Deviant Academy

Daddy Issues

Harley’s POV 

By the end of tourney class, my body is a live wire—a horny, disgusted, confused live wire.

And I have a feeling it isn’t over.

As if on cue, before I make it out the door, Seth clears his throat and says, “Miss Harris. Come see me.”

If you didn’t already gather this about me, I have some major daddy issues.

It goes beyond daddy issues, I guess. I mean, sure, my father having beaten me and then abandoned me certainly gave me those, too. But it’s also just issues—the kind that kept me with Josh for all those years—the kind that, on some perverse, innate level, make me like being bossed around—even abused.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not like I enjoy getting punched in the stomach. I think it’s more just that in a world full of things I can’t control, where I’ve been abandoned by everyone I cared about, I like having someone take control of me.

Which is why, in spite of the fact that I know Seth is a creep, it sends shivers of pleasure down my spine when he gives me that command.

I smile faintly at the last few students exiting, then walk carefully over to Seth at his desk.

“How did you enjoy class?” he asks me, making no attempts to hide his gaze as it drops down over every inch of me as he leans comfortably on the edge of his desk.

“Fine.”

He extends a forefinger out, gesturing for me to come closer. My heart starts to pound, but, of course, I do. He continues beckoning me closer and closer until I’m only about two feet away from him—much closer than any student and teacher need to be.

Besides, you know, the forty out of fifty minutes in class today he spent finding excuses to grope me. But at least then, we had witnesses. Now, I have no idea how far he'll go. It's equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

“That boyfriend of yours,” he says. “Do you miss him?”

Do I miss Josh? What an interesting question. The short answer is no—of course, I don’t miss him.

But I do miss the void he managed to fill in me—the void that’s currently starting to burn with a desire I really wish I could push away.

“No,” I tell him.

He nods, reaching out to touch my arm gently as if in a comforting caress. I flinch, as I always do when men first touch me, but he doesn’t move his hand away. “He was older,” he observes. “How old was he?”

This is it, all right. How far is he going to go? I’ve only been here for two days; he’s certainly not wasting any time. It shouldn’t turn me on, but it does. “Thirty.”

He rises from his seat at the edge of his desk, closing the distance between us even more—so close, I can feel his breath on my face. “You like older men, don’t you?”

I don’t have to answer that. I still have all the power. I haven’t given him any indication, with my body or my words, that I want him. I could say no and walk away.

I’m aching at this point, though—burning with desire. I hate it, but I can’t help it. “Yes.”

The word ignites him; I can sense it from his thoughts as clearly as the lust in his eyes.

He lifts a hand, and for an instant, I flinch again. But he ignores that, too, cupping my face and pressing his thumb against my lower lip—my split lip.

“He did this to you?” he murmurs, leaning even closer.

“Yes,” I say—but it comes out a desperate, pathetic, little whimper. The exact kind of sexually supercharged tone he’s looking for.

And that’s when he lifts his forefinger and presses it into my mouth—deep in.

I still could walk away, I remind myself. I may have answered one question too many, but I don’t have to give him what he wants. He’s a pig; I know he’s a pig. I can already see the giant tent in his pants. He’s not even trying to hide it.

I should walk away.

I don’t, though. I’m way too f*****g turned on.

So, instead, I suck.

He closes his eyes and groans with pleasure, inserting another finger, which I also proceed to suck. As he presses them deeper into my mouth, he murmurs, voice huskier than ever, “It’s not your fault, baby.”

I whimper at that, putty in his hands at this point. How does he know exactly what to say to make me so, embarrassingly weak for him? Has he been with girls as f****d up as me before? Has he manipulated them, too?

He draws his fingers slowly out of my mouth, then traces them down toward my neck, coating my skin with the wetness of my own saliva. “You just want someone to take care of you,” he murmurs as his hand trails down lower still, toward my shoulder blade. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” I whimper, squirming with desire as his fingers make their way lower.

He traces the outer edge of my left breast, then stops there, running his thumb up towards my n****e as his other fingers gently squeeze.

“Forget about him,” he commands me as the gentle squeeze turns into a harder one. “I’ll take care of you now. Would you like that?”

For a split second, I don’t answer him, too caught up in the thrill and the fear of the moment. But then he squeezes even harder, and I shriek, “Yes!”

He smirks, releasing my breast. “Good girl. That will be all.”

And he walks away without another word.

- - - - -

The next day after class, he asks me to stay again.

I’ve had some time to think on it, and I’ve decided to put my foot down. Even if I’m not capable of saying no, I’m at least capable of telling him to be more patient. I’ve been here three days; I can’t already be f*****g my teacher.

Unfortunately, as soon as the last student leaves, he closes the door, locks it, and snaps the blinds closed.

So I’m pretty sure he has other ideas.

“I’m your student,” I tell him feebly, taking several steps backwards as he takes several forwards. “This isn’t appropriate.”

His eyes glint with amusement—clearly he doesn’t take me seriously—but he lifts his hands in surrender and returns to his desk, leaning casually against it. “Of course. I only kept you here to give you an additional lesson.”

Oh, boy. “Okay.”

“You’re a Psychic, aren’t you? I’d like for you to tell me what I’m thinking.”

It’s not usually an easy task, reading someone’s mind. When they push the thought they want you to hear to the forefront of their mind, though, it’s a lot easier. And his is clear as day: me, standing in front of him like I am now… only, stripping for him.

I’m so f****d.

“You’re thinking about me,” I murmur, voice breathy and uneven. “Taking my… clothes off.”

He smirks, then says, “Keep going.”

He pushes words to the forefront of his thoughts now. You say it’s not appropriate for me to touch you… But surely there’s no harm in looking?

I bite my lip, trying to force back the burning, aching feeling down there as I say, “I… I guess not.”

Go on, then. Just one button.

My hand lifts shakily to my top button, which I slowly, carefully release.

His eyes glint again, and this time, his hands move to his belt. I stiffen, but he keeps right on going, saying gently, “Don’t worry, honey. I know it’s not appropriate for me to touch you. I’m just going to touch myself. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

My eyes trail nervously down to his belt, which he unhooks swiftly, reaching down to free his c**k from his briefs. I twitch at the sight of it. It’s larger than I expected—larger than Josh’s. Despite all I’ve been through, Josh’s c**k is the only other one I’ve seen, and seeing this one suddenly makes me feel like a little girl again—like a virgin.

“Go on, baby,” he murmurs as he starts to stroke himself. “One more hole.”

I know I shouldn’t, but I’m under his spell. I reach my shaky hands to my next button and undo it.

“f**k, your t**s are gorgeous,” he groans as he starts to pick up the pace. “Take your shirt off for me, won’t you? Just your shirt. Nothing else.”

I slowly, carefully undo the last of the buttons, letting the shirt drop to the ground as if by a force that is not my own.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, voice picking up volume as his hand continues to pick up speed. “What a good girl you are, baby. What a beautiful girl. Can you rub those big, beautiful t**s for me, baby? Just rub them a little bit for Daddy?”

For Daddy? Holy f**k, this guy is even more f****d up than Josh. And apparently I’m more f****d up than anyone, because I melt at his words, lifting my hands to my breasts, squeezing them, and letting out a sound I’ve only heard in porn.

“Such a good girl,” he moans as he amps up even more, reaching his climax. “f**k—f**k—f**k!”

And, just like that, it’s over.

“Right,” he says, reaching behind him for a Kleenex, cleaning himself off, and buttoning back up. “Put your clothes back on, Harley. That’s not appropriate.”