Taunt Me (Rough Love Book 2) (6 page)

As for me, I had no plans for the evening, no dates to go on, paid or otherwise. I didn’t know how to get rid of my restlessness and guilt at being a bad friend. I debated whether to go out to one of the BDSM clubs in my current mood. I wanted to get beaten on. I wanted to feel something, but I hadn’t played at any of the clubs before, and tonight probably wasn’t the best night to dip my toe in.

Also, if I went to the clubs, I would think about W the whole time like I always did, about his roughness and cruel brutality. About his kindness. His kisses. His poetry.
Mine also, little painted poem of God.

Ugh. Not anymore.

It was snowing, and bitterly cold, but in the end, I made the decision to go out. I painted my lips a deep red and painted my nails to match, and put on a fitted black dress, tights, and boots. The dress was some off-the-rack thing, and I’d found the boots in a thrift store. I used to wear designer everything, but my current scholarship didn’t allow for that kind of extravagance, and I didn’t want to touch my escort savings until I was out of school. This dress was fine for dark clubs where I didn’t plan to play anyway.

Why are you going if you’re not going to play? Why do you do this to yourself?

I silenced the voice in my brain, or maybe the cold, sharp air silenced it for me. I put my head down and crunched over the snow to the subway entrance across from the school. I rode to the Meatpacking District, to the biggest, noisiest, busiest fetish club in Manhattan: Evolution City. The bouncers welcomed me with big smiles. Single female patrons were always admitted with no cover charge, but Evolution was too smothering, too loud for my mood today.

I was back out on the sidewalk fifteen minutes later. I stood by the curb and blew condensation into the cold air, then turned and headed for Studio Valiant instead. It was smaller and less in-your-face, a casual, kinky hideaway with painted concrete walls. Instead of pounding club music, Valiant played an erratic mix of classical music, torch songs, and decades-old Top 40. The music lightened the mood and kept the club from feeling too full of itself. The equipment wasn’t as luxe as Evolution’s top-tier spread, but a dedicated pervert could find plenty of workable racks, tables, and spanking benches distributed throughout the dungeon floor.

I left my coat at the door and skirted around the scenes in progress, and shared a smile with one of the dungeon masters, an older gentleman I sometimes saw at Evolution too. There were four balconies upstairs, half-hidden by curtains, where voyeurs could look down on the action. I felt most comfortable there, where I could watch other people suffer and play.

By now, I felt at home with the accoutrements of these BDSM clubs: the rope, the chains, the cuffs, and the intermittent cracks of a whip. It wasn’t very busy tonight, perhaps because of the weather. For once, I had a balcony all to myself, and from that private, elevated space, I watched intense, quiet scenes and fun, raucous scenes, watched duos and trios and quartets of people act out their freaky sides.

There was very little sex. Some heavy petting, some commanded blowjobs. I couldn’t help remembering how W used to shove his cock down my throat. It could hardly have been called “giving him a blowjob” since I hadn’t given anything, only had everything taken from me. My control, my dignity, my ability to breathe. None of the blowjobs here were like that.

I closed my eyes, overtaken by the past. It was so long ago now, but I could still remember the scent of his maleness, his fingers yanking at my hair. The thick, hard, driving flesh... His cock had ruled my life. His force and passion had ruled my life during our frenetic sessions. I still remembered how he used to slap my face and bark orders. I remembered the feel of it, the shock and the sting. Why had I enjoyed having my face slapped? I had no idea, but it got me in the mood every time.

I heard a step behind me, and a creak as someone sat on one of the balcony’s bleacher-like benches. Just one person. A man? The image of W was so strong in my mind, because of the memories and the fantasies, that my hair stood on end. What if it was W sitting behind me, watching me watch the others?

I slid a look over my shoulder, my whole body cycling through hot and cold. Why was I experiencing this prickle, this sense of recognition? I saw dark jeans, the hem of a black tee. It wasn’t W, because the man wasn’t big enough, and W wouldn’t wear jeans and a tee shirt to a club. He’d wear a suit and tie, and cuff links. I screwed up my courage and looked into the interloper’s face.

It wasn’t W.

It was Professor Cantor from my metals lab, looking more predatory than ever.

I turned back around. My face was steaming red. Maybe he hadn’t recognized me. Shit, of course he’d recognized me. He probably recognized me from seeing me here before. All those assessing looks explained, and his comment about
service
. Ugh. I shot to my feet, determined to leave before things got any more awkward.

“Don’t go,” he said. He didn’t touch me, but his authoritative voice arrested me in the act of motion. “You don’t have to leave.”

I tried to think of something to reply.
Of course
I have to leave. This is embarrassing. You’re my teacher.
But nothing came. When he gestured to the bench beside him, I sat.

“I’ve seen you around the clubs before,” he said, without insinuation or judgment. “I apologize that I’ve never said hi.”

“That would have been kind of awkward.”

“Why? Because we know each other from Norton?” The corners of his mouth tilted up. I understood why some of the students found him handsome. In that sensual smile, I understood, but I didn’t want to think about it.

“Trust me when I tell you we’re not the only kinky people roaming Norton’s halls,” he said. His dark eyes took in my black dress, then lingered at my bare throat. “So what are you? Dom or sub? Or switch?”

I touched my neck. “Nothing, right now. I don’t know.”

“Just curious?”

I didn’t want him to think I was some gawker, that I hadn’t paid my dues—hellish dues—under a Dominant’s hand. “I have experience. I was in a really intense relationship. I was a sub, I guess, but I...I wanted to take a break. I mean, I have been taking a break.”

“Sometimes you need a break.”

I looked at his gold wedding ring, maybe too obviously. He looked at it too and wiggled his ring finger. “She knows I’m here,” he said. “She’s okay with it. She’s not into submission, or playing around with pain.”

“Oh. Okay. I mean, whatever. I guess that’s your business.”

“But you wanted to know.” He shrugged. “I don’t come out to these places looking for attachment. I love my wife very much. It’s more to do the things I like, that she doesn’t like.”

It seemed alien to me, that someone could do these things without a deep and complicated emotional attachment. That someone could come here and leave a wife at home.

“Doesn’t she get jealous?” I asked.

He chuckled, stretching one of his legs to rest on the bench in front of us. “She has her own lovers, loads of them. We have an open marriage. But our most
intense
relationship,” he said, borrowing my word from earlier, “is the relationship we have with each other.”

I kind of hated him for throwing his happy, open marriage in my face. I had nothing, no one, just a bunch of depressing memories. Out of the last two people I’d loved, one had taken my money and abused me, while the other had dumped me without sharing anything of substance except a whole lot of sex.

“You’re lucky,” I said, hunching over and resting my elbows on my knees. “I’ve never had a good relationship. I’m done with them.”

“You’re too young to be done with relationships.” I could hear the soft, chiding mockery in his voice.

“What does it matter to you?” I muttered.

“You’re one of my favorite students. It matters to me.”

I was surprised by his forthright reply. I guess in some part of my brain I’d known he felt some favor toward me, even if he rode me harder than everyone else. But to hear it here, in this situation...it made me uncomfortable.

I scuffed the toe of my shoe against the opposite bench. “It’s going to be weird now to see you in class.”

“We only have a couple more weeks as professor and student.”

The way he said
professor and student
sounded porn-y, or maybe it was my inappropriate mind. I wasn’t attracted to him. I didn’t want anything to do with him or his dark jeans or his hipster open marriage.

“Are you looking forward to your internship?” he asked as the silence went on too long.

“Can we not talk about school, since you’re my teacher?”

He blinked, once, twice. Now it was the satanic gaze. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Nothing, really. Why are you sitting up here with me? Why aren’t you down there?” I jerked a thumb toward the concrete dungeon. An 80’s hair band song blared over the sounds of thudding implements, laughter, and cries.

“I just wanted to say hello,” he said. “You looked lonely sitting up here.” When I didn’t reply to that comment, he stood. “I think I will go down.” Then he paused, and looked at me. “Would you like to come?”

“No, thanks. I’m more of a watcher.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He again made as if to go, then stopped. “If you want to be less of a watcher in the future, and you’re looking for a no-strings-attached partner, I’m experienced and safe.”

Wow, that was a ballsy offer. At least he didn’t say it in a skeevy, entitled way, like some of the Dominants who hit on me. He sounded sincere. I appreciated that, even if the answer was
no, no, no, no.

“Is it the professor thing?” he asked when I failed to respond. “That’s understandable.” He turned to go, then stopped again. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said too quickly.

He nodded. “I’ll see you in class.”

There was too much of a seductive edge to those five words. I’m ashamed to say I stuck around through my embarrassment and trauma to watch my predatory professor in action. It didn’t take him long to find a willing partner, a statuesque blonde with short, aqua-tipped hair. From the way they interacted, I thought they’d probably played together before. I peered down from the balcony, trying to look disinterested, trying not to focus on him too long in case he looked up at me.

But he didn’t look up at me, and I was soon absorbed in watching him play. He had an expertness about him, a confidence he also had in the classroom. His movements were slow as he bound and teased his partner, fixing her to a St. Andrews cross. He was unfailingly attentive, leaning his head close when she talked to him, and checking her bonds to make sure they weren’t too tight. I couldn’t help contrasting his smooth, calm mode of operation to W’s heightened grasping. His
violence
.

Even now, engrossed in someone else’s scene, I couldn’t stop thinking about my lost lover. I squeezed my eyes shut and willed him out of my thoughts. The girl Cantor had picked was pretty. Very young. Reckless. I wondered if W would have liked to play with her. Probably.

Stop. Just stop.

Cantor warmed up the girl with some spanking, some caresses. A little bit of massage. He reached around his play partner to caress her breasts, and she very audibly liked it. His hand moved lower, playing over her panties. She arched her hips and smiled at him, and he gave her a little slap there. Her expression said,
do it again
.

I also wanted him to do it again, but he didn’t. He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off and leaned down to stow it in his bag. It wasn’t until he stood again that I appreciated his impressive set of muscles. He was no W, but for a middle-aged professor, he had a good body. He had a great ass.

Just a couple more weeks.
In a couple more weeks, he wouldn’t be my teacher. Maybe...

Jesus God, no. Had I learned nothing over the past few years? I was terrible at picking guys.
Really, Chere? A married, polyamorous, ex-professor of yours? Just because he has a decent ass?

But it was more than that. It was his capability, his control. He drew a flogger out of his bag and went to work on the pretty blonde. She made great noises, adorable noises. I wondered how much she turned him on. I wondered if he ever thought of his wife at moments like these.

From where I sat, I had a view of his back, of muscles bunching, and the practiced swing of his arm. There was no protocol here, no collars or commands or anything besides casual impact play, but he was unmistakably Dom. Other girls in the room watched him too. I wondered why I’d never noticed him at any of the other clubs, but then I realized it was probably because I was too busy watching for W.

But W was gone...and I could have this...

He’d offered. I was afraid if I watched him for very much longer, I’d accept. He flogged his moaning victim, fast, slow, soft, hard, teasing her curves and walloping her back, striping her legs because she especially seemed to like that. W had never asked what I liked. He just grabbed and forced and took, and gave me soul-crushing orgasms.

There was nothing soul-crushing in what Cantor was doing, and I knew—sorry, Professor Predator—that he wouldn’t be able to give me the kind of orgasms W did. But he might be able to take the edge off my loneliness, and give me a little pleasure.

No, no, no. Idiot. He’s married. He’s your professor. Don’t make another stupid choice, and fall in love with another undeserving person.

This was why I had to be alone, because I wanted things I shouldn’t want. I forced my gaze away from Cantor, forced myself to stop thinking about the playful way he’d spanked her pussy. Tried not to remember the time W beat the shit out of my pussy with his belt, and made my eyes roll back in my head from the pleasure of it.

Stupid of me, to even imagine being with someone else. W had ruined me forever for other lovers before he left, and I hated him for it. I needed to move on, yes. But not to someone else.

Fortunately, my phone lit up with a text from Andrew, and I had something else to think about. I turned away from the scene downstairs to read his message.