Artful Submission

They're curled up on the couch, rain against the windows, her feet tucked beneath his thighs as they sip wine. She's showing him old sketches from college -- some half-finished, some painfully good, some that make her roll her eyes.

Ryan grins, pointing to one. "You drew this from life?"

"Yeah. My senior seminar. Figure drawing class."

He glances at her, teasing. "Your professor pose for that one?"

Autumn flushes slightly, but it makes her laugh. "God, no. He would've broken me in two."

Ryan pauses. Then raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

She takes a sip of wine. A little too fast.

He leans in, smiling. "Autumn."

She shrugs, trying to play it off. "It was a thing, okay? I had a crush."

"A crush."

"Don't you dare start."

He's grinning now. "Tell me."

She huffs. "Fine. He was just... your type. Dark hair. Tall. Tattoo on his forearm he never explained. Always wore gray plaid trousers and white button-downs. And when he got serious, like really serious about something you said? He'd take off his black-rimmed glasses and look at you like you were the only person in the room."

Ryan is dead silent. Then: "And you used to fantasize about him."

She glares at him. "I hate you."

"No, you don't." His voice has dropped half an octave. "Did you imagine getting detention after class? Or being told to stay behind for... personal instruction?"

Autumn groans. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not," he says, deadly serious. "I'm taking notes."

********

It's three days later. Autumn comes home to find the bedroom door cracked open and soft instrumental music playing -- classical, piano-heavy. Her first thought is that Ryan's relaxing. Her second is confusion.

Because the room is dark except for one soft lamp in the corner, and he's waiting for her.

Dressed exactly like she described. Gray plaid trousers. Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled. The top button undone. And black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

Her heart stops.

He says nothing at first. Just watches her walk in, his gaze slow, deliberate. She can't read him -- not Ryan, not her boyfriend -- he's someone else. Someone older. In control.

"Miss Carrigan," he says smoothly. "I've been reviewing your portfolio."

She freezes. Stares. A slow, stunned smile pulls at her lips. "Excuse me?"

He adjusts his glasses, standing, approaching her with unhurried steps. "Some pieces show promise. But overall, I think your technique is lacking."

Her breath catches. "Are you serious right now?"

He smiles -- and it's wicked. "Very."

She lets out a quiet, shaky laugh. "You look--Jesus. You are him."

"No," he says softly, stepping closer until she's backed against the wall. "I'm better."

He lifts a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear -- the way the real professor never did -- and whispers, "Tell me what you fantasized about, Autumn."

She can barely breathe. "Him keeping me after class. Locking the door. Telling me I needed to be corrected."

Ryan growls low in his throat.

"I want you to show me," she says, voice barely audible. "Do everything he never did. Everything I imagined. Don't go easy."

His eyes darken completely.

"Take off your clothes," he says.

His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous in the most beautiful way.

Her throat works as she swallows, her fingers hesitating at the hem of her shirt.

"Slowly," he adds, adjusting his glasses.

She obeys. Peels her shirt up inch by inch, eyes never leaving his. Drops it to the floor. Her bra next. Then her jeans. He stops her before the underwear.

"Leave them." He steps closer. "You don't get to be fully naked until I say so."

She bites her lip. His hands skim her hips, guiding her to the center of the room. He's arranged a chair -- one of their dining chairs, brought to the bedroom and placed facing the mirror. There's a soft throw draped across it. A single leather belt coiled neatly on top.

Her breath catches.

"Sit down."

She does. He kneels, carefully, between her thighs -- and picks up the belt.

"We're going to work on your concentration," he says gently. "Since you always lost focus when your professor got too close, didn't you?"

She shivers. "Yes."

Ryan lifts one of her wrists, kisses it... then binds it gently to the arm of the chair. Then the other.

She shifts in place, chest rising and falling.

"I'm going to eat this perfect little cunt." he murmurs. "And while I do, you're going to list as many Impressionist painters as you can think of."

Her mouth falls open. "What?"

He smirks. "If you stop speaking, I stop touching. If you stutter, I slow down. If you get one wrong..." He trails off, letting the silence thicken. "I'll have to correct you."

She's already shaking.

Then he presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "Begin."

*******

She tries. She really does.

"Monet," she gasps, as he slides her panties to the side.

"Good girl."

"Degas..."

His tongue traces a line down her folds, warm and slow.

"Pissarro," she whispers. "Renoir. Cassatt..."

"Keep going."

"Cézanne. Morisot--"

He sucks her clit into his mouth and she shouts, hips jerking forward -- but the bindings keep her in place.

Ryan looks up, eyes dark, glasses still on. "I don't remember her," he says, voice like silk.

"She was real," Autumn pants. "Berthe Morisot. Look her up."

He smiles. "Impressive." Then he drags his tongue up her again, slower this time. More methodical. Her legs tremble.

"Manet," she gasps.

"Different from Monet. Well done."

She nods frantically, but her words are dissolving into moans now. He speeds up, tongue circling, flattening, flicking in just the right rhythm. He watches her every reaction, eyes locked to hers through those damn glasses, never looking away.

Her voice falters. "Sis--Sisley--"

Ryan pauses. "Lost it, Autumn?" he whispers, breath hot against her.

She tries to catch it. "Sisley! Alfred Sisley--"

"Good recovery," he says, mouth returning to her in one devastating glide.

She's gone after that. Moaning. Begging. Words forgotten. And when she finally breaks -- voice high and ruined, thighs trembling around his head -- he lets her, and doesn't stop until she's sobbing with relief.

He unties her gently. Carries her to the bed. And then, while she's still shaking in his arms, he whispers: "I hope you kept the syllabus. Because next time, we're covering Surrealism."

*******

Autumn lies on the bed, flushed and gasping, limbs limp from orgasm. Ryan crawls over her slowly, shirt still on, glasses slightly crooked on his nose -- like some brilliant, unhinged professor who's just cracked open his most captivating student.

He brushes her hair back, kisses her temple, lets her breathe. "Take a moment," he murmurs against her skin. "But don't get too comfortable. The lesson isn't over."

She whimpers. "Ryan..."

"Professor," he corrects softly. "You don't get to call me by my first name in class."

Her hips shift instinctively. God, it shouldn't make her this wet again -- but it does. He slips the belt from the chair and binds her wrists again -- this time over her head, against the slats of the headboard.

"You did so well listing painters earlier." He kisses down the line of her throat, his voice velvet-dark. "Now we move to institutions. I want you to list art museums around the world."

She stares up at him, blinking.

"For every one you get right," he continues, kissing down her chest, "you earn one thrust."

Her eyes widen.

"You want to come again, don't you?" His hand slides down between her thighs, finding her soaked. "This says yes."

She nods desperately.

"Then be a good girl," he says, pulling down the zipper on his pants and lining himself up, "and earn it." He pushes in -- just barely. Just enough to feel, to make her arch -- then stops.

Her voice is already wrecked. "The Louvre."

A thrust. Deep. Controlled. She cries out.

"Good," he breathes against her mouth. "Next."

"The Met."

Another thrust -- slower this time. She can't take much more.

"Tate Modern," she gasps.

He grins. "Clever girl."

She claws at the belt binding her wrists. "M-MoMA," she chokes.

"Four," he counts softly, fucking into her with growing rhythm, every movement earned, every inch a reward.

"Rijksmuseum," she sobs.

He groans low in his throat. "I knew you'd know that one."

"Uffizi," she gasps.

"You're showing off now," he murmurs, dragging his tongue up her neck. "I love when you show off for me."

Her head is thrashing. Her voice slips. She hesitates. "Herm--Hermitage?"

He thrusts in deep and hard, and she screams.

"Yes," he growls. "Say another."

"I--I don't know if I can--"

"Then you don't come."

Her eyes fly open, wide and glassy. "Please."

"No freebies." He pulls out slightly. "One more, and I'll let you break."

She sobs, writhing beneath him. "Museo Nacional del Prado--"

He slams into her. And stays. One hand holding the belt tight, the other cradling the back of her head as he kisses her -- long and deep -- while she shatters under him.

He doesn't stop until she's a gasping, shaking mess, her voice gone, her legs trembling, her wrists still tied and her eyes glassy with bliss.

Only then does he untie her. Then he whispers against her skin, "Time to earn some extra credit."

********

Autumn is still trembling when he unties her wrists. Ryan gathers her into his lap, cradling her like she's breakable, like she isn't already marked up with his praise. His lips press to her shoulder, to the hollow beneath her ear. Slow, reverent kisses. She melts into him, limp and hazy.

"You did so well," he whispers, his voice calm and steady. "But we're not finished."

Her breath stutters. Her body tightens just slightly in his arms.

"You want this," he reminds her, voice low, almost soft. "You said don't go easy. You told me to do everything he never did. Everything."

He looks her in the eye. She nods.

"I want to know how far you'll go for me," he murmurs. "No more questions. No more deals. No counting."

He stands, still fully clothed, and carries her across the room. She blinks, dazed, as he sets her down--not on the bed, but against the mirror.

Her knees hit the plush rug. The cool glass presses against her back. She sees herself--hair wild, skin flushed, thighs slick. And she sees him. Still in that white button-down. Sleeves rolled, glasses still on. Calm. Deadly. Intent. He kneels in front of her. Pulls her legs apart. Spreads her open--wide enough that she sees everything reflected behind her.

"You don't get to close your eyes."

Her lips part, but no sound comes.

"I want you to watch. Every second. Every reaction. I want you to see what I do to you."

He slides a cushion beneath her hips and reaches for something beside the dresser.

A soft silk tie--hers. He binds her hands again. Not to restrict, but to remind- You're not in control.

Then he leans in. And ruins her. Tongue relentless. Fingers gripping her thighs to keep her in place as her back arches and she tries, desperately, not to look away. He won't let her.

"Look at yourself," he growls between licks. "Look at how wrecked you are. How beautiful."

She's sobbing now. Not from pain. From pressure. From praise. From being seen. Every time she flinches, he slows down. Forces her to endure it. And then he stops entirely.

She lets out a broken cry.

"Turn over."

She obeys, barely able to lift her limbs. He helps her. Gets her on all fours--hands still bound, face nearly touching the mirror, flushed cheek against glass.

She sees herself again.

"Now watch me take you."

She opens her mouth to beg, but there's no air. He slides into her in one slow, devastating push. And stays. Just lets her feel it. Then he pulls back--just enough--and thrusts again. Hard. Perfect. Deep.

She screams. Presses her forehead to the mirror.

"No," he growls. "Eyes open."

She lifts her head. Shaking.

"Good girl," he whispers. "Now give me everything."

And she does. Soundless cries. High, aching moans. He watches the mirror too, sees her fall apart from the outside. Sees her submit to him in every way.

No tricks. No games. Just complete surrender. She shatters. Again. And again. And again. Until she's collapsed on the rug, knees bruised, wrists trembling, eyes glassy, mouth slack, his cum spilling down her shaking thighs.

Only then does he untie her. Only then does he undress himself. He lies down, pulls her gently onto his chest, both of them naked now. His hands stroke her back, long and slow. His lips against her forehead.

"You gave me everything," he murmurs. "You know that, right?"

She nods, barely there.

"You're safe now," he adds, softer. "You're mine."