Chapter 842 - 841 - The Pounce of a Wounded Woman

Chapter 842: Chapter 841 - The Pounce of a Wounded Woman

Her pussy, hairy and trimmed, was visible. The hair, blonde and fine, covered the lips. The slit, tight and closed, was pink. The interior, hidden, was a mystery that my fingers were about to solve.

My hand moved. My middle finger, extended, found the slit. The tip, pressing against the lips, traced the length. From the top, where the clit hid beneath its hood, to the bottom, where the entrance waited.

She trembled. Her whole body shook. Her hands, on my chest, were vibrating.

"You are dry," I said. The observation, clinical and casual, was accompanied by the motion of my finger. The tip, circling the entrance, found no moisture. The walls, tight and unprepared, were dry. "Should I make you wet?"

She grabbed my wrist. Both hands, wrapping around my arm, tried to stop the motion. The grip, firm and desperate, was the grip of a woman who was fighting a losing battle.

"Professor, please," she said. Her voice, cracked and wet, was the voice of a woman who was crying. "Please stop. Please."

I looked at her. At the face, tilted up. At the eyes, blue and wet and wide. At the lips, trembling and parted. At the tears, running down her cheeks, catching the light from the window.

"You look beautiful," I said.

I leaned. My mouth found hers. The kiss, the first contact, was gentle. My lips, pressing against hers, were warm. She stiffened. Her body, rigid, was a board. Her hands, on my wrist, tightened.

Then my tongue pushed in.

The kiss deepened. My tongue, finding hers, invaded. The taste, salt from her tears and mint from whatever she had eaten, filled my mouth. I sucked her lips. Pulled. The flesh, soft and full, stretched. My tongue, swirling inside her mouth, explored.

She muffled. The sound, trapped between our lips, was a whimper. Her body, which had been rigid, softened. Her hands, on my wrist, loosened. Her mouth, which had been closed, opened wider.

The kiss was a French kiss. Deep, wet, sloppy. The kind of kiss that lovers share. The kind that involves tongues and teeth and saliva and the sound of two people eating each other’s mouths.

"Mmmf...!! ... mmm...!!"

While my mouth worked on hers, my finger worked on her pussy. The middle finger, pressing against the entrance, pushed. The walls, dry at first, resisted. The tip, barely inside, felt the resistance of a virgin.

I pulled back. From the kiss. From the finger. My mouth, wet with her saliva, separated from hers with a soft sound. She gasped. Her eyes, which had been closed during the kiss, opened. Wide and dazed.

I kept fingering. The finger, pushing in and out, moved slowly. The walls, responding to the stimulation, began to moisten. The fluid, thin at first, then thicker, coated my finger. The entrance, relaxing, allowed me deeper.

I found her hymen. The thin barrier, stretched across the entrance, was intact. I pushed against it. She flinched. The pain, sharp and immediate, made her gasp.

I pulled back. The finger, withdrawing from the hymen, continued to stroke. The walls, around the finger, clenched. The motion, in and out, was careful. Deliberate. The finger, rubbing the front wall, found the spot. The rough patch. The cluster of nerves.

She cried. The sound, soft and continuous, was the sound of a woman who was feeling something she had never felt before. Her hands, on my wrist, were no longer pushing. They were holding. Gripping. The fingers, wrapped around my arm, were white.

Her tears fell. Down her cheeks. Down her chin. Onto my hand. The salt water, mixing with the arousal fluid on my finger, created a wet trail down her thigh.

Her eyes rolled. The whites, showing at the top, were the sign. The sign that the pleasure was overwhelming the pain. The sign that the body was taking over the mind. The sign that she was about to cum.

I pulled out.

The finger, emerging from her pussy, was wet. The fluid, thick and clear, coated the digit. The walls, clenching on nothing, spasmed. The absence, the sudden emptiness, was the trigger.

She squirted.

The fluid, thin and hot, sprayed from her pussy. The stream, weak but visible, hit the floor. The liquid, clear and musky, ran down her thighs. Her body, arching off the wall, convulsed. Her back, bowing, pressed her breasts against my chest. Her mouth, opening, produced a sound that was not a word.

"Ah...!!"

The orgasm, the first of her life, was devastating. Her body, which had been rigid, went limp. Her legs, which had been holding her up, buckled. Her weight, falling, was caught by my body.

She collapsed against me. Her face, buried in my chest, was wet. Her body, trembling and spent, was a ragdoll. Her hands, which had been gripping my wrist, fell to her sides.

I held her. One arm, around her waist, kept her upright. The other, the wet one, went to her neck. I kissed her throat. The skin, soft and warm, tasted like salt and perfume.

"For the other punishment," I said, my lips against her skin, "you will have to come meet me tonight. In my chamber. I will punish you thoroughly there."

She trembled. Her body, still vibrating from the orgasm, shuddered. Her head, lifting, found my eyes. The blue, wet and dazed, looked at me with an expression that was equal parts fear and desire.

"You pervert bastard," she whispered. The words, spoken without heat, were the words of a woman who didn’t know what else to say.

I chuckled. The sound, low and warm, vibrated through my chest. She felt it. Her body, pressed against mine, absorbed the sound.

I released her. Stepped back. Her body, without my support, leaned against the wall. Her legs, weak and unsteady, barely held her.

I turned. The motion, casual and final, was the motion of a man who had finished his business and was leaving.

"Do not go fuck around with people," I said, the words thrown over my shoulder, "or I might really fuck you as a punishment."

The moment I said it and turned, I felt it. The shift in the air behind me. The sound of feet on stone. The rush of a body in motion.

She grabbed me. Her hands, on my collar, pulled. The motion, violent and sudden, made me stumble. My feet, catching on the stone, tripped. I fell.

My back hit the floor. The stone, cold and hard, knocked the breath from my lungs. Before I could react, she was on me. Her body, climbing over mine, was a blur of blonde hair and blue eyes and clenched fists.

She straddled me. Her knees, on either side of my hips, pinned my legs. Her hands, on my collar, grabbed the fabric. Pulled. Her face, inches from mine, was contorted with an emotion that I couldn’t quite read.

"What did you say?" she hissed. Her voice, low and dangerous, was the voice of a woman who had been pushed past her limit. "What did you say?"

I looked at her. At the face, red and wet. At the eyes, blue and burning. At the hands, gripping my collar, that were shaking.

"You took my first kiss," she said. The words, each one a separate accusation, were delivered with a precision that was startling. "You have to take responsibility, you bastard. You are a professor or what?"

My mouth twitched. The smile, which I had been suppressing, tugged at the corner of my lips.

"But..." I started.