10. Oogum Boogum Song

10

OOGUM BOOGUM SONG

LESTER

"Come on in," I tell Daisy as I open the front door of my house. Closing it behind me, I kick off my shoes and turn the lights on. There's barely any daylight shining through the windows because the storm has turned the sky dark and dreary.

"Holy shit. This place is fucking beautiful." She glances around the room, clutching her chest and shivering from the wet cold.

High ceilings make the room look larger than it is, and the walls are covered with wooden panels and works of art. Large bookcases zigzag through the living room, and there's a round conversation pit in the middle of the space with a fireplace.

An apple green sofa was custom made for the pit, rounding the entire circle. Large, fluffy rugs cover the ground inside it, which is where Luna spends most of her time. She loves rolling around in the soft strands and making biscuits with her paws.

A small bar with various whiskies and other liquors and glasses stands in the corner of the room. Laminate flooring is everywhere, with a few large plants here and there to keep the air in the house fresh.

The first thing I do is head upstairs to grab some towels from the bathroom. I leave her there to look around the house, and when I return, we both get to work on drying the dogs.

"It's okay, babies," Daisy mutters. "Getting wet is not the end of the world, you know?"

I chuckle, moving the towel over Eliza's curly hair. When we're done, I throw some large pieces of wood inside the fireplace and light it. Grabbing a few pillows from the sofa, I throw them in the conversation pit, and the dogs immediately take the invitation to snuggle up there, warming up in front of the fire.

"You're too nice. This is just perfect, Professor," Daisy beams, standing up and stretching out her torso.

"They'll be fine here," I tell her. "I think Luna is upstairs or in my studio. She won't bother them."

I'm not able to suppress my snicker when I look Daisy over from head to toe, no matter how hard I try. Beads of rain drip off her body and face, and she places her hands at her sides as she looks up at me. "What? Am I a total mess?"

"Only a little. You can borrow some of my clothes and I'll put yours in the dryer." I nod my head over my shoulder in direction of the stairs. "Follow me."

I lead her to the upstairs bathroom. Glancing over the clothes inside my bedroom closet, I groan when I realize that I have nothing appropriate for her to wear. She's tiny, barely five-foot-one, I'm guessing.

I decide on a blouse, which will probably cover her ass. Pants are no use―they'll just fall off, and they'll be way too long. I curse under my breath when I grab a pair of boxers.

When I turn, I get a peek of bare legs from the door opening. She's taken off her dirty socks and wiggles her small toes, her nails an orange shade of polish. I open the door wider and walk through, clean clothes in hand.

And that's when a burst of shock shoots through me.

She sits on the bathroom sink, wrapped in a white towel that barely reaches her thighs. A pained breath escapes through my clenched teeth, and I look at the ground, instantly tearing my eyes away as I hand her the clothes.

"I don't have something that'll fit you. This is the best I can do."

A low, throaty laugh follows as she takes the items. "You just wait. I'll rock this outfit. It's somewhat of a talent of mine. I could make a garbage bag look like a prom dress."

I bite back a chuckle and turn around, leaving her to get undressed as I walk back into my bedroom.

"Thank you, sir."

I freeze, halting my steps when that word leaves her mouth.

I hear it all the time. At the university, people in passing, or, of course, from my submissives. But from her it just sounds so... sultry, like that word is full of dare and filthy promises.

She can't be here. I need to get her back home as soon as possible.

The hail that clashes loudly onto the window above my bed disagrees, letting me know that's not an option.

When I glance into the hallway, I notice she hasn't bothered to close the bathroom door. I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror when she takes off the towel and starts using it to dry her hair. She turns toward the reflection, and her breasts are on perfect display for me to see.

Christ.

She takes her precious time, turning back and forth until I've gotten a peek at every side of her tight body from the corner of my eye. Her flat stomach, her dainty hips that have a slight curve to them―not a lot, but enough. Sweet, slender, perfectly bendable, and probably lean enough to put her legs behind her neck.

If it wasn't for her age or the fact that she's my student, I would have had her tied up in my Red Room the second she told me yes.

I have strict rules for myself―consenting adults only, no younger than twenty-five. And I need their permission in writing. It's the only way I even dare to have sex with anyone. Otherwise, it would make me no better than the predators who laid their hands on a little boy who knew nothing of the world yet.

She's eighteen. The word alone says it all―she's a teen .

I force away the unwanted hard-on and angrily rip a clean blouse from a hanger in my closet, then move on to a fresh pair of underwear, socks and slacks. Once I'm dressed and step into the hallway, she's there, leaning against the doorframe in nothing but my blouse and boxers.

She steps forward and twirls. "How do I look?"

Just like I guessed, the blouse is long enough to fit her like a short dress, and it covers up the boxers underneath. "It suits you. You weren't lying. I wouldn't say it's prom dress material, but it fits you well."

She does another twirl, looking down at her outfit. "My dad always had my mother and me do a fashion show when we came home from a shopping spree. He'd put on the record player and make us show him all the new things we bought."

"So that's where the twirling comes from," I acknowledge, biting back a smile as I close the last few buttons of my blouse.

"Yep." She shrugs. "So, Professor. Now that I'm here anyway… will you show me your studio? It might be my only chance to see where the famous Lester Gilbert creates his masterpieces."

It's on the tip of my tongue to say no. I have never let any living, breathing soul into my studio. It's not just the place where I feel most at home and safest in my own skin―it's also the place where I make my masks.

It's not as if it's a risk to let her in, because they're hidden behind a secret doorway, but it's still a strange thought to let someone in there.

With a deep breath, I tell her, "Alright."

She follows me through the hallway, then down the stairs where we walk through another long hall. My house is quite large. Way too much space for one person, really. But I have the money, and it gives me enough space for my art.

The long hall on the way to my studio has a large window on the side, which lets you see inside the garden. Daisy slows her steps, moving closer and squinting her eyes to get a better look. "Wow. This is awesome. You have fish?"

I nod, standing beside her. The pond is roomy, with large rocks covering the sides and lots of waterlilies and greenery covering the surface. "Koi fish."

Orange and golden blobs are visible through the clear water.

She holds her hands against the window. "I see now. How cool! I wish the weather was better so I could get a closer look." She turns, giving me a sweet smile before her eyes nearly bulge out of her skull as she moves onto the next thing―a painting on the wall on the opposite side of the hallway. " Ooooh , and what's this? Did you paint this?"

"Yes. Many years ago."

"It's incredible. What materials did you use? It doesn't look like normal paint."

"Blood," I answer honestly.

Her brows shoot up to her forehead, and her eyes sparkle with intrigue. "Blood? Really? Whose blood?"

"Mine," I lie. It's actually the blood of one of my victims, but I can't tell her that. "On a night with a little too much whisky in my system, I took some of my own and started painting with it. Wouldn't recommend it, though. You see―" I point at the painting, specifically the eyes of the portrait, where some of it has already begun to fade. "It's not durable. It will only fade as the years go on, but it was a nice thing to try."

"It's fucking cool, though. Did you cut yourself? To get the blood?"

I narrow my eyes, slightly worried that she's intrigued instead of disturbed. "Yes."

"Where?" She looks up at me expectantly, standing way too close. "Will you show me?"

A zap of electricity goes through my veins, my flight instincts kicking in. Instinctively, my hand moves to the side of my waist, brushing my fingers over it through my shirt. Her soft hand folds over mine and she slowly moves it out of the way, placing it at my hip.

The fire in her eyes remains a threat, now evolving into an inferno as she grabs the hem of my beige shirt and rolls it up, exposing my bare waist. Holding it up with one hand, she traces the other over my skin, the tips of her fingers a light touch and her nails a reminder of my current predicament.

I'm letting a student put her hands on me.

And that's not even the worst thing.

No, the worst thing is the fact that I never let anyone touch me. It's the reason I tie up every woman I have sex with. No touching―those are my rules, my hard limits.

I'm completely frozen in place as I let her find my scar. It trails upward starting at my hip, all the way to the middle of my waist. And when her touch skims over my flesh, I feel like I'm going to explode.

Visions of the man who put it there crowd my eyesight, turning my brain into a mush of red, suffering torment. My breathing intensifies, all the while I still look down at the girl before me, who is now nothing more than a blur.

The urge to break her hand for daring to touch me is an eerie threat inside me. I could snap like a thread and do something horrifying to this poor girl.

I need her gone. I need her off me. I need to―

"Professor." The sound of her voice pulls me out and soothes me like a warm caress. "I think we might be soulmates."

"What?" I choke out, tearing myself away from her in an instant.

She doesn't let it faze her. Instead, she grabs the fabric of the blouse she's wearing and pulls it up just like she did with mine, not stopping until the side of it reaches just below her left breast. My black boxers are on full display, her smooth legs and bare stomach exposed. And when she turns to the side, my eyes widen.

A scar.

"Almost exactly the same spot as yours, isn't it?" she asks casually. "Just on my left side instead of my right."

Everything else is forgotten, all the visions of pain locked back into the small compartments inside my head that I never dare to visit. Without thinking, I step forward and grab her wrist where she holds the blouse up. "Did someone do that to you? Did someone hurt you?"

She shrugs, as if a large scar on a young girl like her is something to be fucking casual about. "I hurt them worse."

"The fuck…" I grunt out, absentmindedly moving my fingertips over the piece of abused flesh. The skin there is thinner than the rest, having reattached itself.

She gasps, an amused smirk pulling up the corners of her lips. "I haven't heard you swear before. Don't tell me I have a bad influence on you, Professor."

When I can't come up with a reply, she twists her body, turning back to the painting. My hand falls off her instantly and the hem of the blouse returns to its place below her ass. "She looks like she has some kind of dark secret and it's eating her alive."

I clear my throat, shaking out of it, and follow her gaze on the painting. "It does look like that, huh?"

"Do you have any dark secrets, Mr. Gilbert?"

"Who doesn't?"

Her lips open on an amused huff. "Well, color me intrigued."

"You're too nosy for your own good, Miss Burton." I resume walking, and she follows me like an excited puppy, looking at every artwork in the long hallway.

"Is there such a thing as being too nosy when you're a student?" she counters. "One could argue that I'm just very eager to learn."

I can't suppress my sly grin when I look down at her, and before I get the chance to counter back, another squeak filters through the small space. "Holy fuck, this is gorgeous! You made this as well?"

I nod, watching the blue-colored vase with golden veins. I don't often give myself the time to appreciate the art I've made in years passed. I'm always focused on the new.

Create, create, create.

"This technique is called Kintsugi. It translates to ‘golden joinery' or ‘golden repair'," I explain. "It's a Japanese artform of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with gold. Silver can be used, too, or platinum. As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise. I learned this on the art academy in New York when I was just a young student like you. I'm pretty certain you'll learn it from Mr. Monroe one of these days in your Ceramics classes."

"Wow, you lived in New York? That's so cool. I've always wanted to go there."

"It's a nice city when you're young. Vibrant and crowded, with way too many things to do. But now that I'm older, I like my peace and quiet. So the suburbs it is."

She smiles, focusing back on the vase. "It's truly stunning. You really appreciate art from other countries and cultures, don't you? I remember you telling me about Kinbaku. The Japanese bondage style."

She clears her throat, straightening her back. "Okay. Let's go to your studio now. I won't make you uncomfortable with being nosy about your love for bondage or your sex life."

She moves along through the hall while I remain standing, rubbing my fingers through my eyes as a way to ground myself, sighing deeply.

This girl says anything that pops into her head out loud, without any kind of shame whatsoever. Sure, it's refreshing. It's also dangerous. Anyone she speaks to could take things the wrong way or see them as an invitation for the atrocious.

Men are predators by nature. Girls like her are easy prey.

She turns and looks at me when we reach the door of my workspace. "Is this it?"

I take a key out of my pocket before I unlock the door, letting her pass. A trespasser in my personal, strictly private bubble.

Her eyes are round buttons and her mouth is parted in a gasp as she twirls around the room, taking in every nook and cranny, every artwork on display. "Holy Jesus on a fucking stick. I think I've just entered Heaven."