Melinda Matson - A seductive student

Velasquez came up behind the chair she was sitting in and put his hands on her bare shoulders, massaging the silky skin roughly, the way one might rub the skin of a dog or cat, not for the pleasure of the animal so much as for the pleasure of the massager.

Her reaction to his brutal touch told her more than she ever wanted to know about herself, her weakness. The trembling in her hands, the awful yearning in her belly and breasts let her know that she was not over him, not by a long shot, that she was still his plaything, his puppet, that she would gladly do whatever he asked, accept whatever punishment, whatever humiliation, so long as he kept on touching her.

"You're tense," he said, squeezing her neck so hard she whimpered. "Relax. Relax and enjoy!" As much as what he was doing hurt, she could not deny that it felt absolutely wonderful. A bit more and she knew she could cum, cum without being touched on the pussy. That knowledge shamed her and her shame only aroused her more. She wanted him to fuck her again; she wanted that more than anything. She was ready to answer any sexual command that he might ask of her, answer it not only willingly, but joyously. She was putty in his hands.

"There," he said, letting go of her, walking around in front of her.

Her heart started pounding horribly when she saw the immense bulge in the front of his Bermudas. The sadistic massage had evidentially excited him as much as it'd excited her. He was going to luck her! She could hardly sit still for the devils dancing along her veins. She should not have gotten her hopes up.

"Now, I wanna hear about the programming," he said, moving back, taking a seat on the edge of his desk.

What he was doing to her, both of them knew, was the cruelest thing possible. He was showing her the luridly pulsing carrot, almost waving it about under her nose, but refusing to give her any of it. For a second, the soul ache was so awful that she couldn't speak. It was like an ice pick jammed into her belly.

"How did it go?" he asked her.

"Everything went just the way you said," she finally managed to say. She could not tear her eyes away from the obscene lump in his pants. Her whole being cried out to that insensate rod of flesh, cried out silently the words, "Use me!?"

"Yes?"

She took a breath, then said, "I punched in the incorrect data. When he runs his program through the computer, he will get results that will support all of his previous theories on atom surface scattering." She paused, giving him a concerned look. "But, honestly, I don't see how you're doing anything but helping him," she went on. "He'll get his National Science Foundation grant for sure because of this."

Velasquez laughed. "Yes, I'm sure he will," he said, "but if you've done the job right, if you've left no tracks, if you haven't screwed up his computer model, it'll be the last N.S.F. grant that bastard ever gets."

Joselyn looked puzzled.

The professor glowered at her. "It amazes me how you got this far in science being as slow on the uptake as you are," he said.

The ice pick twisted into her guts.

"Think about it," he told her. "I'm trying to nail an asshole who's already proved he can escape a paternity suit because of his pull here at the university. I need something big, something that isn't going to blow over. The second he turns in that grant proposal, I've got him. I know the results he used to justify the need for a grant are fake… I damn well faked them myself! When I tell the Foundation board of my suspicion, when they look into the data he submitted, Bertrand is going to be a gone goose in Theoretical Chem. Knocking up some steno pool floozy is one thing, but trying to defraud the National Science Foundation is another."

"I see," she said.

"I doubt that," he said acidly. "But old Bertrand will. He'll see what happens when he tries to fuck with me. He won't be able to get a job teaching high school chemistry in Wyoming by the time I'm through."

"What do I do now?" Joselyn asked.

"You keep on doing exactly what you've been doing," Velasquez said, leering at her. "You keep his mind off his project. We can't have him doing any re-checking before he turns in that proposal. From the way he's been talking over at the handball court, he's been getting all he can handle off you."

She blushed.

"You're not surprised that he's a big talker, are you?" the professor said, realizing that he'd struck a nerve, wanting to explore the subject a bit. "You shouldn't be. Pindicks like that are always blabbing it around whenever they get lucky. The way he tells it, he has you cumming all over yourself all the time. Is it true?"

Joselyn started to blurt out, "no", but something in his face made her stop short.

"I hope it is," he said, grinning. "I want you to enjoy your work. It gives me great pleasure to think that you're getting off under him. You are, aren't you?"

"Yes," she said, weakly.

"I just hope it isn't too much of a heartbreak for you to have to quit him as soon as he turns that proposal in."

"Quit?!"

He laughed at her sudden jump in spirits.

"Sure," he said. "Once it's in the mail, your job with him is through."

"Can I… I mean, will I be working for you then?" she asked, her heart trying to climb out of her throat.

"You've been working for me all along, remember?" he said. "Now, I think you ought to go. Someone could knock on the door and it would be inconvenient."

Joselyn rose from the chair and walked to the door. She wanted to turn, to throw herself at his feet, to kiss and lick the soles of his shoes, anything, anything for one more touch of his hand. But he did not call her back. He was through with her, as he'd said. There was nothing for her to do but leave.

As she closed the door to his office and started off down the hallway, she had a horrible premonition. She saw herself never being "his", never belonging to Dr. Velasquez in the way she envisioned; she saw herself belonging to him, being "his" as she was now, his to give away, to use as bait in power struggles within the department, the university, to use to impress his handball buddies.

"Are you all right?" said a husky woman's voice behind her.

Joselyn turned and came face to face with Dr. Blensch. "Uhh, yes, of course," she said. The professor gave her a doubtful look. "For a second there, as you passed my door," she said, "I thought you were about to break into tears."

"I'm fine," Joselyn said, not wanting to talk to the woman, the woman who had turned Paul into what practically amounted to a stud animal.

"You're Joselyn, am I correct?" Dr. Blensch said, smiling with her lips and not her eyes.

"Yes," the blonde answered.

"Good. I must talk to you at once," the professor said. "In my office."

"I'm sorry, I have work to do for Dr. Bertrand," Joselyn told her. "Maybe some other time."

"You will want to talk to me," Dr. Blensch said.

"It's about Paul…"

Joselyn blinked at her vacantly.

"…and Dr. Bertrand," the professor said, "and Dr. Velasquez." The blonde jerked as if she'd been struck in the face. "There, see? You're interested already, aren't you?"

Joselyn allowed the professor to take her by the arm and lead her into her office. Dr. Blensch sat her down on a chair, then closed the office door and locked it.

"Did Paul tell you?" Joselyn asked, her voice shrill with pain. She knew the answer to her question already. Only Paul could've betrayed her. That he'd betrayed her to this evil redhead, this evil, dye-job redhead made the hurt worse.

"Of course, he told me," Dr. Blensch said, beaming at her. "Paul is a very obedient man. He does everything I tell him."

"He hates you."

"Hate, love, it's all the same. It's the intensity of the emotion that matters."

Joselyn frowned at that.