A Little Bit Deeper Now Ch. 01

"Paul, call the police," she said hysterically.

"If those tapes go public, we're both fucked," he said furiously. "I'm not letting the world find out I married a goddamn whore. Why would you let him film you, you stupid bitch?"

"Film me? What are you—"

"Oh, yeah, she didn't exactly know about her porn career, Paul," Simon said. "But now that she does, I can get a lot better A/V equipment for the next time."

She wanted to flee, but where would she go? Her husband despised her. Her lover had been cruelly playing her the whole time. To flee would mean being fired, forever barred from teaching, likely dispossessed of all her belongings. What was worse, she knew with the internet, her most private, vulnerable moments would be broadcast to a horde of creeps forever.

"Please, no," she whimpered. "Don't make me do this."

"Sweetie," Simon said soothingly, "you know you love this. If I asked you to blow me without him here, you'd be on your knees in a second. He wants you to do this. I think he'd enjoy seeing you in your natural element."

She looked into Paul's eyes, still hoping against hope that he might save her. He could grab the kid, scare the shit out of him, make him give back the evidence. Maybe there was no hope for their marriage, but there was still hope for them to resist Simon.

"Get it over with," was all Paul could muster.

Beverly felt her body move as if of its own volition. Before her brain registered, she was on her knees in front of her student and lover, as her husband sat there watching them, a horrified bystander.

"What'd she get you for your birthday?"

Simon gathered her long auburn hair with his right hand and used his left hand to force her head down into his lap. His red, veiny cock parted her lips, and some kind of automatic response took over her body. She started swirling her tongue around Simon's tool, as if some deep and primal instinct had taken over. There was something about Simon—some malevolent, seductive force of persuasion—that had flipped a switch inside her. After their first time together, she had realized how unsatisfying sex with her husband had become.

She was really going to do this.

"Answer me, motherfucker," Simon demanded. "Or I'll get you down here."

"New suit," Paul mumbled.

"That one?" Simon asked, nodding in his direction.

"No," he stammered. "A grey one. Striped."

"Oh, I know that one. You wore it for Golden Circle Initiation Weekend."

Beverly was bobbing her head in rhythm now; somewhere along the way, she decided that getting this over with as soon as possible was more important than trying not to look like too big of a slut while she serviced Simon's member. That meant lots of spit and taking him deep, though she couldn't bring herself to make eye contact with him. It would seem too much like a surrender.

"Yeah," Paul said, his voice betraying surprise.

Beverly tried to block out their conversation, especially her husband's side. She closed her eyes and pretended she was all alone with Simon, but now that only made her miserable. Simon had been right: just an hour ago, the thought of a quick, secret rendezvous with Simon would have stirred her desire. Now, with his sadistic cruelty evident, it only made her feel degraded and ashamed.

"See, I got her pussy for my birthday, but that's a nice suit. I think maybe we tied."

Beverly was corkscrewing her hand on Simon's cock, trying to hasten his climax, until he grabbed her hand and pulled it away. With one hand holding her mouth in place on his cock, he stood up. Now towering over her as she licked up and down his shaft, Simon looked down on Paul, slumped over sickly in his chair, his head in his hands.

"You got the good chair, Dr. Whitman. I think we'll switch from now on."

Paul stirred a little at the suggestion that Simon would be spending more time in his office.

"God, she sucks a mean dick," Simon said, shaking his head from side to side. "She swallow for you?"

Paul didn't answer.

"Thought not. She told me she tried to be a 'good girl' for you."

As if to punctuate the sentiment, Simon reached down and pinched one of Beverly's nipples. She squealed a little around his cock.

"She's a slut, deep down, though—always will be."

Simon clamped his hand against Beverly's head and pushed his cock as far as it could go into her throat. He stared directly into Paul's eyes, almost daring him to come to his wife's rescue as she wrestled against the rigid invader in her throat. Muffled screams of panic escaped from Beverly, until Simon let loose a guttural moan.

"Oh, take it whore," he growled. "Swallow that cock snot."

Paul felt sick watching Simon fill his retching wife's throat with cum. Paul was amazed how much he seemed to be pumping into Beverly, until he remembered Simon telling him he was saving up for today.

"It's that three-day build-up, you know, thick shit," he said to Paul, as if reading his mind.

The swallowing motions, so obvious in Beverly's throat, were the final straw of humiliation for Paul, as he watched his wife perform an act he'd never had the courage to ask for. Though he'd gotten a blowjob from his wife here and there, she'd always made him pull out and ejaculate below the neck. Now she was taking a heavy load of semen from her lover as he watched on impotently.

When Simon finally pulled his cock out of her mouth, Beverly sputtered and gagged, and some of his sperm came back up to spatter her chin. Paul's eyes went straight to Simon's veiny cock, wet with his wife's spit and still angrily erect. When he had stolen a glance of Simon fisting it in preparation, it had looked normal. Now, though, fresh from throatfucking his wife, Paul had to suppress a sick kind of admiration forming.

He felt intensely jealous, that this kid, this rich prick, could take his wife from him and turn her into his personal fuckdoll. Paul had wooed her, had taken her out on dates, listened to her, bought her a new car, and clothes, and a house. Meanwhile, an eighteen year old boy had taken control of her pussy and turned her into a cocksucking slut right before his eyes.

Only he wasn't a boy, Paul realized. Every look of fear and guilt in his wife's eyes had seemed to Paul like lust and satisfaction. She'd gotten off on blowing her lover. She wanted this; maybe not like this, but still. Paul felt like he was the little boy, watching a man take his wife in a way he had never been capable of doing. It was utterly humiliating, and Paul wished the ground would simply swallow him up.

"She almost got it all, Paul," Simon said, his thumb and index finger indicating how much of his cock was left over when she took him deeply into her throat. "But not quite."

Simon looked down at his teacher, lover, and now slave: her professional blouse wet with her own spit, make-up ruined, breathing hard to recover the oxygen denied her by his assault on her throat. Meanwhile, Paul had his head in the wastebasket—he was finally throwing up.

"I wish I had, like, a painting of this scene," he quipped. "I'd hang it in our second dining room."

Beverly curled into a ball on the floor, utterly drained physically and mentally. Her soft sobs weren't loud enough to attract attention, though Paul's heaving might.

"Get your shit together, Paul," he spat venomously. "You could've saved her from this, and you didn't want to. That's on you now."

Simon grabbed his backpack. Neither Beverly nor Paul was in a position to raise a hand against him. He pulled out a thick, sealed manila envelope and chucked it at Paul, who was so catatonic by this point that it thudded dully against the wall beside his head.

"Nice catch. That's two grand in there, so I guess now both of you are whores," he said coolly, "and a set of instructions. We'll meet every Friday here in your office after school 'til the year's over. By my count, that's nine weeks. Read the instructions—I'd explain it all, but after I bust a nut, I always feel like a nap, you know? I'm busy this weekend, so I'll come over to your place Monday to fuck. Peace."

As if nothing had just happened, Simon put his cock back in his pants, buttoned up, and walked out. It was five minutes before either Paul or Beverly moved.

"Paul—"

"Don't talk to me. This is your fault," Paul said in a quavering voice.

He stood up and walked towards the door.

"Don't come home. I'll call a lawyer on Monday."