Adrenaline
Title: Adrenaline
Author: starbrigid
Rating: R/NC-17
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Shelby/Jesse
Warning: Teacher/student, PWP-ish, spanking
Spoilers: none, really.
Disclaimer: A, this would happen if I owned the show. B, this does not happen on the show. Thus A and B are mutually exclusive. Mathematical parlance for sadness at lack of pornage.
Summary: Because Shelby has no interest in running just another Ohio show choir.
Word Count: 2939
Author’s Note: Based on from this prompt from the glee kink meme.
"“Shelby/Jesse ~bare bottom OTK spanking, "Miss I've been a very naughty boy."”
Songs mentioned in imaginary Sectionals set list:
: “I Who Have Nothing,” originally by Ben E. King, as covered by Tom Jones,
“Tainted Love,” originally by Soft Cell, as covered by Marilyn Manson,
and “Adrenaline” by Bush.
Adrenaline
Shelby called Jesse to her office the night before Sectionals, or rather the morning of, after a marathon rehearsal that had started right after school and stretched until past one a.m. They’d run through their set of I Who Have Nothing, Tainted Love, and Adrenaline until nothing but Red Bull and sheer concentrated power of will had dragged her students’ bodies through their robotic steps. Jesse’s pulse still sped, though, and his palms began to sweat, when Shelby’s deceptively sweet voice called his name, holding him back while the others got to stagger out Carmel’s doors to their cars and try to not to fall asleep and crash into any telephone poles on their way home. The last time that had happened, there had been questions.
Jesse checked his reflection before he dared follow Shelby into her office, though very quickly, since she was not a woman to be kept waiting. Darting into the boy’s room, he anxiously surveyed himself. It had been dress rehearsal, but the bright turquoise button-down was still done up and tucked in, black dress pants clean and crisp, shoes shining, not a hair out of place. He was just as positive as ever that his performance had been as spotless as his looks, but as Shelby often told them, she had no interest in running just another Ohio show choir. He was sure she’d find something to pick apart.
Entering Shelby’s office was always an act of swerving and balancing, trying to keep from dislodging any of the plaques, medals, or trophies that littered the walls and floors. Shelby’s suit jacket rested on her chair, red blouse undone one more button than it had been during rehearsal, and Jesse knew from the sight that he must have failed her somehow. His already constrictive costume suddenly felt unbearably tight.
“Jesse,” Shelby purred, seated behind her desk with crossed legs, one red high heel dangling off her bare foot. “Don’t have a seat.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Closer,” she ordered, and he inched forward until the edge of her antique redwood desk was digging into his thighs, while keeping his posture ramrod straight. “I think you know why you’re here,” she said, and he racked his brain, but really, his ego hadn’t detected anything but magnetic perfection.
“No, ma’am,” he replied, unable to keep the smirk out of his voice if off his face, but he knew there was something behind her poker face that responded to that cockiness, would ache to break it down. She had this mantra about having to shatter Humpty Dumpty before you could put him back together again, and no one ever dared to point out to her that the whole point of the rhyme was that the damage was irreparable.
“The lifts,” she snapped, and he blinked, genuinely surprised. “How many times. If you weren’t lead, you’d have been out for it years ago. You lift a girl, you never let the difficulty show on your face. Even if it is Lauren. I’ve just put her on a master cleanse. As far as the audience is concerned, you came out of the womb pumping underdressed girls over your head in disco spins while doing thirty-second falsetto runs on Marilyn Manson songs.”
“I didn’t think-” Jesse frowned, but an arch of her eyebrow silenced him. She was leaning forward over her desk now, between mammoth towers of sheet music, a position which afforded him an even better view of the heavy curve of her breasts atop the desk, the lush, pale creamy skin that belied the venom in her voice.
“Exactly. You didn’t think. Clearly you haven’t been thinking for a while up there, Jesse, or maybe you’re incapable of it. You think you’re a star, honey? You looked stupid up there, a lost little boy, dumb and slow. Third, fifth, last run-throughs of Nothing, final note was at least a count too short.” She bent to consult her notes, and Jesse could almost make out a hint of black lace before she straightened up. “Your eyes were down once during the tenth run-through, closed half the time on the eleventh, and I don’t need to tell you that I don’t want to hear it about the spotlights giving you blind spots or permanent corneal damage or whatever that girl’s lawyers were saying. Connect, Jesse. Looked at me once, too, during Nothing. Flattered, really, but I’m not the girl you need to be seducing.
“Your hand extensions weren’t there all night, I don’t care if it hasn’t been a week since your wrist surgery. Your kicks were too low on the guitar solo in Tainted, you were as staccato as a metronome on your runs in it. Not enough support on your high F in Adrenaline, not on any time, wanted to be onstage squeezing your diaphragm like I was throttling your pretty little throat that’s how flat and thin you were. Sharp on the first verse, last run-through of Adrenaline. Still need more energy on Adrenaline, more pathos on Nothing, more sexy on Tainted. You’re past beige paint- you’re like watching one of those films of flowers growing sped up, only they’ve slowed you down instead, and you were already a boring kind anyway, like daisies or dandelions or something inane like that. If I don’t get more dynamic shift on Nothing, I’ll have to find someone else to do the Queen number at Regionals. Oh, and more sexy on Nothing, more energy on Tainted, and more pathos on Adrenaline. Got it?”
Reeling, Jesse managed a nod. This was why he loved being in Vocal Adrenaline. “Stupid,” she repeated, and he was pressed so close to her desk, he hoped she couldn’t see how her voice, lingering disdainfully over the first syllable, made his cock jerk and stiffen harder, painfully erect as it jutted out against the glossy wood.
“Step back,” she ordered, impassive, as if she was wasting her ire on him. “Let me see you.”
He swallowed but did so, feeling her gaze sweep over him like a butcher’s over meat at a market. She didn’t remark at the bulge tenting the front of his trousers, outlined clearly through the thin, clinging fabric, too narrow to wear anything underneath, and he already felt unbearably exposed before her, more naked than anyone else could make him. “This side,” she said, and he crossed around her desk to stand before her. She turned her chair but stayed seating, just reached up with one hand, and he bent down to let her run it through his sweat-damp hair. He shivered at the feel of her long red nails grazing his scalp.
“A little too long,” she said, “Cut it before Sectionals,” but he knew she didn’t mean it, she never did. She liked to run her fingers through it like this too much, play with it under the guise of inspection, and when he felt her pull on it, the tug went straight to his cock, a surge of heat that left his legs weaker under him than hours of dancing had. Her other hand was tracing along his chin, delicate nail scraping at the stubble on his neck and remarking he needed a closer shave, never mind that it was the middle of the night, and if that was the start of a pimple forming and not just razor burn, she would give him a real reason to shake like that. Then her hands glided down to the top of his shirt, undid one button, then two. She told him that was how she wanted him tomorrow, never mind that the rest of the choir was to stay done up on pain of evisceration. From there she made neat work of the rest of the buttons. She didn’t have to ask him to shrug off his shirt, folding it and putting it on top of one of her notebooks, whose cover was decorated with her trademark gold stars.
Her hands ran over him impersonally, a buyer assessing livestock. “Chest is getting a little fuzzy,” she mused, making him bite back a moan at the brush of her nails against his nipple. “Could use a wax. Arms could still use more definition, don’t care if I don’t give you enough free time to go to the gym any more than you already do. Oh, and still some fat here,” she said, squeezing at some virtually nonexistent patch of looseness beneath his flat abs, tugging at his tight skin. “What a fat, lazy little boy you are. You disgusting little fat slob. What a pig,” she cooed absently, and Jesse was barely breathing, her mint-sharp breath hot on his bare chest; frozen at the closeness of her fingers to where he really wanted them.
She leaned in and smelled him, long dark hair falling to brush his side softly, and the smell of her dusky rose perfume hit his stomach with a familiar ache. “New cologne,” she said. “Little strong. Wow, you sweat a lot. However much deodorant you’re using, Jesse, seems you could always use more. Shoes, socks, pants, all of it, here.”
Jesse bent over to pull off his shoes and nearly jumped as her hands slid over his ass and cupped it. He nearly dropped his socks while shoving them into his shoes, but stayed bent over, waiting for permission to move. “All of it,” she repeated, so he undid his button fly and wiggled his damp, slender hips out of the black linen with a bit of difficulty, kicking them off his legs and gasping under his breath at the cool air on his cock, which he knew without looking was almost purple now, dizzy with frustration. Her hands went right back to his buttocks with the fabric out of the way, squeezing harder, and he would have fallen but for her command to sit across her lap. She uncrossed her legs, keeping them closed, and he climbed up and braced his greater weight atop her, laying himself out over her knee like she liked, hands out in mid-air, grasping at nothing.
“Still so plump,” she whispered, thick, glossy red lips tantalizingly close to his. “You have an ass like a girl, Jesse. Pretty as a girl. Stupid as a boy, though, a disobedient little boy. You’re a bad little boy, aren’t you, Jesse?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed, squirming against her and trying to catch his balance. Her bra was black lace, he could see now, and it made him wonder if her panties were the same beneath her tight black pencil skirt. His cock dragged across the silky fabric, leaving a sticky trail of pre-come, and he could see her perfect nose wrinkle like an old movie star’s in black and white.
“Jesse,” she sighed, amused exasperation creeping through the tone of stern disciplinarian, and she reached down and hiked up her skirt, leaving her thighs bare beneath Jesse’s hips.
“Such a bad boy. A bad, bad boy. And what do bad boys get?”
“They get punished,” Jesse replied dutifully, keeping his voice as steady as he could, but there was still a note of challenge in it, self-possession intact and rendering him impudent in her ears, filthy and unrepentant.
“You’ve disappointed me,” she purred. “Tell me, boy, would you like to be punished?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied dutifully. “Please, Ms. Corcoran,” and her hand ran through his hair one more time, pushing a curl out of his eyes to get a good look at her student’s handsome face, the caress of her hand almost tender before she brought it down hard on his bare ass.
“Count,” she demanded, and he bit back a groan, vision going hazy, and took a deep, steadying breath, overwhelmed and humiliated and turned on beyond belief, praying just not to come before she gave him permission.
“One,” he said, and she brought the flat of her palm down on the other cheek. “Two,” and the flesh stung where she hit it. “Three.” The left cheek again, each blow harder, alternating sides skillfully, assuredly, her breathing perfectly even while he panted and whined across her lap like the naughty little brat she said he was, rubbing desperately against her. “Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine- oh- God- Ms. Corcoran-”
“Did I say you could speak?” she asked sweetly, and the tenth slap was more vicious yet, echoing through the empty school while the minute hand on her clock passed two, as Jesse rutted against her shamelessly, prissy composure a distant memory.
“Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen…” He ground his cock down hard against the soft, maddening warmth of her inner thighs and he could almost push them open, push his dick between them. “Fourteen… fifteen… six… teen…” He’d been with a half dozen girls his age since he’d come to Carmel, only one or two not in Vocal Adrenaline, and none of them had been anything like this; giggling, unsure, worshipful rather than this cold and contemptuous, bodies small, narrow, paltry where Shelby’s was ample and full, her curves a torment beneath him as seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. It hurt for sure now, and he squirmed from the pain as much as the arousal, every nerve raw and sensitive, ass hot and red beneath her cruel graceful hands.
Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, and it was as if someone else was counting for him by then. If she would only just part her thighs, spread her legs and let him inside them, push her panties aside, he could see they were matching black lace now, they would be damp, her pussy soaking, dripping wet as her clever fingers guided him inside her. At last, after going on four years imagining, twenty two three four five six seven what would it be like to be inside Shelby, to feel her thighs wrap around his waist, nails dig into his back as he thrust deep into that slick tight heat; to hear her angelic voice sing out his name as he fucked her like no man had ever done her before, make her fall apart herself, break her on his fingers and cock, make her come and come and come and come again with his name screaming out of those perfect untouchable lips, show her that he was her boy, of course, always her boy, but he was a man, now, he was all grown up, show her the man he’d become, the star- her man, her star, hers-
“Shelby, I’m gonna-” he tried, breaking his counting with the name he always gave her in his head, but usually had the sense not to call her out loud. She rolled her eyes, took a solid handful of hair in her left hand, and yanked it hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.
“Finish,” she ordered, and he cried out thirty with his voice catching but thankfully not breaking, like it had used to when he was younger and his voice had been changing. How he’d hated it when that would happen, the way she had used to smirk at him then. The thirtieth and her hand fell still, stroking casually, possessively across his abused ass, blood-red nails digging into the flushed kin making him sob, the proud seventeen-year-old sprawled naked across her lap. “Good,” she said, and the word was like applause in his ears, like yet another faceless judge announcing Vocal Adrenaline the victor. “That’s better. That’s a good boy. Are you going to be a good boy now, Jesse?”
“Yes,” he hissed, “Yes, yes, Shelby- yes,” but she didn’t seem to mind her first name as much as he’d thought. Rather the contrary, as her fingers slid along his crack, pushing his cheeks apart and tracing his entrance before pushing one slender finger inside him, dry. “God, Shelby,” he gasped, and she thrust it in, curling it skillfully, and his nails dug into the armrests of her chair, body arching helplessly, heat pulsing in waves now through his body. “Oh, God, Shelby- want- please, Shelby, please- want- wanna-” Two fingers were thrusting into him now, Shelby fucking him on them with the same brilliant, vicious perfection she did everything with, making him howl and his vision go white. “Shelby- I want- please, let me- please, please-”
“After we win tomorrow,” Shelby began, and then curled her fingers and scissored them, her legs falling ever so slightly further apart, and she then did something with her fingers that made his whole world explode.
He came across her thighs and slumped there, lungs on fire, trying not to pass out as she pulled her fingers out of him. It took him a long time before he had the composure to lift his weight off her and push his bare, shaking body up onto her desk. She wiped herself clean with a handful of tissues and then pulled her skirt back down, crossing her legs again.
“Jesse,” she said, after a time, and he peered down at her through half-closed eyes, utterly spent. “I Who Have Nothing,” she prompted, and after a pause, eyes fixed on hers, he began to sing.
They won. Celebrating on the stage, he whispered into her ear that she had said, she had said, now- could they, now- and his birthday was so, so soon, and- didn’t a good boy deserve a reward, didn’t he. She pulled back, and he knew from her smile that he was no closer than the day they met.
“A present? Your rewards are out in the parking lot. As for that? There’s something I need you to do for me first. Think of it as an acting exercise.”
Author: starbrigid
Rating: R/NC-17
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Shelby/Jesse
Warning: Teacher/student, PWP-ish, spanking
Spoilers: none, really.
Disclaimer: A, this would happen if I owned the show. B, this does not happen on the show. Thus A and B are mutually exclusive. Mathematical parlance for sadness at lack of pornage.
Summary: Because Shelby has no interest in running just another Ohio show choir.
Word Count: 2939
Author’s Note: Based on from this prompt from the glee kink meme.
"“Shelby/Jesse ~bare bottom OTK spanking, "Miss I've been a very naughty boy."”
Songs mentioned in imaginary Sectionals set list:
: “I Who Have Nothing,” originally by Ben E. King, as covered by Tom Jones,
“Tainted Love,” originally by Soft Cell, as covered by Marilyn Manson,
and “Adrenaline” by Bush.
Adrenaline
Shelby called Jesse to her office the night before Sectionals, or rather the morning of, after a marathon rehearsal that had started right after school and stretched until past one a.m. They’d run through their set of I Who Have Nothing, Tainted Love, and Adrenaline until nothing but Red Bull and sheer concentrated power of will had dragged her students’ bodies through their robotic steps. Jesse’s pulse still sped, though, and his palms began to sweat, when Shelby’s deceptively sweet voice called his name, holding him back while the others got to stagger out Carmel’s doors to their cars and try to not to fall asleep and crash into any telephone poles on their way home. The last time that had happened, there had been questions.
Jesse checked his reflection before he dared follow Shelby into her office, though very quickly, since she was not a woman to be kept waiting. Darting into the boy’s room, he anxiously surveyed himself. It had been dress rehearsal, but the bright turquoise button-down was still done up and tucked in, black dress pants clean and crisp, shoes shining, not a hair out of place. He was just as positive as ever that his performance had been as spotless as his looks, but as Shelby often told them, she had no interest in running just another Ohio show choir. He was sure she’d find something to pick apart.
Entering Shelby’s office was always an act of swerving and balancing, trying to keep from dislodging any of the plaques, medals, or trophies that littered the walls and floors. Shelby’s suit jacket rested on her chair, red blouse undone one more button than it had been during rehearsal, and Jesse knew from the sight that he must have failed her somehow. His already constrictive costume suddenly felt unbearably tight.
“Jesse,” Shelby purred, seated behind her desk with crossed legs, one red high heel dangling off her bare foot. “Don’t have a seat.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Closer,” she ordered, and he inched forward until the edge of her antique redwood desk was digging into his thighs, while keeping his posture ramrod straight. “I think you know why you’re here,” she said, and he racked his brain, but really, his ego hadn’t detected anything but magnetic perfection.
“No, ma’am,” he replied, unable to keep the smirk out of his voice if off his face, but he knew there was something behind her poker face that responded to that cockiness, would ache to break it down. She had this mantra about having to shatter Humpty Dumpty before you could put him back together again, and no one ever dared to point out to her that the whole point of the rhyme was that the damage was irreparable.
“The lifts,” she snapped, and he blinked, genuinely surprised. “How many times. If you weren’t lead, you’d have been out for it years ago. You lift a girl, you never let the difficulty show on your face. Even if it is Lauren. I’ve just put her on a master cleanse. As far as the audience is concerned, you came out of the womb pumping underdressed girls over your head in disco spins while doing thirty-second falsetto runs on Marilyn Manson songs.”
“I didn’t think-” Jesse frowned, but an arch of her eyebrow silenced him. She was leaning forward over her desk now, between mammoth towers of sheet music, a position which afforded him an even better view of the heavy curve of her breasts atop the desk, the lush, pale creamy skin that belied the venom in her voice.
“Exactly. You didn’t think. Clearly you haven’t been thinking for a while up there, Jesse, or maybe you’re incapable of it. You think you’re a star, honey? You looked stupid up there, a lost little boy, dumb and slow. Third, fifth, last run-throughs of Nothing, final note was at least a count too short.” She bent to consult her notes, and Jesse could almost make out a hint of black lace before she straightened up. “Your eyes were down once during the tenth run-through, closed half the time on the eleventh, and I don’t need to tell you that I don’t want to hear it about the spotlights giving you blind spots or permanent corneal damage or whatever that girl’s lawyers were saying. Connect, Jesse. Looked at me once, too, during Nothing. Flattered, really, but I’m not the girl you need to be seducing.
“Your hand extensions weren’t there all night, I don’t care if it hasn’t been a week since your wrist surgery. Your kicks were too low on the guitar solo in Tainted, you were as staccato as a metronome on your runs in it. Not enough support on your high F in Adrenaline, not on any time, wanted to be onstage squeezing your diaphragm like I was throttling your pretty little throat that’s how flat and thin you were. Sharp on the first verse, last run-through of Adrenaline. Still need more energy on Adrenaline, more pathos on Nothing, more sexy on Tainted. You’re past beige paint- you’re like watching one of those films of flowers growing sped up, only they’ve slowed you down instead, and you were already a boring kind anyway, like daisies or dandelions or something inane like that. If I don’t get more dynamic shift on Nothing, I’ll have to find someone else to do the Queen number at Regionals. Oh, and more sexy on Nothing, more energy on Tainted, and more pathos on Adrenaline. Got it?”
Reeling, Jesse managed a nod. This was why he loved being in Vocal Adrenaline. “Stupid,” she repeated, and he was pressed so close to her desk, he hoped she couldn’t see how her voice, lingering disdainfully over the first syllable, made his cock jerk and stiffen harder, painfully erect as it jutted out against the glossy wood.
“Step back,” she ordered, impassive, as if she was wasting her ire on him. “Let me see you.”
He swallowed but did so, feeling her gaze sweep over him like a butcher’s over meat at a market. She didn’t remark at the bulge tenting the front of his trousers, outlined clearly through the thin, clinging fabric, too narrow to wear anything underneath, and he already felt unbearably exposed before her, more naked than anyone else could make him. “This side,” she said, and he crossed around her desk to stand before her. She turned her chair but stayed seating, just reached up with one hand, and he bent down to let her run it through his sweat-damp hair. He shivered at the feel of her long red nails grazing his scalp.
“A little too long,” she said, “Cut it before Sectionals,” but he knew she didn’t mean it, she never did. She liked to run her fingers through it like this too much, play with it under the guise of inspection, and when he felt her pull on it, the tug went straight to his cock, a surge of heat that left his legs weaker under him than hours of dancing had. Her other hand was tracing along his chin, delicate nail scraping at the stubble on his neck and remarking he needed a closer shave, never mind that it was the middle of the night, and if that was the start of a pimple forming and not just razor burn, she would give him a real reason to shake like that. Then her hands glided down to the top of his shirt, undid one button, then two. She told him that was how she wanted him tomorrow, never mind that the rest of the choir was to stay done up on pain of evisceration. From there she made neat work of the rest of the buttons. She didn’t have to ask him to shrug off his shirt, folding it and putting it on top of one of her notebooks, whose cover was decorated with her trademark gold stars.
Her hands ran over him impersonally, a buyer assessing livestock. “Chest is getting a little fuzzy,” she mused, making him bite back a moan at the brush of her nails against his nipple. “Could use a wax. Arms could still use more definition, don’t care if I don’t give you enough free time to go to the gym any more than you already do. Oh, and still some fat here,” she said, squeezing at some virtually nonexistent patch of looseness beneath his flat abs, tugging at his tight skin. “What a fat, lazy little boy you are. You disgusting little fat slob. What a pig,” she cooed absently, and Jesse was barely breathing, her mint-sharp breath hot on his bare chest; frozen at the closeness of her fingers to where he really wanted them.
She leaned in and smelled him, long dark hair falling to brush his side softly, and the smell of her dusky rose perfume hit his stomach with a familiar ache. “New cologne,” she said. “Little strong. Wow, you sweat a lot. However much deodorant you’re using, Jesse, seems you could always use more. Shoes, socks, pants, all of it, here.”
Jesse bent over to pull off his shoes and nearly jumped as her hands slid over his ass and cupped it. He nearly dropped his socks while shoving them into his shoes, but stayed bent over, waiting for permission to move. “All of it,” she repeated, so he undid his button fly and wiggled his damp, slender hips out of the black linen with a bit of difficulty, kicking them off his legs and gasping under his breath at the cool air on his cock, which he knew without looking was almost purple now, dizzy with frustration. Her hands went right back to his buttocks with the fabric out of the way, squeezing harder, and he would have fallen but for her command to sit across her lap. She uncrossed her legs, keeping them closed, and he climbed up and braced his greater weight atop her, laying himself out over her knee like she liked, hands out in mid-air, grasping at nothing.
“Still so plump,” she whispered, thick, glossy red lips tantalizingly close to his. “You have an ass like a girl, Jesse. Pretty as a girl. Stupid as a boy, though, a disobedient little boy. You’re a bad little boy, aren’t you, Jesse?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed, squirming against her and trying to catch his balance. Her bra was black lace, he could see now, and it made him wonder if her panties were the same beneath her tight black pencil skirt. His cock dragged across the silky fabric, leaving a sticky trail of pre-come, and he could see her perfect nose wrinkle like an old movie star’s in black and white.
“Jesse,” she sighed, amused exasperation creeping through the tone of stern disciplinarian, and she reached down and hiked up her skirt, leaving her thighs bare beneath Jesse’s hips.
“Such a bad boy. A bad, bad boy. And what do bad boys get?”
“They get punished,” Jesse replied dutifully, keeping his voice as steady as he could, but there was still a note of challenge in it, self-possession intact and rendering him impudent in her ears, filthy and unrepentant.
“You’ve disappointed me,” she purred. “Tell me, boy, would you like to be punished?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied dutifully. “Please, Ms. Corcoran,” and her hand ran through his hair one more time, pushing a curl out of his eyes to get a good look at her student’s handsome face, the caress of her hand almost tender before she brought it down hard on his bare ass.
“Count,” she demanded, and he bit back a groan, vision going hazy, and took a deep, steadying breath, overwhelmed and humiliated and turned on beyond belief, praying just not to come before she gave him permission.
“One,” he said, and she brought the flat of her palm down on the other cheek. “Two,” and the flesh stung where she hit it. “Three.” The left cheek again, each blow harder, alternating sides skillfully, assuredly, her breathing perfectly even while he panted and whined across her lap like the naughty little brat she said he was, rubbing desperately against her. “Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine- oh- God- Ms. Corcoran-”
“Did I say you could speak?” she asked sweetly, and the tenth slap was more vicious yet, echoing through the empty school while the minute hand on her clock passed two, as Jesse rutted against her shamelessly, prissy composure a distant memory.
“Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen…” He ground his cock down hard against the soft, maddening warmth of her inner thighs and he could almost push them open, push his dick between them. “Fourteen… fifteen… six… teen…” He’d been with a half dozen girls his age since he’d come to Carmel, only one or two not in Vocal Adrenaline, and none of them had been anything like this; giggling, unsure, worshipful rather than this cold and contemptuous, bodies small, narrow, paltry where Shelby’s was ample and full, her curves a torment beneath him as seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. It hurt for sure now, and he squirmed from the pain as much as the arousal, every nerve raw and sensitive, ass hot and red beneath her cruel graceful hands.
Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, and it was as if someone else was counting for him by then. If she would only just part her thighs, spread her legs and let him inside them, push her panties aside, he could see they were matching black lace now, they would be damp, her pussy soaking, dripping wet as her clever fingers guided him inside her. At last, after going on four years imagining, twenty two three four five six seven what would it be like to be inside Shelby, to feel her thighs wrap around his waist, nails dig into his back as he thrust deep into that slick tight heat; to hear her angelic voice sing out his name as he fucked her like no man had ever done her before, make her fall apart herself, break her on his fingers and cock, make her come and come and come and come again with his name screaming out of those perfect untouchable lips, show her that he was her boy, of course, always her boy, but he was a man, now, he was all grown up, show her the man he’d become, the star- her man, her star, hers-
“Shelby, I’m gonna-” he tried, breaking his counting with the name he always gave her in his head, but usually had the sense not to call her out loud. She rolled her eyes, took a solid handful of hair in her left hand, and yanked it hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.
“Finish,” she ordered, and he cried out thirty with his voice catching but thankfully not breaking, like it had used to when he was younger and his voice had been changing. How he’d hated it when that would happen, the way she had used to smirk at him then. The thirtieth and her hand fell still, stroking casually, possessively across his abused ass, blood-red nails digging into the flushed kin making him sob, the proud seventeen-year-old sprawled naked across her lap. “Good,” she said, and the word was like applause in his ears, like yet another faceless judge announcing Vocal Adrenaline the victor. “That’s better. That’s a good boy. Are you going to be a good boy now, Jesse?”
“Yes,” he hissed, “Yes, yes, Shelby- yes,” but she didn’t seem to mind her first name as much as he’d thought. Rather the contrary, as her fingers slid along his crack, pushing his cheeks apart and tracing his entrance before pushing one slender finger inside him, dry. “God, Shelby,” he gasped, and she thrust it in, curling it skillfully, and his nails dug into the armrests of her chair, body arching helplessly, heat pulsing in waves now through his body. “Oh, God, Shelby- want- please, Shelby, please- want- wanna-” Two fingers were thrusting into him now, Shelby fucking him on them with the same brilliant, vicious perfection she did everything with, making him howl and his vision go white. “Shelby- I want- please, let me- please, please-”
“After we win tomorrow,” Shelby began, and then curled her fingers and scissored them, her legs falling ever so slightly further apart, and she then did something with her fingers that made his whole world explode.
He came across her thighs and slumped there, lungs on fire, trying not to pass out as she pulled her fingers out of him. It took him a long time before he had the composure to lift his weight off her and push his bare, shaking body up onto her desk. She wiped herself clean with a handful of tissues and then pulled her skirt back down, crossing her legs again.
“Jesse,” she said, after a time, and he peered down at her through half-closed eyes, utterly spent. “I Who Have Nothing,” she prompted, and after a pause, eyes fixed on hers, he began to sing.
They won. Celebrating on the stage, he whispered into her ear that she had said, she had said, now- could they, now- and his birthday was so, so soon, and- didn’t a good boy deserve a reward, didn’t he. She pulled back, and he knew from her smile that he was no closer than the day they met.
“A present? Your rewards are out in the parking lot. As for that? There’s something I need you to do for me first. Think of it as an acting exercise.”