It had been a few years since I last saw a former student—our relationship a strange blend of mentorship and friendship. Now, meeting again as adults, I find myself realizing that he’s grown more into adulthood than I have. Somehow, he always makes time for me whenever I visit, and our conversations flow easily, like a familiar current we both know how to navigate.
He embodies the essence of a young Caribbean man—charming, confident, and at ease. Watching him blossom from the clueless boy I once tutored into the man sitting across from me feels surreal. And yet, I must admit, I’ve also changed, though perhaps not in the way most would expect. I’m still firm, still a disciplinarian, but the control I’ve always wielded over others now brings me a sense of intimate satisfaction.
For me, he will always be the boy with those mesmerizing hazel eyes and a smile that could soften even my stern exterior. I’ve always had a thing for eyes, you see. I remember one time during his twentieth birthday weekend, he begged to please me. And to this day, I’ve never encountered anyone with his talent—his oral skills remain unmatched. It’s not the confidence that comes from his father’s political connections or the privileges of his family; it’s something that runs deep within him—an innate power, unshaken and entirely his own.
We met at my hotel before he had to leave for work. He dreams of becoming a judge one day, and I have no doubt he’ll excel.
"Has your French improved?" I teased, and without missing a beat, he replied in perfect accent, "Seulement aussi bon que mon professeur.." Pride swelled in my chest, like a mother watching her child embrace the world she envisioned for him.
We settled at the bar, clinking glasses and sharing nostalgic stories between playful banter and knowing glances. At some point, he noticed my mind wandering.
"Are you okay?" he asked gently.
"I'm not sad," I lied. But I was—a little.
Three drinks in, the truth came out. I told him about someone—someone I shouldn’t still be thinking about.
"You? Shaken by a guy? That’s hard to believe," he teased.
I smiled bitterly, taking another sip of whiskey. "Believe it. I even drunk-texted him."
I showed him the chaotic stream of texts—the desperate, impulsive messages sent to "the sub that got away," as we now called him in jest. He shook his head, amused.
"This is so unlike you, ma’am."
Ah, the formal address—so ingrained in our native tongue. There’s a way we address our elders and those in power, a way that stirs something primal within me.
"What was it about him that got you so hooked?" he asked, genuinely curious.
I shrugged. "Maybe it’s because I couldn’t have him." A half-truth, at best. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t purge the memory of the boy with golden eyes and a voice like velvet. Even four hours spent entangled with him—sweating, moaning, lost in ecstasy—couldn't erase him from my mind.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
I smiled again, pulling myself from the memories. His concern was genuine, and it stirred a warmth in me I couldn’t quite name. I reached out, running my fingers through his curls. He kissed my hand with reverence.
"He doesn’t deserve you, ma’am," he whispered.
Our eyes locked. He leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear as he murmured, "But we both know you don’t have a heart."
A sly smile crept onto my face. He tried to kiss me, but I pulled back, teasing.
"You haven’t earned that privilege," I whispered, watching his gaze lower in submission.
"How can I earn it?" he asked, his voice a low rumble meant only for me.
"On your knees," I said, firm but calm.
He hesitated for a moment, glancing around at the other patrons. It was a small city—people might recognize him. The risk thrilled me. But I decided against it.
"Come," I commanded, tugging at his tie. Like a well-trained pup, he followed without question.
We made our way down the corridor to the presidential suite I had booked. When we reached the door, I stepped behind him and whispered, "Do you trust me?"
He nodded without hesitation. His trust made me smile—a twisted, maternal satisfaction settling in my chest.
"Walk to the last door. Don’t look back," I instructed, referencing a story we had read together once. In this scenario, he was Orpheus, not leaving Hades but walking straight into it.
He walked forward, and I watched as he fought the urge to glance back. A soft sound escaped my lips—a gentle "tsk”—and he continued without faltering. When he reached the door, I pulled a piece of chocolate from my pocket and held it out to him.
"Good boy," I whispered.
He leaned in, taking the chocolate between his lips and licking my palm in the process. His hazel eyes stayed locked on mine, full of reverence.
Inside the suite, the bedroom was prepared. Tools lay neatly on the bed—whips, riding crops, ropes, handcuffs. I sat on the edge of the bed, the hem of my summer dress grazing my knees, my high heels still on.
"Are you sure you want this?" I asked softly.
He nodded, his gaze lingering on the tools.
"Did you use these on him?" he asked.
I shook my head. "We never got the chance."
His eyes drifted to the handcuffs.
"What did you get the chance to do?"
I stood abruptly, grabbing him by the tie and yanking him closer.
"Who said you could ask questions?"
He lowered his gaze immediately. "I’m sorry, ma’am."
I felt the control return—the energy that whiskey always brings me.
"Wait here," I instructed, gesturing for him to kneel in front of the bed. "Face away from the bathroom. Stay still."
When I returned, the sound of my heels on the floor made him stiffen. I had changed into a corset that left little to the imagination, knowing exactly how long he had fantasized about my body.
"Crawl to me," I commanded, picking up the riding crop. As he crawled toward me, I dragged the crop across my own skin, building anticipation.
"Do you know what this is?"
He nodded. "We used them on the horses."
I smiled. "And now I’ll use it on you."
With slow, deliberate movements, I trailed the crop along his bare chest, enjoying the tension in his body.
"Pray," I ordered.
He clasped his hands in front of him, whispering a prayer in Latin. I began to flog him, his flinches filling me with a dark, twisted joy. His voice, steady through the pain, was a symphony to my ears.
When I finally stopped, we were both slick with sweat, breathless from the exchange.
"How useless," I muttered. "The Latin, I mean. Not you."
He shook his head, silently accepting my words.
"Stand. Take off your pants. Lie on the bed."
He obeyed without question, hesitating only when he reached his boxers.
"That’s for me to remove," I whispered, tracing the waistband with a teasing finger.
After securing his wrists to the headboard, I leaned in close.
"How’s the girlfriend?" I asked, watching his face shift in surprise.
"She’s fine, ma’am," he muttered.
"You could do better," I said, lighting a candle.
His eyes widened as I began to drip wax onto his chest, singing “Happy Birthday” in a slow, eerie tune. His body writhed under the heat, and I smiled at his discomfort.
When the candle burned out, I removed his boxers with a sharp tug and began to toy with him using my feet, savoring his every squirm. Just as he neared release, I stopped and climbed atop him, pressing myself against his face.
"Now, clean me up," I whispered, sinking into the pleasure I demanded.
As his skilled mouth worked, I smiled—a dark satisfaction settling in my chest. His talents had only improved since the last time we met.
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