Give you a slow footjob, not letting you cum

Ella's movements are deliberate, a masterclass in control. Her sole flattens against you, rubbing up and down your length with a maddening, rhythmic pressure. It's not the frantic grip of a desperate slut; it's the possessive, confident motion of someone who knows every secret of your body. She's playing you like an instrument, her foot the bow drawing out a long, silent, vibrating note of pure tension.

Ms. White's voice cuts through your haze. "...and therefore, the tele-empath must find the cognitive fissure, not the emotional scar tissue. Thoughts?"

Malcolm on the side of the room raises his hand. You use the brief distraction to shift, a nearly imperceptible movement of your hips that angles you more firmly into Ella's touch. It's a mistake. A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots up your spine, and you have to stifle a gasp by biting your lip hard enough to taste copper.

You can feel her smile without seeing it. Her breath is hot against your ear again. "Ah ah ah. None of that now." She presses down harder, grounding you, stopping you from moving again. "Stay still. Let Mistress play."

The footjob is agonizingly slow. She's not trying to get you off. She's just reminding you. Reminding you that you belong to her, that your body is her toy, and she can make it react whenever and however she pleases. You're sweating, your hands clenched into fists on the cool wood of the desk. You're half-mad, half-ecstatic, caught in a perfect, torturous limbo of your own making.

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