries me into the dark. I have a terrible feeling he is taking me into the dark in more than literal ways.

  Gently I am placed on the bed, gently my shoes are removed, and gently my hands are kissed.

  That is the last of the gentle acts.

  His lips pressed against my palms are deceptive. I let him lift my hands into the air after each kiss, locking my wrists into something, something I don’t understand until it’s too late. I’m too excited. His cock bulges from his jeans, rubbing against the inside of my bare thigh; my pants have been removed in the fluid acts he’s committed without really moving much. He’s smooth and efficient at locking me up tightly. I try to reach for him as my fingers tingle, desperate for the touch and feel of what I imagine is smooth skin. But he doesn’t allow it.

  My hands are pinned and my heart is pounding when I realize what has happened. He lifts something from the dark bedside table. It’s then I realize the entire wall next to the bed is glass and the cascading mountains are almost in the room with us, they are so close. I can taste the moonlight in the air, the still cold air. The thing in his hands flashes a bit of light as the moon grazes it slightly. My eyes widen when I see the scissors. I don’t know where we’re going suddenly; my hands are bound and the scissors seem sharp, like kitchen shears. The way they catch the light and shimmer is cold and frightening.

  “Do you trust me?” he asks softly as he rests the cold metal of the clippers against my stomach. I nod again, but it’s a lie. The grin on his lips and the gray his eyes have become make me even more nervous. “You don’t have to lie,” he whispers as he cuts once, making me flinch and wait for the pain. He cuts again and again until my bra and heaving chest are bared to him and the cold air. He drags the blades down my skin, barely a whisper of touch. “Are you scared?”

  I nod. Fuck it! I can’t deny the fear in my eyes or the near-tearful stare I am certain he sees.

  The grin on his face should have been my warning, but I eat it up like it is the most delicious thing I have ever seen. I eat him up; everything about him is beautiful and enchanting in all the wrong ways yet striking all the right places.

  He lowers the shears, clipping away the sides of my underwear and then the middle of my bra. The cloth falls away from my skin, leaving me lying on a mat of my removed clothing. He cuts away the sleeves and flicks the bra from my breast. Even I can’t deny the beauty of my body as the shadowy silver light hits one side, casting abstract contrasts on the other. He runs the closed metal scissors across my nipple, making what is standing at attention grow even more.

  He bends his beautiful face, replacing the cold metal with the heat of his mouth. Again he kisses with too much moisture, leaving my nipple wet and aching for more attention. But he leaves that one, sucking the other in a way that makes it feel as though there is a string from my clit to my nipple, and when one gets touched the other tugs.

  He runs a finger down my belly as his tongue circles my erect nipple. The other is freezing cold and begging for more attention, which he grants it when his finger makes its way to the destination I have been desperately, but silently, begging from him.

  As he inserts a finger roughly, his mouth lands on the cold nipple, both earning a gasp from me. He doesn’t hesitate to see what I like—he immediately saws his finger in and out of my wet opening. I cry out from the shuddering bliss rocking me as he bites gently, no worse than the cuffs do on my wrists.

  I can’t touch or move, really. He’s pinning me to the bed and abusing me in the best ways I can imagine. It all feels wrong and right, conflicting my opinion on an appropriate response. I don’t know if it’s the second finger he inserts, or the clenching of his teeth on my nipple as his tongue flicks rapidly, or the cuffs pinning my body at an unnatural angle, but I orgasm in the most violent way I ever have. A scream tears from my lips as I arch my back and tremble, clamping down on his fingers, which don’t slow in any way. I twitch and ache, but he doesn’t relent.

  “Please! Please!” I beg for him to stop but my lips betray my body, they won’t utter the word stop, and so he continues his assault. I don’t imagine the word stop would end the pulsating in my quivering pussy. I don’t imagine my begging does anything but feed his frenzy.

  His pants rustle. I assume one thing and yet receive another. He grabs his cock, rubbing it between my pussy lips and yet never entering me. Again I beg, but not the way I thought I might in a situation such as this one. “FUCK ME!”

  But he doesn’t. He pulls his fingers from me, rubbing his cock between my lips with several aggressive thrusts before orgasming all over my stomach. He twitches and sighs, looking confused for a moment. He smiles and nods. “I got a bit excited.”

  I’m heaving breaths in desperation and lost in the glistening fluid all over my bared belly. He climbs off me, making my hip ache immediately at the awkward angle.

  He leans forward, dragging his cock in the mess he’s made as he unlocks my wrists. I whimper a little as he releases them and lowers my upper body to the pillow again. I hadn’t realized I was nearly suspended.

  He’s up, no cuddle, no talking. Just straight to the shower. He doesn’t even turn on a light.

  I lie there a minute, not sure if I should laugh or cry. It is hands down the weirdest sex I have ever had, and yet I have a feeling it might also the best.

  6. Professor Hyde

  Angie gives me a confused stare. “So he just rubbed his wanker on ya bits and came, never entered ya?”

  I shake my head.

  She cocks an eyebrow. “He’s a freak. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. He’s one of them Bates Motel types. Ya need to get out. No one needs that sort of shite. All the mess, with none of the sex? Feck that.” She shakes her head again, almost blankly. “Fecking weirdo, that’s what ya got. He breastfed from the tit till he was seventeen, I bet my life on that one.”

  I snort, still feeling the odd bit dirty from the encounter.

  “And you never did it again after that? Ten dates, and he uses ya to jack off?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. He made me come twice before he came. We had mutual orgasms. He just never entered me with his penis.” I make a driving-forward motion toward my vagina, like I need to explain it better.

  “Fecking weird.”

  “Agreed.” I nod and contemplate what will become of us. I know I have to break it off, but I desperately want to have him. It’s perverse, but I can’t stop thinking about what it might be like.
He’s obviously weird. Who just happens to have handcuffs on their bedpost? Does his mom know they’re there? Does he even have a mom?

  “So what did yas do with all that free time the next two days?”

  The memory of that brings a scowl across my lips. “Played games, hiked, and made gourmet meals.” I give her a look. “Pretty dissatisfying, actually. We cuddled every night.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Like friends or sisters or some shite like that?”

  I shrug. “He seemed all sweet again when he got the shower over with. I had one, and then he warmed up the house and made a meal, and we watched a movie.” I flash the welts on my wrists. “We pretended this never happened.”

  Her eyes widen. “He’ll tie ya up, but he won’t shag ya? Not worth it.” She starts filing her teal-colored nails. “I don’t mind a bit of tie-me-up tie-me-down, but it better come with a rock-hard shagging. I better not walk—”

  “I get it!” I clear my throat. “He’s fairly good at everything else.”

  “Yeah. He’ll be wearing your shoes by Christmas, trust me. This has Mommie Dearest written all over it.” Her words ring through my head, like a bell in a courtyard, chiming the hour.

  I curl up in my bed and snuggle my cat, or rather struggle snuggle, until he eventually gives up.

  I leave for my parents’ house the next day, for Christmas break. The nutty professor doesn’t text or call for the entire break. My brother mocks me as a crazy cat lady, and my mother defends my odd obsession with my feline companion. They all assume I’ll end up old and alone. But even then I don’t tell them about Derek. I don’t dare utter a word. How would I explain our relationship? Sometimes he ties me up and comes on my belly, and I’m not allowed to be seen with him in public, but he reads poetry and tells me impassioned tales of traveling through Ireland and his fondness for the place.

  There is no way to explain Derek and me to myself, so I can’t imagine trying to explain it to my family. I nod and let them chide me.

  I do notice, however, there is animation in my house that his lacks. His entire life lacks it. He’s dry and funny, but in a way that always seems to keep me at arm’s length.

  After Christmas break, on the ride back to Seattle, I notice the rain hasn’t stopped. The fall was cold and damp, and the winter doesn’t seem to be improving. I hate that we might not see a flake of snow this year. It’s weird. We usually get a bit, just a bit.

  I like to stare up into it, letting the flakes fall on my tongue.

  When I get back to the dorm, I notice his Jeep is parked in the lot where all the girls park their cars. His silhouette is there, hiding in the shadows of the dark vehicle. He doesn’t open the door or climb out. He doesn’t wave. He just watches. And like a fool I walk to him. I don’t drop off my bags. I don’t tell anyone I am there. I walk to his Jeep and open the passenger door.

  He looks rough, different. I never noticed before how much he resembles my brother. Tall and broad with dark hair and dark-blue eyes. He’s chiseled and ruggedly handsome. In the moonlight I lean in, squinting at the dark blue of his eyes I could swear were always green. Gray green when he was emotional at all. But now they’re dark blue, and his eyebrows seem a bit different. The boyish good looks are gone. In their stead are rugged features that make him handsome in a way that intimidates me, as if it has made him older.

  I blink, wondering if I have the right vehicle. But he turns and smiles, and all my doubts are gone.

  “I missed you all Christmas.” The word Christmas sounds funny the way he says it.

  I climb into the vehicle, dropping my bags on the ground next to the door I leave ajar. I slide into his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. It’s hard not to kiss him with every bit of passion I have in me. I want everything he’s willing to offer, and I don’t know why.

  He cups me in his lap, holding tightly to me. His fingers tremble just slightly, like they’re straining too much or holding back maybe.

  I rock in his lap, grinding against the erection I can feel there. I sit back, reaching between his legs to free the beast I think is beckoning to me. As I open the zipper and button, it springs from the pants and underwear. I don’t think. I don’t even consider what I am doing. Instead, I kiss him and wrestle with my own pants after kicking off my shoes. There, in the parking lot, I lower myself back over him once I’m bared, sliding my wet sex over his rigid cock. He freezes, not touching me, not breathing. He’s perfectly still as I ride him, rocking my hips and rolling my stomach, working him like a joystick.

  I increase my pace, biting down on his quivering lip and gripping his shoulders with my greedy fingers that want too much. I force him to move with me, force him to fuck me. It’s better than I imagined. He fits inside of me like he was made to be there. I orgasm, clutching to the headrest as he pants softly in my ear.

  When he climaxes, he loses all control, just like at his cabin. He grips me too hard, his fingers digging into my hips and butt. He forces my pussy up and down, forces the riding and the circular motion. He comes moaning in my ear, biting down on my lobe. I hadn’t noticed he’d bitten me, but I cry out as he bites harder. He jerks his finish inside of me and pauses, again frozen.

  “I think I love you, Professor.”

  He shakes his head. “You can’t,” he mutters with a strange accent and shoves me off him, pushing me from the Jeep with semen dripping down my bare legs. I just land on my feet, and he’s driving away with the door open. I yank my pants on but have lost my shoes, for what I assume is forever.

  I think this because I don’t see him again. Not the way I did.

  My heart aches when he doesn’t come to see me, or call me, or text me. My insides tighten and burn when I think about how I let him use me. I try not to linger in that place, the one made up of shame. I worry that I might have gone too far to that bad place where you can’t ever have normal again because you are addicted to the twisted darkness.

  I try to not to think about him at all.

  It doesn’t go well.

  7. First day of spring

  It doesn’t feel like spring. It feels like fall or early winter. It’s dank and cold, and my hopes of seeing snow are gone. I know I will not see a single flake for the whole year until next winter.

  My phone vibrates as I reach the steps of the campus. I glance at it before I realize where I am. I’m at the campus of the university in the city. I had gotten on the bus to go to the mall, and yet, here I am. It’s happened before. I have gotten on board to go somewhere, and my body instinctively goes looking for him.

  I climb the steps, knowing exactly where the literature department is. It isn’t my first time making it all the way here before stopping myself.

  When I get inside I pause, looking for the information office. My insides tighten as I walk to the silver-haired lady with the granny glasses and a terrible winter sweater on. I grin when I see her name, Anne Holle. She is Ms. A. Holle, and my brain is just infantile enough to enjoy that. When she glances up I turn my grin into a soft smile. “Hi, I’m looking for Dr. Russo.”

  She cocks a brow. “Who?”

  “Dr. Derek Russo. He teaches literature.”

  She tilts her head to the side, giving me the oddest look. “You mean Professor Hanson? Dick Hanson?”

  I purse my lips. “Nooooo. I think I mean Russo. He’s a professor here. Perhaps he’s changed subjects.”

  “Oh, if only it were that easy. I can tell you that there has not been a Dr. Russo on campus as a teacher since I started twenty years ago, and Dr. Hanson, the literature professor, has been here since Jesus was in short pants.” She chuckles. “He’s older than Methuselah’s bloody goat.” She sees the look of pain on my face. “I assume you are looking for this professor for the wrong reasons. Well, our lit prof is gay, very gay. He’s been to Canada to marry the theater director from the playhouse downtown.” She winks. “Go figure, a gay lit prof and a theater director? Who would have guessed?” She chuckles again.

  My insides twist
and turn. “Who is Russo then? Who’s Derek Russo?”

  She shrugs. “Honey, I have never heard that name before. I think you might have been messed with.”

  My world spins, and my mind goes for the most logical explanation. She’s a fucking liar. I turn and run down the hallway, my Hunter boots clomping on the tile floor. When I know I’m lost I stop and stare at the map on the wall. I go down a set of stairs and down another hallway. The sign for the literature hall stops me dead in my tracks. Dick Hanson is the name on the plaque. I hurry to the wall, peering into the room through the slim window in the door. An old man wearing a very feminine purple scarf leads the class. He has gray hair and a bit of a mustache that matches his head. He’s a little chubby and definitely not Derek.

  I back away until I hit the wall and slump onto a bench.

  I don’t know what that means, and I don’t know how to respond. He’s not a professor?

  I pull my phone out, texting Angie in all-caps rage.

  WHAT THE HELL? YOU SAID YOU KNEW DEREK! HE’S NOT A PROF! HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW HIM?

  She doesn’t message me back. The text doesn’t even deliver.

  I close my eyes, wondering how I got here. I need to go home. Not just my dorm but my house. I left Binx there after Christmas; he wasn’t enjoying the dorm life at all. I need a furry snuggle and maybe to reevaluate my life and classes and career ambitions.

  I stand and stagger down the hallway, wishing I’d just stayed home for a year like half my friends. Or gone to Portland with my brother.

  But I don’t end up back at school. I end up in a bar with a stiff drink and a plate of cheese fries. I drink a second glass and sit back, realizing I have been played. I have definitely been played. I message Angie again, but as before it doesn’t deliver. Her phone must be off.

  I hate that I don’t know who he is or where he works. I hate that I let him cuff me on a lonely mountaintop and that he has seen me orgasm in the silver light of the moon. I hate that I have wasted my time—my precious first year at college—on a wanker like him. Wanker? God, I sound like Angie.