A Lesson in Blackmail - Black Mountain Academy

He puffs out a single huff of amusement as he lets go of my hands, and when I keep them right where he left them like I’m supposed to, I see him relax slightly.

It’s not until he lifts himself off me, stands between my legs, and reaches behind him to grasp the neck of his shirt and tug it over his head that it hits me exactly what I’m doing.

Am I going to have sex with Nate?

I’ve been so caught up, so overwhelmed in the last several minutes that it’s just now dawning on me—I’m not at Club Alias with one of the vetted members who have been cleared as safe to be dominated by. There is no security around, no other members to help me in case of an emergency. This is my home. This person is a student at the school where I work. He’s inexperienced in the D/s lifestyle and could easily hurt me, since he’s never been trained in dominance.

But for the life of me, I cannot seem to care enough to stop this. Maybe it’s because I’d had my heart set on the release I was guaranteed to have tonight, like every Friday night. Maybe I’m so desperate for my dose of submission that I’m willing to get it from anyone. But something inside me whispers that the real reason is because I want Nate Black. I want him like I’ve never wanted anyone before in my life. And I want to teach him everything I can about being a good and proper Dominant, so he can be mine.

When his shirt is off, he swipes his fingers through his hair before folding the black fabric neatly and placing it into the rolling chair behind him. I suck in a breath at how freaking perfect he is. He’s tall and lean but wide, the most beautiful swimmer’s body I’ve ever seen. His chest is bare of hair or ink, just flawless, smooth, light-tan skin.

I lose sight of him as he drops to his knees, and he takes hold of my leggings. I feel the elastic of my panties pop back against my skin as he decides to leave them on before tugging my black bottoms down my legs. He lets go of the waistband and pulls them off the rest of the way by the elastic at my ankles, so they stay right side out, and he easily folds them and places them in the chair with his shirt. He looks down on me, hands still right where he told me to keep them, my dark-blue lace panties only enough fabric to cover my very center.

He suddenly looks lost, like he’s stuck and doesn’t know what to do. Like he’s fighting himself, battling what he thinks is right versus what he craves. I take pity on him and tell him gently, “Normally, a Dom and a sub would have preplanned their scene. They go over each other’s likes and dislikes, what’s expected from each participant. In a normal scene, you wouldn’t be second guessing everything, Mr. Black.”

His eyes meet mine and he stands tall, squaring his shoulders over his hips. The stance looks powerful, especially from my prone position beneath him. “Tell me more,” he demands and crosses his arms over his chiseled pecs.

I swallow at the beauty of him. “Um… well. The Dom and sub would have discussed what they’d like to happen during their time together. Whether there would be toys involved and which ones. Whether there would be actual intercourse, or oral, or… anything really. You’d know each other’s hard limits, which are things that are completely off the table. You’d know the things the sub is open to experimenting with. Oh! And you’d have a safe word.”

He gives me a sexy smirk that makes my toes curl into the cushion. “What’s your safe word, Ms. Richards?” he asks, and it’s the same tone he uses when he fucks with me at school.

I meet his stare head-on and unwavering. “Periodicals.”

He snorts. “Of course it is, my little library mouse.”

It’s not the first time he’s called me his mouse. And I have to admit, I don’t hate that he’s given me his own little nickname, which after the way he told me he thinks I’m beautiful, I choose to take it as a term of endearment rather than a putdown.

“What are your hard limits?” he asks, widening his stance and giving me that studious face of his.

I swallow. “Right now, and in this precarious position, there are too many to list. Things you probably wouldn’t even think of or need to.”

“Like what?” he demands.

“For one, urine and fecal play,” I say haughtily and snort out a laugh at his grimace. But then his face morphs into a mask of seriousness, and before I know what he’s doing, he bends over me, skims his hand under my shirt and beneath one cup of my bra, and he pinches my nipple. I whimper at the sharp pain, my head throwing back into the ottoman even as my hips rotate against the sudden weight between my legs.