Marcheline

My very soul was pulling me toward her to kiss away the tears that she was trying to subtly wipe away. She was splintering before my eyes, and my mouth was moving before my mind could catch up to my intentions.

"Classe rejetée (Class, dismissed)," I said, suddenly. The students excitedly filed out, not caring why I stopped class half an hour early. She was the last to gather her things and tried to hurriedly pass me, but I grabbed her arm, gently, before she could pass through the door. My hand slid downward to grasp hers, and I turned to rest my forehead against hers. Pulse racing, I reached up to push back the wispy, curly strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail and stared into her gorgeous eyes. Would she pull away? After I pulled away when she conveyed her interest last semester, she must have thought I was toying with her after all that flirting. But I wasn't. I had never expressed romantic interest in my students before. I was nervous, not only because I was her teacher, but because I didn't have conventional relationships. Who was to say that she would be amenable to learning what a Master and slave dynamic looks like? Most people hear the word slave and run for the hills, but service is so much more than that. It is the way I show my love and desire for Master; it is freedom from the responsibility and trials of life. I was finally ready to open myself up to her, and I could tell now was the time. She was losing whatever battles she was fighting, and I wanted to shoulder those burdens for her. But it took just as much strength to give up control as it did to take it. I could only hope that she had enough strength left because there was no turning back once she was mine.

Her pupils were blown, and the white of her eyes was streaked with red veins. She gasped as our bodies connected but didn't pull away. She was either high or exhausted or a combination of both, but there was no fear. She didn't look worried that I would discipline her, though if she was throwing away her promising future for a hit, she should be worried. But I wouldn't be informing the dean of the school, her punishment would be a lot more personal.

She didn't speak nor try to break my grasp; she simply let me assess her. There were minor cuts along her forehead at various stages of healing and a bruised cheek that loose tendrils of hair hid. I was wondering why she had chosen to leave her hair in its natural state. Though beautiful, I have never seen her hair styled any other way but straight and silky with a perfectly made-up face. She winced when I inspected the bruise, and my breath left my mouth audibly. I kissed the side of her face gently and when I peeked at her, she was staring at me with wide eyes and bated breath. She was stunned, so I took the opportunity to place my lips against hers in a tame but titillating kiss, hoping that it conveyed everything I was feeling. I was concerned for her, but she never looked so beautiful to me as when she showed me her vulnerability.

"Mon Dieu, what happened to you, Jaime?"

She sniffled, opening her mouth to say something, but she shook her head and pulled away from me as the tears began to fall once more. She ran from me, but this wasn't the end. The need to possess and protect her raged within me, and the attraction that hummed between us was crackling like a live wire despite her obvious pain. I wanted to know who hurt her and by God, I would find out.