Power Play

by Ana P. Santos

I may have been the one on my knees, but it was clear who was in control.

It wasn’t this man who had his eyes closed, head arched back and save for his occasional writhing, was totally vulnerable in my hands, in my mouth. From my vantage point and with half-closed eyes, I gazed at his sculpted chest, which was rising and falling, following the pattern of my tongue, sucking and flicking. He drew in his breath as I drew his full length in my mouth and slowly, ever so slowly, sucked my way to the top of his shaft.

The moan that escaped his mouth was soft, almost like a sigh.

It was so unlike the man who taught Government Policy and International Relations.  He was unquestionably demanding in the classroom, engaging the students in discussions that he often provoked and turned into debates. Our research and position papers were subjected to the same scrutiny and returned to us peppered with comments, arrows and occasional exclamation points in red ink.

There were easier classes to take to get an A and maintain the grade point average I needed to graduate with honors next semester, that’s for sure.

In the classroom, his presence made everyone sit straighter and be more attentive. Other students, the ones I referred to as ‘lesser beings’ called it fear, others respect, but to me, it was—he was–a challenge.

Since that very first day of class when he told everyone that diplomacy was modern man’s manipulation of the word ‘facism’, his served his lectures to us like a public address, with much fervor and charisma.

Whether they agreed with his rhetoric or not, everyone treated him with deference and worship.

I knew with a feeling, stirring between my legs that I wanted to kneel before him for an entirely different reason.

It took a couple of weeks of lingering after class to ask him questions, of lurking in the halls outside his classes before we got around to walking back to his office late one evening.

And that started the many trysts, the many quick make out sessions in the parking lot, the dry humping in dark corners, which would always end in his office.

Though tonight, it was the first night that we found ourselves in a motel.

He started panting and grabbing at the sheets. I responded with my tongue, my mouth, my hands gently cupping his balls so he could get deeper in my mouth.

He started grinding his hips and looked up from the pillow to watch as he came in my mouth and I swallowed. Every. Last. Drop.

He never got over how much that turned him on, he once told me.

I moved up his body, gently kissing and deliberately grazing my hard nipples against his thighs, his stomach, his chest until my breasts were hanging above his mouth. He flicked his tongue around one nipple and sucked while his thumb lazily drew circles around the other.

I rubbed my wetness on his thigh and he turned me over on my back.

“I don’t take what I can’t also give. You should know that by now,” he said as he pulled me lower on the bed until my ass was just on the edge.

He was a giver, an enthusiastic one.

I propped myself up on my elbows; it was my turn to watch. It was actually a game for us and I thoroughly enjoyed the titillation of testing how long we could hold each other’s gaze before one would yield to the release, the abandon of letting a moan escape from our lips, the relief of giving in to the instinct to close eyes to savor the pleasure that was both excruciating and exquisite.

Even in bed, it was a power play where the kind of diplomacy that reigned was in the giving and receiving of pleasure.

I watched him buried between my legs, his tongue deliciously probing, alternating with his mouth, sucking my wetness. He closed his eyes and moaned.

I may have been the one on my back but as I wrapped my legs around his neck and dug my fingers in his hair, it was clear that I was still in control.