“Yes,” you whisper

“Yes,” you whisper, in answer to an ache that's unfamiliar and overwhelming.

Mr. Markley puts his hands on your hips - you marvel at the size of his hands, grasping your waist, guiding you up over his erect cock with assured ease.

You feel his cockhead pressing against the tightness of your vaginal canal; an insistent pressure as he pulls you down on to him, and then a sudden giving way, as if your vaginal muscles have simply surrendered, and you find yourself sliding down onto a fleshy spike that's drilled into you.

You lean forward, weak, wanting desperately to just collapse into him; every muscle in your body has become enervated and tingly. But he holds you up with one hand between your breasts, takes your nipple in his mouth and sucks urgently. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever felt before, and makes you want to bury his head in your chest, or hit him...but he's twisted your wrists behind you, and holds them at the small of your back.

He grins up at you; you wonder why he's so amused, but then realize you're grinding against him like a rutting cat.

Still holding your wrists behind you with one hand, he removes his belt, brings it behind you and wraps it around your wrists. He buckles it in place, leaving your wrists crossed and bound. He lets you gyrate over him for awhile, thus bound, and grins up at you as he pinches and twists your breasts.

Then he takes one of your ankles and twists it up behind you.

Now you've only got the one leg supporting you, and it's hard to keep your balance.

He reaches down for your other ankle, wraps his hand around it, and twists it up behind you.

Now you're splayed over him, your face buried into his neck, your tits crushed against his shirt, his cock jammed into you with your full weight bearing down, and your ankles held against his upper thighs, pinned by his hands.

A few seconds later you're lost in an orgasmic haze that just seems to keep coming and coming...

...you feel lightheaded...

...and find yourself slumped over a man's lap, your cheek pressed against his crisp shirt collar. Your breasts pressed against the front of his shirt, his broad chest. There's something hard inside you, that you can feel soften slowly.

Mr. Markley pushes you upright, undoes the belt restraining your wrists. You rub your wrists; there are beltmarks, red bruises.

“Stand up, Janet,” Mr. Markley tells you.

You slide off his lap, feeling his still half-stiff cock withdraw from you. It's the strangest feeling in the world, one which leaves you standing a little dumbstruck in front of him - this feeling of being completely filled, then empty.

“You're leaking,” Mr. Markley says, his eyes motioning downward.

And you can feel it, feel his semen seeping out of you, hot, viscous, messy. You reach down to wipe it away, but he holds your hand back.

“Leave it. You can clean the floors later. I want you to experience this.”

He stands up himself, looks down at you as he buttons up his pants and puts on his belt. “I have a faculty meeting to attend now. I'll be back in an hour or so. Clean yourself up in the shower. There's a vanity in the bathroom for your use. Primp and preen, please.”

He pulls a set of leather cuffs off a shelf and hands them to you “After you're done, I want you to take these and buckle them around your wrists. Then I want you to lock your wrists to the right hand bedpost, using an inside ring, with your back to the post. Your wrists should be bound at a height comfortable for standing, without allowing your elbows to bend much. Understand?”

You nod your head silently, a little shaken.

Mr. Markley chuckles softly. “It's not so bad, dear. You really did a fine job - and besides it's what you're best suited for. Be good now.”

Mr. Markley leaves you in the study. You hear him put on his coat, then hear the front door shut behind him.