Ch. 4
It’s the first day of the new semester, and I already want to set my schedule on fire.
The senior academy isn’t just more intense than the junior program, it’s a full-blown assault on the body, mind, and spirit. Gone are the days of sleepy lectures and light reading. Now it’s all weekly essays and professors who think assigning five nightly chapters of theoretical spellcraft to students with no magic isn’t ironic—it’s discipline.
By the time I reach my last class of the day, my legs feel like they’re moving on autopilot. My skull is too full of information to even hold my own thoughts. I step into the classroom and am met with the sound of breathy whispers and giggling, the unmistakable sound of girls gossiping. Past experience makes me tense up, but when I hurry past the gaggle of girls, no one looks up.
Relief floods me as I realize that, for once, I’m not the subject of the whispers.
That relief shrivels up and dies when I realize who is.
“I heard he only teaches Class A,” one says from the front row, lips glossy and notebook already perfectly color-coded.
“Ugh, of course he does,” her friend sighs dreamily. “That face? That voice? If I were him, I wouldn’t waste it on anyone less than royalty either.”
Another leans in with a wicked grin on her pouty lips. “Do you think he gives private lessons?”
I roll my eyes and drop my massive tome on alchemical components onto my desk. Hard.
The girls jump in surprise, putting an end to their irritating topic of conversation. Good. If I never hear another word about Professor Caspian Bellamy, it will be too soon.
When class finally ends, the last place I should want to be is the library, but my senior thesis on Infernal Hierarchical Structures isn’t going to write itself. Besides, it’s not like I have anywhere better to be—I can’t participate in the majority of the Academy’s extracurriculars due to my lack of magic, I don’t have the money to leave campus, and even if I could, who wants to hang out with the weird girl with no family, no real home, and no life experiences outside of this school.
So, I make my way to the deeper sections where the books are mostly written in languages that no one can read, and foot traffic is practically nonexistent. Then I settle in for the evening with my laptop, books, and a nice, safe bottle of water.
I make it as far as the second circle of Hell before I nod off entirely.
My eyes flutter open as I awake to the feeling of a cool surface against my cheek. Awareness comes quickly, but clarity only brings more confusion when I realize what's happening---I'm standing, bent over at the waist with my face pressed up against a chalky blackboard.
My mind starts to race. How the hell did I get here? And why does my body feel so hot and tingly? I try to move, but I'm horrified to find that my wrists are tied behind my back, while my legs are spread wide apart. I've never been so vulnerable and exposed.
Suddenly, I hear a voice. It's deep and masculine, and it sends shivers down my spine. "I'll never get tired of seeing you like this."
Professor Bellamy, it's always Professor Bellamy. I hate how just the sound of his voice makes my pussy ache with need.
"You like being bent over and helpless, don't you, princess?" His voice is low and husky, and I can hear the sound of his belt buckle clinking.
"Professor, please," I whimper, even though I know it's pointless. He's going to do whatever he wants with me.
"Shh, now, now," he croons while his broad hands slide across my hips and ass. "Haven't you been disobedient enough? Remind me of the instructions I gave you?"
I don't answer, and seconds later he brings a palm down across my left butt cheek. I yelp, smashing my face even harder against the blackboard. Even as I want to ask him what the hell his problem is, I feel liquid heat pool between my thighs.
"I asked you a question," he says, his dark tone demanding obedience. "What did I tell you?"
"To not wear any panties to class," I gasp, tears stinging my eyes. I don't know how I know that, but instinctively I know it's the right answer.
"Precisely. But you're a naughty, rebellious girl, and you know what happens to naughty, rebellious girls," he says, rubbing his fingers over my aching pussy through the thin material of my underwear.
I start panting in anticipation. "They get punished."
In reply, he smacks my ass so hard my knees go weak. "Exactly."
I let out a long, pitiful moan, pushing my ass out toward him. I can't help myself. I'd never realized that hurting could feel this good, and now all I want is to feel him hurt me again, and again. And he does.
He continues to spank me, his large palm creating a delicious burn that has me crying out with pleasure and pain. My cheeks are flushed and wet with tears, and I can feel my pussy juices dripping down my inner thighs.
Suddenly, I feel his strong fingers pulling at the sides of my panties, tearing them away from my body. Before I can react, he's pressing his thick cock up against my opening.
I gasp, struggling to breathe. He's so big, and he's stretching me in a way I've never experienced before. But he doesn't stop. He pushes forward, filling me inch by inch, until I'm gasping and moaning.
"Good girl," he says, his breath hot in my ear. "You took that like a goddess. Now, let's see if you can handle what's next."
With that, he starts thrusting in and out of me, his movements deliberately rough. He doesn't give me time to adjust, and I don't want him to. Every stroke of his cock brings me closer and closer to the edge, and soon I'm panting and moaning his name.
"Please," I beg, not even sure what I'm asking for. But he seems to understand. He reaches a hand down between my legs and starts rubbing my clit, sending waves of pleasure crashing over me.
"That's it, princess," he murmurs. "Come for me, Eleanor."
Reality hits me like a freight train.
Eleanor. I'm not Eleanor. None of this is for me.
He doesn't want me.
Whatever is happening to me, I'd fallen for it again.
As soon as whatever spell is on me breaks, so do the laws that govern this place. My hands are free, and I use them to push off the blackboard, sending the professor stumbling back a step.
"You bastard!" I scream.
Then I spin and slap him as hard as I can across the face.
I wake up gasping, my body overheated, my blouse clinging to my skin with sweat. My cheeks burn as the events of the dream replay in my head. And worse—I can feel hot dampness between my legs.
“Ms. Carlisle!” Madame Grisell hisses, cutting through my haze. “Keep your voice down! This is a place of study, not your personal playground!”
I slap my book shut and stammer an apology, gathering my things in a frenzy. I can’t meet her eyes. I can barely trust my own legs to carry me as I shove my laptop into my bag and dart from the table. My face is flushed, my heart still beating too fast.
I want to die. Or disappear. Or both.
Stumbling toward the exit, I veer down the wrong hallway—one lined with ancient tomes and displayed artifacts encased in glass. I’m trying to find the staircase that leads back to the main level when movement catches my eye.
There’s a figure sitting in a study alcove, silhouetted by the low golden glow of a reading lamp.
Professor Bellamy rubs the bridge of his nose, then drags a hand down his face. His brow furrows, and he rolls his shoulders, like someone coming down from something. Or, like someone who just woke up.
And then he does something that makes all of my conspiracy theories sit up and pay attention.
He lifts his hand to his cheek. The same cheek I slapped in the dream.