Roseann Discovers Dominance Pt 25

I opened my eyes and was nearly blinded by the light from the window, in spite of the dreary gray winter day outside. During the night, someone had driven a steel spike in my forehead. For a moment, I was unaware where I was. A male body lay beside me on the bed, and I touched his shoulder before I realized with a start that it wasn't Craig and this wasn't our bedroom.

I sat upright too quickly and my head spun. The man beside me slept on top of the covers, wrapped in a blanket. It was Paul, wearing sweat pants and tee shirt. But I was still dressed and felt okay between my legs. I hadn't had sex, at least.

His eyes had opened at my touch, and for an instant, he seemed as surprised as me. Then he smiled.

"I hope you don't mind. I tried to sleep on the sofa, but it's not long enough."

"I don't know how I got here, but I guess I should thank you. I've got to make myself a note to never drink like that again."

He pressed his fingers against his eyes. "I've had ouzo before, but I've still got a hangover. It's sneaky stuff. Goes down too easy. How are you feeling?"

I flopped flat on my back again. "Like I'm afraid I'm gonna die, and afraid I'm not."

He began to laugh, but stopped short to groan and press on his eyes again. "They say there's no hangover like an ouzo hangover."

"I wouldn't know. I've never drunk anything stronger than beer and wine. My boyfriend started me drinking wine, and I was raised in the land of Bud and Busch. But no hard liquor, ever."

He turned over and propped himself on an elbow. "Speaking of your boyfriend, how are you going to explain this to him?"

"I can't think about that now. I hurt too much. My head hurts; my muscles hurt; even my hair hurts. And my stomach aches from throwing up last night."

Paul said cautiously, "We were both drunk last night. I said a lot of things that I should have kept to myself..."

"Don't worry. I'm not in the habit of betraying confidences. But as they say,

in vino veritas

. I feel I know you better."

He nodded. "The things I said were true, but they're not the things a person wants blabbed around."

"Don't worry about that." I took his hand and gripped it affectionately. Even that minor gesture made the muscles in my forearm ache.

He got up from the bed and brought a large glass of water, which I cautiously sipped. It didn't sit well. I knew that the fastest way to recover from a hangover was to drink lots of water, but I feared making myself sick again.

How was I going to explain this to Craig? And how would he react? Anger? Sadness? It was too much to hope that he'd simply shrug it off as an undergraduate antic. I was older than the average student; I should be more sensible, too. I wondered if he'd lain awake, waiting for me to return home, while I snored obscenely in another man's bed. He was either worried by now, or furious.

"Can I use your phone?"

"Sorry. I don't have one. I have to use the pay phone on the downstairs landing, and it's broken half the time."

I'm sure I looked like the Wicked Witch of the West as I pulled on my jacket and, half bent over, descended the stairs. The phone was there, but a frayed wire dangled where there had once been a handset. Someone had also mangled the coin box with a chisel or crowbar. Conscious of my tangled hair, I went out into the damp cold to the tobacco store. A blue 'Phone' sign was fixed over the door. I found the phone and dropped nickels in the slot.

I'd forgotten that it was still a workday for Craig. I hung up and waited for the nickels to rattle into the return slot, and dialed his office.

"Craig, it's me."

"Are you okay? I was getting worried, but I didn't know where to start looking for you."

"I'm safe, but I've got an awful hangover. I was too sick to get home, and I overnighted at a friend's place. I feel dreadful."

"Give me the address and I'll be right over."

I didn't know the address, and wasted valuable seconds of my three minutes getting the store's address from the counter girl. I gave it to Craig.

"That's a long way from the university. What the heck did you do last night?"

"Long story. I'll tell you when you get here." I told him how to find the apartment door, one door south of the tobacco store.

With great effort and more waves of nausea, I hauled myself back up the stairs to Paul's apartment.

"Some dry toast? Coffee?"

"Yes, please." I nodded, but this set off a painful spasm in my forehead and neck. "Jeez. Never again," I swore. "My boyfriend is coming from work to get me, but I guess we're a long way from the university."

"Why is he at the school? The exams are over." Paul arched an eyebrow at me. "Or he's grading exams?"

I nodded again and endured another spasm. "He's an assistant prof in the Psychology Department."

"Really? Isn't there some rule about faculty dating students?"

Oh, shit!

I was suddenly alert. "There might be," I said. "But I won't ever have him as a professor in one of my classes. Is that still a problem?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. It's not something I'm concerned with."

"Well, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself. I gather it can be serious."

I lapsed back into my self-inflicted misery, now with an added burden. Could I trust Paul to keep this dangerous information to himself?

After I'd blown out the contents of my bowels, rinsed my face, and brushed my hair, I felt a little better. In the mirror, I still looked like I'd aged ten years. But people don't die from hangovers. In a few hours, I'd be good as new.

A horn tooted several times in the street. Paul looked through the blinds. "Hey, does your professor friend own a rusty Stude? Tell him to not to get rid of it. It's going to be a collector's item someday."

"Because they went out of business two years ago?" I tried to smile, but it made my head ache again.

"Whoa! The lady knows cars, too."

"I told you I was engineer material. I've probably fixed more cars than you've driven." I pulled my coat on.

"When you're not hung over, you could be dangerous," said Paul.

"I've got to go. But please...stop calling him professor, even when you're fooling around. I'm counting on you."

"My lips are sealed." He opened the door to let me out, but to my distress, he followed me down the stairs.

I didn't want the two men meeting, but I couldn't think of a way to avoid it. I didn't want to keep secrets from Craig. On the other hand, I worried about how he'd react to seeing Paul, tall and handsome, bidding me farewell from the apartment door.

I opened the door and stepped into the street, and Paul followed me out. I hurried to the car and got in. Paul was bent over, holding the door open. "Rest up and get better," he said, and looked up at Craig. "Doctor Warburton, I presume."

"Hello, Paul," said Craig. "How is your year so far?"

Paul shrugged. "Hanging in there."

After we'd driven a few blocks, I said, "You know him?"

"Sure. He was in one of my classes last year."

After a pause, he asked, "How are you feeling?"

"The fresh air is helping. By the way, how come you haven't asked me anything about what happened last night?"

He was silent for a long moment. "I figured you'd tell me if you wanted me to know."

"You're not even a tiny bit worried about Paul and me? I spent the night there, just me and him."

"I figure the fastest way to lose you is to get jealous or possessive. I couldn't bear it if I drove you away. I love you." He turned onto the Eisenhower, heading towards the lake.

I looked down into my lap, and whispered, "I love you, too, Craig. And I'll love you even more when this headache goes away."

I was as good as my word, but not until he'd put me into bed, fed me toast and ginger ale, and let me sleep for two hours while he graded exam papers. When I woke, my headache was gone and I felt the buoyant rush that comes when recovering from a short, sharp illness. For a few minutes, I listened to the occasional rustle of papers in the other room, and thought of him sitting quietly in the recliner with his pen and stack of papers. Surely, he must be feeling the pressure of two weeks of unrelieved sexual tension. I wondered how he could concentrate on his grading. The more I thought about it, the more the heat built up between my legs.

I called out from the warm cocoon of the bedcovers. "Come here, lover."

"When I finish with this paper," he called back.

"I didn't say 'come when you feel like it', boyfriend. When I say 'come here', I mean

now

."

I heard a scramble of papers and the creak of the recliner, and he appeared at the bedroom door seconds later. "I'm sorry. I was engrossed in--"

"No excuses," I snapped. "And what are you doing with your clothes on?"

"I'm sorry." He began unbuttoning his shirt.

"I spent months teaching you to be a good slave, and made you promise to be obedient. But then I go away for a few hours and all your training and promises go to hell. You really didn't expect me to put up with that, did you?"

I'd called him a 'slave' before, but in a joking way. But now I used the word deliberately. It had a nice ring to it. Moreover, it was true, in the sense that he'd made me the first priority in his life. Whatever sacrifice I demanded, he complied instantly, and even anticipated many of my desires. No effort to keep me content and comfortable was too great, and he'd learned to expect nothing in return but teasing and frustration.

Judging from the rampant state of his cock, the word seemed to have a dramatic effect on him, too.

"I won't do it again," he said, looking down at the clothes puddled at his feet.

"No, I don't think you will. I need a good, full-body massage and a nice orgasm at the end of it. Get the oil and start now." I turned over on my belly and stretched on the soft sheets, while he got the bottle of oil from the dresser. He'd found it in a health shop a few weeks before, and it was already half gone.

He began with my upper back, using his strong fingers to loosen my weary muscles. The oil smelled of musk and patchouli and, like his fingers, served first to relax, and then to arouse. By the time he reached the backs of my thighs, I was ready.

I remembered suddenly that my last shower had been yesterday morning, and since then I'd sat in exams, gone to a party, drunk too much, and slept in two different beds. I must stink. But I was too aroused to care. I turned over on my back and closed my eyes.

"You can begin now," I whispered. In an instant, I felt his hot breath on my inner thighs as I spread for him. Soon his tongue probed through my pubic hair. I decided to let him find his own way through the shrubbery rather than draw my labia apart for him. His talented tongue soon pushed the damp hair aside until his lips were pressed against bare wet flesh and his tongue probed my vagina.

"I guess I must smell pretty bad," I said.

He lifted his head, just long enough to say, "Strong...woman smell...love it," and returned to his duties.

"If I'd been with a man last night, you'd be able to taste it on me, wouldn't you?"

Whether he heard me or not, I couldn't tell. Lately, he sometimes slipped into what seemed like a trance state when he was between my legs. He became so totally focused on pleasuring me that he was unresponsive to distractions. What would happen if the fire alarm went off? I doubted he'd notice.

"Paul Winters is tall and handsome, and he was a real gentleman last night. But I think he might try to seduce me sometime soon. What do you think of that?"

Craig reacted by licking even more vigorously. I drew him up to caress my clitoris, but at the first touch, my orgasm rushed in from out of nowhere.

Wait! I'm not ready yet!

It bowled me over. My hips bucked and twisted, and Craig hung on, keeping his tongue exactly where it needed to be, through the long paroxysm.

As he rested his head on my pubic hair, I whispered, "That was amazing. As a reward, this evening I'm going to tease you with my mouth until you're just about insane. Then I'll turn over and go to sleep.

"But right now, I want you to rest where you are for ten minutes and do that again. But this time, much slower."