Professor Theophilus Carter Hatta (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ethnomania) wrote2014-08-11 10:10 am
ethnomania) wrote2014-08-11 10:10 am
just look at his face though
It's been only a handful of weeks, a month at the most, and Theo is no closer to accepting Alice's renewed presence in his life as reality. There are points in the day when he is reminded of this fear all over again - the soft click of the door closing behind her for the night when she actually has classwork of her own to complete, the late nights when Theo wakes up in a cold sweat, alone, and then spends the hours until dawn watching her window from the streets below her building. He uses this to justify his own obsessive and incredibly possessive behavior, knowing good and well that there is no justification for the fact that he touches her at every opportunity, drives her to noises and gasps and orgasms every morning before she is given his well wishes and sent off to classes. Usually without her underwear, which Theo keeps in his pocket with a handkerchief from his youth.
He has no qualms about his inappropriateness, for several reasons. One, he knows good and well that he is firmly in the realm of insane and even though he occasionally wonders if that will last, if having Alice in his life again will return him to rudimentary stability like the sort he possessed through her childhood, he has no reason to believe that's changed exactly. Two, it is ridiculously difficult to unseat a tenured professor who has a dalliance or several with students not attending their classes.
Since he sees no reason that Alice would ever need to learn costuming or clothing design of any sort as long as he's around and sketching her every moment boredom seizes him without her presence, keeping her from becoming his responsibility to deal with in terms of grading is easily promised to his thoughts on the future. Were she to ever tell him that she had been approached about their 'relationship' he might entertain the idea of proposing marriage - for all that it is an unstable concept for him, naught more than paper - but she hasn't, and he hasn't, and there is that.
He has, however, considered asking her to move in with him.
It would solve several problems at once, really, and the schedule of final exams for both of them has left him feeling bereft and angry. His only hesitation is the fact that Alice agrees to everything he asks of her with immediacy and he wonders how long it will take her to realize that she has all the power here. That she could ask nearly anything of him and he would twist the very nature of magic to do her bidding.
Today, there are no finals, no classes at all; yet Theo is in the office, not for Alice specifically but because it is a day to be filled with nothing but administrative work. He'd be fine with that, in theory - Alice has a lovely voice and he has found that his tongue inside her while she gives him the abridged version of important memos from his email is quite the experience. In reality, there is a conference call that threatens to be several hours long that he is not allowed to be absent from.
Or mute the call. He did that for three semesters before anyone caught on.
He can hear Alice in the kitchen attached to his offices, somewhere behind him, and there's the sound of scraping chairs and setting minds on the open phone line. He shouldn't have to deal with this right now. He should be seeing to himself, his agitated state (several of his buttons are done improperly, never mind that not a one of them matches the others); he should be fucking Alice senseless into the breakfast nook, or against the wall, or on the desk again.
But no. He's on a conference call. With an irritated sigh he leans back into his chair just as one of the voices on the line brings the meeting to a start. "Alice." Notes of longing conflict with his irritation, his hair is sticking up in all directions and he thinks that sliding her white skirt with it's little black appliqués up over her hips wouldn't be so difficult at all. When he meets her eyes they're dark, and his smile leaves very little to the imagination of what he might want with her in the moment.
He has no qualms about his inappropriateness, for several reasons. One, he knows good and well that he is firmly in the realm of insane and even though he occasionally wonders if that will last, if having Alice in his life again will return him to rudimentary stability like the sort he possessed through her childhood, he has no reason to believe that's changed exactly. Two, it is ridiculously difficult to unseat a tenured professor who has a dalliance or several with students not attending their classes.
Since he sees no reason that Alice would ever need to learn costuming or clothing design of any sort as long as he's around and sketching her every moment boredom seizes him without her presence, keeping her from becoming his responsibility to deal with in terms of grading is easily promised to his thoughts on the future. Were she to ever tell him that she had been approached about their 'relationship' he might entertain the idea of proposing marriage - for all that it is an unstable concept for him, naught more than paper - but she hasn't, and he hasn't, and there is that.
He has, however, considered asking her to move in with him.
It would solve several problems at once, really, and the schedule of final exams for both of them has left him feeling bereft and angry. His only hesitation is the fact that Alice agrees to everything he asks of her with immediacy and he wonders how long it will take her to realize that she has all the power here. That she could ask nearly anything of him and he would twist the very nature of magic to do her bidding.
Today, there are no finals, no classes at all; yet Theo is in the office, not for Alice specifically but because it is a day to be filled with nothing but administrative work. He'd be fine with that, in theory - Alice has a lovely voice and he has found that his tongue inside her while she gives him the abridged version of important memos from his email is quite the experience. In reality, there is a conference call that threatens to be several hours long that he is not allowed to be absent from.
Or mute the call. He did that for three semesters before anyone caught on.
He can hear Alice in the kitchen attached to his offices, somewhere behind him, and there's the sound of scraping chairs and setting minds on the open phone line. He shouldn't have to deal with this right now. He should be seeing to himself, his agitated state (several of his buttons are done improperly, never mind that not a one of them matches the others); he should be fucking Alice senseless into the breakfast nook, or against the wall, or on the desk again.
But no. He's on a conference call. With an irritated sigh he leans back into his chair just as one of the voices on the line brings the meeting to a start. "Alice." Notes of longing conflict with his irritation, his hair is sticking up in all directions and he thinks that sliding her white skirt with it's little black appliqués up over her hips wouldn't be so difficult at all. When he meets her eyes they're dark, and his smile leaves very little to the imagination of what he might want with her in the moment.
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On those days her skirts go to the drycleaner's. (Always skirts at work; Theo hadn't so much announced his preference so much as, on approximately her third day of work, in about the same measure of abruptness and gentleness, bent her over the kitchen counter to push two cool fingers inside her before she had even time to gasp. After that: skirts. Most of the time, unless she feels like infuriating him a little, enough that by the time he's jerked leggings or jeans down to her knees she knows she'll feel him for days.)
Today is not one of those, however, thus, the skirt he has already observed. Too fitted to be pushed out of the way, certainly, but also certainly enough give to be pushed up.
She's rinsing out teacups when he calls; with his conference starting it seemed as good a time as any to deal with the smattering of dishes. Away from the phone and unobtrusive, as are the semi-coherent list of errant little tasks she was intending to accomplish while this transpired, but--instead his voice tugs her like a fish on a line, a hook sunk deep into her lower belly. Whether or not she should be embarrassed by the fact that that beckon call and the way he looks at her are enough to get her wet, that ...is something she'll worry about later.
Unless he calls attention to it first, of course. Then she'll blush - knowing he likes it - and concentrate very hard on the tips of her shoes. In the meanwhile she winds out of the kitchenette and comes to stand in front of the chair, fixing his buttons and then his hair by rote. What he wants with her actually does leave at least a little to the imagination, inasmuch as he's inventive and she hasn't said no to anything yet.
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But that would mean turning the conference call up louder, as someone will eventually demand his input on something they won't listen to him about in the first place, and the last thing he wants are these old men's voices drowning out any sound he can encourage Alice to make.
They'll just have to suffer through the sounds of him appreciating her beauty.
Thus decided, he snakes an arm around her waist and slides his opposite hand between her thighs, thumb pressing against the already damp material, rubbing the lace and fabric up between the folds of her. He stands, encouraging her thighs apart as he tugs the hem of her skirt up and the fabric of her panties down, out of his way.
A kiss placed just above where his thumb still works against the knot of her clit, before his thumb is replaced with his tongue and two fingers enter her. He stays there for a moment, looking up at her, before he stands and leans her into the desk, fingers still inside of her. His teeth graze her ear as he places a chain of kisses down it's shell.
"So warm already, so damp. Do you know how much I have missed the taste of you? The fruit of my Eden, salvation and damnation. Your juices will run down my chin and then I will have you as I've wanted you for days, years, lifetimes again. Your cries will drown them out, and you won't be quiet. I won't let you be quiet."
To prove his point he moves his fingers with some force, encouraging her to shift and sit on the desk behind her.
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The imploring look is real, to an extent, at least as real as the little whimper she favored him with (although all her murmurs and gasps are more stolen than they are favors) when he did - as she knew he would - pin her this way, not just what he's doing but the things he says. It's an interesting and complicated game between them; maybe at 19 it's fine to like sex, to crave his fingers and mouth and cock even (especially) when he's away from her - and she knows, has some idea that she's being trained, the same way a pet is trained to wear a leash - but wanting it this much, catching herself fingering the buttons on her blouse or rubbing her thighs together just watching his hands on fabric samples (all that texture, satins and velvets rubbed backwards)--there's got to be something wrong with that.
The trouble, or the ...lack of trouble, is that maybe that's what she likes the most. When he makes her feel--wrong, casts that little pall of corrective behavior on things she has absolutely no control over. It's freeing, in a way that makes her gasp with relief as much as shifting hungry, sticky flesh around his fingers, to think he'll do whatever he wants with her, to her, and she won't be able to stop him. If he wants his coworkers to hear her, it's inevitable they will, and the thought sends a hot spike of shame flaring down to burst between her legs. "I'm here now, darling."
Obviously. Curled hot and close and pliant, mouth a little open at the corners, not quite able to sit still under the pressure of his fingers. "You can--oh--you have me, you know that. But don't--you won't really make me, will you? Not in front of them."
Except, despite the plaintive note (or because of it), he will, and she'll beg him for it.
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Letting go of her lip he pulls away - though he does not, for the record, remove his fingers embedded within her - just long enough to take his coat from the back of the chair and fold it behind her, so that she may have something soft to rest against as opposed to just the wood of the desk. Encouraging her to lean back on her elbows he unbuttons her blouse with his free hand, moving his fingers independently of one another to elicit more sounds as he mouths at the fabric of her bra. Each nipple gets it's own measure of attention before he ducks down, kneeling between her legs and pressing his tongue just there again, enough to make her squirm certainly.
He's being slow because he wants to work her into a frenzy, and because this meeting threatens to be long and he wishes to see who will outlast the other.
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She makes a soft, coaxing sound and tangles her fingers in his curls when he licks over her nipples, the alternate heat of his mouth and cool breath making her hips shift in tiny increments. There's something about feeling him through the mesh that makes everything a little duller but more electric at the same time, a warm shock that never quite sharpens into the relief he already has her aching for, a low, heavy throb thing coiling in the pit of her stomach.
When he moves down she does jump, a sinuous little wriggle of her hips following after; no matter how many times he does this to her (and she knows by now it's a favorite) it;s always a surprise; sometimes fast and biting, all suction that sends her hands flying down to hold his shoulders, sensation she can't name arcing up through her, but sometimes - mostly - mostly it is like this, never quite knowing what he'll do next, except that it will be as slow as pulling taffy. He takes her apart like this, breath by breath until she's writhing and arching up to his mouth, all sense of propriety eroded.
If that's what it's to be today - and it seems like it is - she shudders, half in anticipation, half with tiny tremors already dissolving her. His head isn't too far away for her to reach; she stretches a hand down over her thigh to card her fingers through those curls some more, again a movement with split purposes: half to encourage him (...futilely) to do more than just touch, too light and too still and not nearly enough, and half just to be touching him. It's grounding, in a way she couldn't quantify if asked. "Please, Theo."
Vague; it could be 'please, anything.' "Not worried, not exactly," --she can't think, it's maddening to feel him only there, "everyone knows you fuck me."
More accurately absolutely everyone in the department speculates: was her hair up when she entered the office and down as she left? Is she brighter, happier, more disheveled? Are there bruises scattered along hips and thighs, the long column of her neck and shoulders? (yes, and yes, and yes, all of these things are true, but that's not fact. She could just have a boyfriend who's a student. She might really enjoy her work.)
So she's not worried. What she is, she doesn't articulate; reassurance isn't the response she's after, from him.
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There's day old stubble on his face, a mix of laziness and agitation making it too difficult a task this morning to shave safely; besides, it's rather viscerally pleasing to see the redness raise up on the skin of her inner thigh and know that was caused by his own cheek and nothing else. To this point he rubs his cheek alongside her thigh, turning his head just enough to let her know that the hand in his hair is appreciated, welcome, allowed. His thumb replaces his tongue as he turns his head just a little further, sucking on already sensitive skin until a lovely bruise begins to blossom between his teeth.
She tastes, to him, better than tea and tea has been his lifelong obsession. He's contemplated having a mix made, something that reminds him of the weight of her against his tongue, the cloying sweetness and musk. Something that smells like a secret, like an item kept hidden from the world, horded all for himself. Perhaps for a birthday, as inappropriate a gift as it may be to give one's lover, or assistant. It's the thought that counts, isn't that how the saying goes? As he considers this, as he drags his tongue slowly between folds of soft flesh, the conference call has begun in earnest and Theo is immediately annoyed at his own mind for assigning even a slim percentage of his attention to the drivel coming out of the speaker.
It takes less than three minutes for someone to ask him an asinine question, to which he responds sharply that he is eating, for the love of everything and anything holy, so they can ask the faculty member who actually keeps track of supplies and equipment rented to the students through the costuming department, who is on the call as well, so why even ask him.
While not uncommon in regards to being involved in meetings he has no interest in, Theo suspects his small outburst has bought him at least twenty-five minutes without anyone asking him anything else.
His attention is divided again almost instantaneously after that, but this time it's between the small bundle of nerves and slowly fucking her with his tongue, savoring the warm dampness he finds there. Several minutes of the latter and Theo pulls away, giving Alice a kiss at the top of her winter stockings before reaching into a drawer at the bottom of the desk and procuring a box of restraints from it. There are two sets but he only removes the longer pair, securing the padded belting around her ankles and making sure they aren't uncomfortably tight before securing them around the legs of the desk. Pleased with his handiwork, to see her splayed out and open, wanting, wet, makes him smile at her before returning to his earlier position between her spread legs. "Now you can touch all you want." Without worrying she'll lose purchase and slide off the desk.
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And because she knows the way they'll all look at her for the rest of the semester, furtive looks that say they can see right through her, now, the slut underneath the carefully professional clothes. Underneath, where sometimes if her blouse is sheer he takes away her bra in addition to her panties; it's fortunate she spends so much time out of class studying, that making up for some of how she's useless for class those days, nipples hot and aching, the rub of fabric every time she moves leaving her in a low-level state of constant arousal.
They'll look at her like they know all that, and in an instant memory will drag her back here, helpless as his tongue pumps in and out and in, her hands in his hair like a touchstone, now that she can touch all she wants. Now that she's allowed. To wit: her voice breaks on a strangled little mewl, but once she has a little control back (a very little), she manages a breathless, eyes closed, "thank you, sir."
Sir is ...new. But she likes it, likes the way it enhances the sense of ownership, that she's some lesser thing for him to possess.
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"Should we have another? A different flavor, perhaps." His thumb presses down a little harder, his voice not pitched quietly in the least. Someone makes a comment on distracting noises but no one counters it. The conversation drones on, after a beat.
Theo keeps one hand on Alice as he reaches down and unbuckles one of her legs, pulling it in close to his hip. "Come sit with me, hm?" A bite to her lips, and the hand that had been working at overstimulating her slid to the other restraint and unbuckled it, leaving Theo free to grab her by the hips and pull her in close before sitting in the overstuffed chair with Alice in his lap. He noses at her hair, running his teeth along the shell of her ear.