From Top to Bottom Page 3

  As I finished my third margarita, Professor Lacey walked over to the bar. The blonde checked her phone, then rifled through a purse for a small mirror, which she peered at in the dim light to apply lipstick.

  I slammed my glass down on the table, excused myself to my friends, and made a beeline to the bar.

  “Professor Lacey! What a surprise to see you here!” My head felt woozy and my chest warm. These sensations only increased when Professor Lacey turned away from the bartender to face me head on. Her lips curled, as if she were trying to stifle a laugh. I didn’t know how I felt about that. I liked to see her happy, but I didn’t want her laughing at my expense.

  “I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just happy to see you.”

  Professor Lacey’s smile grew. “I’m happy to see you, too. Though usually when people start off a conversation with, ‘I’m not drunk,’ it means they are.”

  I was too thrilled by her first statement to be offended by her second. Professor Lacey was happy to see me. Perhaps it was the first glimpse of happiness she’d had all night. Perhaps she would take me home with her, and I could give her even more.

  The bartender set a drink in front of Professor Lacey. I pulled out my wallet. “Let me buy your drink, professor.”

  She put a hand on my wrist to stop me from opening the wallet. It was a light touch, but commanding. “No, thank you, Miranda. That wouldn’t be appropriate. I haven’t turned in all your grades yet.”

  I glanced back at her table as she gave the bartender a ten. The blonde was watching us. I waved, as if to assure her I was no threat, though I hoped I was. An idea popped in my head—one that would satisfy my curiosity about the blonde woman’s status, and that might also convince Professor Lacey to accept some sort of gift from me. “Is that your date? I can buy her a drink, instead of you. She’s not grading me.”

  “She’s not my date. And don’t fool yourself into thinking I can’t see right through why you asked me that.” Her smile disappeared. It turned grim, disciplinary—the way it had always turned when I wasn’t performing up to her standards. “I don’t fuck my students, Miranda.”

  If she’d slapped me across the face, it would have stung less. But I wasn’t going to give up so easily. I reached out and curled my fingers around the end of her scarf. It was one I’d seen many times. Batiked deep purple, it seemed almost as much a part of her body as her brown skin. “I’ve always thought this scarf would look so pretty tied around my wrists.”

  I didn’t look away from her eyes. There seemed to be a struggle going on behind them, but the rest of her face remained impassive. “Be that as it may, you are still my student and you’ve had too much to drink.”

  “I’m not too drunk to know what I want.”

  “By any legal definition, I’m afraid you are, darling.” She took her drink and held it up as if in a toast. “Congratulations on your impending graduation, Miranda. I look forward to seeing you on Broadway.” She turned and walked back to the blonde.

  I collapsed onto a bar stool, my eyes not moving from her though she refused to look my way again. She had called me darling. She’d implicitly agreed her scarf would look lovely on my wrists. She thought I was headed for Broadway.

  It was the best rejection I’d ever received. I went back to my friends, had a few more drinks, and looked forward to masturbating myself to sleep when I got home. After graduation, I’d make another move on Professor Lacey, and she would say yes.

  But when I woke up the next morning with a headache like an axe to the skull, the conversation’s meaning seemed altogether different. She hadn’t agreed I’d look nice tied up in her scarf; she’d simply avoided disagreeing. Her darling had been a dismissal, not an endearment. I look forward to seeing you on Broadway wasn’t exactly an invitation to keep in close touch. She’d barely held back a sneer.

  I’d bought a thank-you card to send to her at graduation, to thank her for the ways in which she’d changed my perceptions of my own abilities, for driving me to do better than I’d thought possible.

  But what I’d really wanted to say was I love you and don’t want to live without you.

  She could clearly live without me. I threw the card away.

  I did my best to forget about her, though it was impossible to let go of her completely. She’d become part of my muscle memory, of the way I moved whenever I danced.

  I met women who were willing to tie me up, spank me, flog me, gag me—to push me past the boundaries that had held me in before. I fell in love with none of them, and none of them fell in love with me. When they disciplined me, I often imagined Professor Lacey’s voice in place of theirs, her wooden dance cane in place of their whips and riding crops. My body and heart thrived on the attention all the same.

  I made it into a Broadway chorus line, then as an understudy for one of the show’s supporting cast members. A few months later, I got the call from my agent that would change my life in more ways than one: I’d gotten the lead in an off-off-Broadway musical that was moving to off-Broadway. My agent told me my dancing was what had made me stand out in callbacks.

  I was on the bus, squeezed between an old lady with a collapsible grocery cart and a skinny kid who smelled like patchouli. My heart thudded in my chest. Throughout callbacks, I’d pretended I was dancing for Professor Lacey. It was a trick I used frequently in auditions. Picturing her eyes on me, hearing her thumping cane with each beat—they both soothed my nerves and made me perform better than I thought possible.

  I had to tell her. I had to thank her. Even if I wasn’t a necessary fixture in her life, she had changed mine for the better. Thirty seconds later I was outside, running to the subway, zipping toward Manhattan and my alma mater.

  Running back to her.

  The building was open when I got there, students milling in the halls. But the studio was empty, and her office door closed.

  I knocked.

  “Who is it?” It was her voice, clear and self-possessed as always.

  “Miranda Jamison.”

  A chair screeched against the wooden floor. A lock tumbled. The door opened.

  Professor Lacey looked exactly as I remembered her: leotard snug to her subtle curves, the purple silk scarf from that night at the bar, a skirt wrapped around her boyish hips.

  She also looked nothing like I remembered. The expression on her face was one I had never seen before—pained and straining, like she was fighting back hope. She held herself rigidly, inflexible as the dance cane that leaned against the wall, its spherical brass handle glinting in the window’s light. “Miranda, come in.” Her breath was fast, shallow. She gestured for me to sit on the couch and locked the door behind me. “It’s good to see you. Surprising, but good.”

  I didn’t sit. I couldn’t. Adrenaline pounded in my veins. “Professor Lacey—”

  “Call me Hannah. You’re not a student anymore.” That kind of invitation ought to be filled with warmth, but her voice and eyes were cold.

  “Hannah. I got a musical lead. Off-Broadway. And I wanted to thank you, because I never did—”

  Her cold demeanor evaporated. She threw her arms around me—the first time she’d ever done so—and pulled me close. I felt her breasts against mine, her heart beating against my ribcage. She kissed my cheek. “There’s nothing to thank me for. You did all the work.”

  “I only did the work because you dared me to.” I tried to shrug the kiss off as a meaningless gesture, but my body didn’t get the memo. It thrummed with electricity and desire. I turned my face instinctively, pressing my lips against hers.

  She responded immediately, opening her mouth, sucking hard on my bottom lip, then tugging it between her teeth. I moaned, clutching my hands around her shoulders like she was a life preserver. Soon I was pressed against the desk, Hannah’s hands curling into my ass. My hips stuttered. Something fell clattering to the floor.

  Hannah startled back. “Miranda—” She was breathless.

  “Don’t stop kissin
g me.” I tugged at the ends of her scarf. She stepped toward me—not unwillingly, but not eagerly, either. Her face was a question mark. “Please, Professor… Hannah. I’ve wanted you ever since I stopped hating you.”

  Her mouth quirked into a smile. “You really did hate me for a while, didn’t you?”

  I nodded. “Until I realized I needed the guidance of someone who was willing to break me.” I looked into her dark, unblinking eyes. “I still do. Do you want to do that for me, Hannah? Do you want me to submit myself to you?”

  “Oh, god, yes.” She surged toward me, closing the last inches between us, her delicate dancer’s fingers on my jaw and neck. “I’ve wanted that with you since before you stopped hating me.”

  I would have laughed, but her lips were against mine, almost violent in their need. She pried my teeth open with her tongue, pushed herself into my mouth: took me, possessed me. Her hands were everywhere: my face and neck, my hair, my breasts, my ass. She tugged at the hem of my sweater and pulled it up, revealing the utilitarian beige bra beneath. I cursed myself for not planning ahead, but my shame didn’t last long. She tugged it off along with the shirt and threw them both to the floor, taking one breast in her hand and pulling my nipple into her mouth with a hard suck.

  Pleasure shot to my toes. I yelped my approval.

  “There are people in the hallway, Miranda. Am I going to have to gag you?”

  “Yes, do, please,” I whispered breathlessly, my arousal ratcheting up past its earlier limits.

  Hannah smirked and stepped back. “Fine, then. But I don’t have any gags at the ready here. We’ll have to improvise.” With that, she hauled me onto the desk, pulling down my jeans and panties so that I was stripped bare, my back and ass against the cool wood, the rest of me exposed to the air. Goosebumps prickled on my skin.

  “Before I gag you—” She leaned over me, kissing me fiercely as I wrapped my bare legs around her waist, pressing my clit against her pubic bone. Through the fabric of her leotard, I felt her nipples growing hard and pebbled against my own breasts.

  I tugged again at her scarf. “Please, professor. Don’t you think this scarf would look better tied around my wrists?”

  “You vixen,” she muttered into my neck. “Do you know how hard it was not to take you that night at the bar? The way you looked at me—you were practically begging for it.”

  “Not practically. I was begging for it. I wanted you to fuck me, professor. I wanted you to own me.”

  “And don’t think I don’t notice you ‘professor’-ing me. I know what you’re up to.”

  “What am I up to?” I thrust my clit against her pubic bone again, seeking more friction.

  “You’re playing the pervy little schoolgirl, Miranda. Are you looking for a spanking?”

  “I can’t say I’d mind one.”

  She slid down and walked around the desk, slipping off her scarf. “Wrists above your head, my darling.” Wetness gushed from my cunt at the endearment, and again at the feeling of her silk scarf pressing against my wrists. She made the binding snug but not overly tight—she was clearly experienced at this—then pressed something cold and metallic into one of my palms. “Keys,” she said in response to my questioning look. “Drop them if you need to stop. Because you won’t be able to say ‘red’ around these.” She lifted my panties to my face. They smelled strongly of my arousal. “This is your gag, my darling Miranda. Now open your mouth and bite down.” I did. The silken fabric was wet and slick. I wished it was her I tasted, and not me. Perhaps she would give me that gift later, if I was good for her.

  “Now spread your legs. I want to get a good view of your beautiful cunt. I’ve wanted to taste it since you first back-talked to me.”

  I planted my feet wide on the desk, my knees in the air. I felt deliciously exposed as she traced the tips of her fingers over my labia. I bit into my panties to keep from grunting out my pleasure. “What a juicy pink pussy, Miranda. So wet for me. Did you always get this wet when you performed for me?” She slid two fingers into my desperate cunt. “Watching you dance always got me wet, darling—seeing you work so hard for my approval. Sometimes I’d have to come here into my office and fuck myself afterward just to get on with the day.”

  I churned my hips, seeking friction against my G-spot.

  “Not yet, darling. I need to tell you something else. You know my dancing cane?”

  I nodded against the desk.

  “Can you guess how many times I’ve gotten off to the thought of fucking you with the brass handle? Would you like that, darling? Would you like to polish it with your cunt?”

  I moaned around my wadded panties. That cane was as much a part of her as her hand or tongue. To have it inside my body, filling and stretching me, would be a dream come true. I spread my legs a little more, and she worked three fingers in.

  “I bet you’ve dreamed about me disciplining you with it, too, haven’t you? I saw the way you used to look at it, darling, like you were afraid of it and wanted it at the same time. Was I reading you right, sweet Miranda?”

  I nodded again, groaning around the gag. I lifted my ass off the table, ready to expose myself to her beatings.

  She merely gave it a light slap—a promise of pain rather than the thing itself. “Not today. Right now, I want to make love to you. Will you let me do that?”

  I answered by fucking myself onto her fingers. She curled the pads against my G-spot, rubbing it in smooth, irresistible circles. My cunt spasmed; my eyes rolled back in my head. I was right on the edge of coming, if only she would press her thumb to my clit or pinch my nipple with her free hand.

  Instead, she slipped her fingers out. “I’m not letting you come yet, darling. I haven’t waited this long to fuck you for it to be all over.”

  She stepped back. I craned my neck to watch her. She unwrapped the skirt from her waist and dropped it to the floor, then unpeeled her leotard and tights from her skin. Beneath them was a black cotton bra and panties, which she left on as she grabbed the cane from its resting place by the wall. She smoothed her hands over the brass globe at the top before stretching it out to me, rolling it over my nipples and belly, my ass and thighs, my neck and arms. The metal was cold at first, but grew less so as she soothed it over my skin. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the sensation. It was as sensual as kisses, as erotic as a lover’s tongue exploring the crevices of my body. Each touch made me shiver with longing, made my cunt grow hungrier with desire.

  “Take me”, I tried to beg around the panties in my mouth, but the words came out as a garbled moan.

  “You’d like me to fuck you, wouldn’t you, Miranda? You feel like you can’t possibly stand another minute without something in your cunt.”

  I nodded desperately, close to tears.

  She rolled the handle over my gaping pussy lips—a tease more than a relief. “I think you can stand it, Miranda. If I ask you to stand it, you’ll rise to the occasion, won’t you?”

  I took a deep breath, let her will become my own. I kept my hips still as she continued to roll the knob over my labia, coating it in my juices. I willed my cunt not to quiver, not even when she added to the torture by dipping her head down and sucking my hard nipple into an even harder peak. “Oh, Miranda,” she moaned, “your tits are to die for.”

  The compliment made me flush and forget my own desire. So when the brass sphere pushed suddenly into my pussy, it was a shock bordering on revelation. I spasmed hungrily around it, pulling it in until the cool brass nuzzled my G-spot. Tears of ecstasy streamed down my face. I grasped the keys so tightly that the teeth cut into my skin—but better that than dropping them to the floor. There was no way I was going to let that happen now, not when Hannah had me right where she wanted me.

  She wiped the tears from my cheeks. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart. I’ll let you come soon. But first, I want to take this gag out of your mouth and replace it with my cunt. Would you like that?”

  I nodded eagerly, holding back my whimper as she
pulled the cane’s brass knob from my cunt and licked it like a lollipop. “You taste like honey, Miranda. Do you want to know what I taste like?” She removed the gag.

  “Yes, professor. Please. Please let me taste your cunt.” She stood up to remove her panties and bra. Her nipples were as dark as her eyes and bigger than silver dollars. My mouth watered at the sight, but I was soon distracted by something even more tempting as she climbed onto the desk, her knees on either side of my shoulders and her face resting against my raised knee. Her cunt hovered about a foot above my face, its lips engorged and glistening with arousal. I struggled to lift my head so I could taste it, but with my wrists tied above me, it was impossible to get enough purchase.

  “Patience,” Hannah chided as she inserted the brass globe back into my cunt.

  “Oh god!”

  “Shhhh.”

  “I’d be quieter if you sat on my face,” I muttered.

  “You do have a point.” She sank down, aligning her cunt over my outstretched tongue, grinding her clit against my chin. She smelled of sweat and tasted like sugar and butter, melting just as easily on my probing tongue. “Yes, Miranda, eat me just like that.” She bit my knee with a stifled cry.

  Her clit swelled against my chin. I pulled my tongue from her cunt and lapped it down onto her hard nub, sweeping back and forth between the two, aided by her vigorous rocking. Inside my own cunt, the brass sphere seemed to be spinning against my G-spot. I quivered around it, ready to melt.

  “Miranda,” she muttered, “I’m so close. Do you want to come with me?”

  I couldn’t answer except by fucking her more vigorously with my tongue and working myself over the brass sphere.

  Suddenly her tongue was on my clit, lapping eagerly as she continued to press her cunt into my face. Her labia fluttered, and then her whole body. She moaned, sending sparks up my spine. I cried into her cunt, coming with my whole body as she gushed creamy wetness into my mouth and over my chin.