19. Nyssa

19

NYSSA

BITTERSUITE - BILLIE EILISH

Theron is dead silent as we meticulously stage Jackson Wicker's murder scene. We scrub the bedroom for all potential evidence leading back to us and then set up everything perfectly for when the police show up.

He's not found until the next morning, having bled out on his bed, stripped naked, lying right next to his personal laptop with the heart-shaped Valentine card directing authorities to check the files saved on the device. His thousands of files of sickening child content are easily discoverable once they do.

The news spreads like wildfire within minutes.

Theron and I are lying in bed at my apartment as we parse through the many stories pouring in from the media. He's still angry with me on some level, his tone clipped, though that didn't keep him from pulling me close lying in bed.

"It looks like it's gone as we hoped," he says, scrolling through the articles on his phone.

I'm seated beside him, my legs folded under me, as I browse on my laptop. "It seems the major headline is the fact that he was a pedophile. Which is exactly what it should be. If Valentine were still around, Mr. Wicker would deserve to be his victim."

Theron raises a brow at me. "If he was?"

"Twenty years later," I clarify. "Whoever Valentine was… if he's still alive…"

"That brings us to a topic of discussion we'll have to go over. Just why you're seeking to imitate the Valentine Killer in the first place."

"I never intended for Mr. Wicker to wind up dead. That was sort of… you."

"For good reason. That still doesn't explain why you were imitating Valentine."

I shrug. "I have my reasons."

"Which are?"

"It didn't involve you until you followed me. Are we going to talk about that?"

"No," he answers succinctly. "Because I saved your life."

"I had it under control."

He grabs my face to turn it toward his and then kisses me on the mouth. "You didn't have it under control," he says, our faces almost touching. "Jackson Wicker was going to drug you and do as he wished. You couldn't have fought him off. We will discuss this in more detail soon. And you will be punished for this stunt."

"More like you're looking for an excuse to use the yardstick again."

"I don't need the yardstick. I now have the lovely wooden paddle Wicker thought he'd get to use on you."

My cheeks warm as I turn away from him, scooting off the bed. Theron eventually follows, working in tandem with me as we make the bed and then get ready for the morning. He has to go check on Atticus while I have some art projects to work on.

We kiss goodbye as we walk from the bedroom to the rest of the apartment. It's as I stand back to let Theron step toward the door that I notice something off that I'd missed late last night when we'd come home.

"My sculpture," I mutter. "It's been knocked off the shelf."

Theron stops at the door to glance over. I've rushed toward the far corner where my little makeshift art studio is and knelt down to collect the cracked pieces.

" Touch of a Lover . It's broken…"

"How would that have happened?" he asks.

"I don't know. I must not've noticed last night. It was too dark, and we didn't turn on the living room light. Was this you, Peaches?"

My ginger girl purrs from where she's perched on my sofa. I know that haughty sound—she's telling me she knows better than to ever nudge one of my sculptures off the shelves.

Theron walks over to drop a kiss on top of my head. "I'm sorry it's shattered. It was a beautiful piece. Will you recreate it?"

"I'm not sure," I mumble. "I guess I have no choice."

We say goodbye for real this time, with Theron reminding me we still have a lot to settle about last night.

I spend the rest of the morning cleaning up around my apartment and working on my next art project. Occasionally, I check for updates about Jackson Wicker's murder, but I'm more distracted by the fact that one of the sculptures I worked so hard on has shattered out of nowhere. Did Peaches really do it, or was it someone else?

Someone with access to my apartment …

I'm still distracted midafternoon when knocks at the door interrupt. Peaches meows and trots toward the door as if about to go investigate.

"Chill, Sherlock Whiskers. I got it."

Along the way to my door, I stop to wipe my hands on a towel and check my reflection in the gilded wall mirror. I check the peep hole to find two unexpected faces on my doorstep.

"Remember that whole call ahead thing?" I ask, wrenching the door open.

Heather and Macey file inside clutching various gifts. Everything from bottles of wine to freshly made macaroons from a local bakery to a new purple passion plant to add to my collection.

I laugh at the offerings. "What's all this?"

"Courtesy of Heather. I'm just the help," Macey says. She sets down the white box of rainbow macaroons and shakes back her fringed hair from her face. "She insisted on making a million stops to pick you up some things."

I fold my arms and watch in amusement as the duo each set down the gifts on the table I call my dining room table, but what I've more often than not used for art and schoolwork.

"That true, Heather?" I ask.

The strawberry blonde seems kind of shy for once in her life, almost blushing. "You've been here for us, Nyssie. I figured we'd repay you."

…you're going to have to do way better than macaroons and a house plant to repay me, Driscoll.

"I'm impressed you remembered I liked the macaroons at Cake Couture."

"Heather ordered two dozen for you. "

"You know, you should probably be with Katie right now. The news about her father…"

Heather scoffs. "Please, the last thing Katie needs are more snacks. We all know how she eats her feelings. Besides, Nyssie, you're my real friend. Not Katie."

I can barely keep from laughing at the fact that these girls are falling over themselves to impress me. It's so opposite from how our relationship was years ago that it's a form of sweet revenge in itself—years ago, they'd relished the chance to bully me.

Today, they've basically become my minions.

I've become Switzerland. The neutral party—wronged party in the Samson and Heather situation—who has the high ground.

Macey shakes her head and pins Heather with a scolding stare.

"Can't you be nice to Katie for once?"

"Why should I? She's annoying."

"And you're a bitch," Macey snaps.

"I've heard worse. Then again, Macey, so have you. Jocks talk."

Macey's face scrunches in disgust as she storms out of the apartment.

We remain in silence for the first few seconds that follow. I'm still amused, taking a bite out of my macaroon in between sips of rosé.

"She's insufferable just like Katie," Heather mutters finally. "Anyway, Nyssie, thank you for recommending that lawyer. I'm sure to get my inheritance."

"Let's hope. So, have you heard what the news is saying about Katie and Samson's father?"

She shudders out a sigh. "Valentine really is back. Luckily, it seems he's after these old people. Maybe he's finishing business from the first time."

Something like that.

"It's no wonder neither one wants to show their face in public," Heather goes on. "I heard Samson's even dropped out of this semester. That reminds me. What's going on between you and Professor Adler?"

For once, Heather catches me by surprise. I swallow my next bite of macaroon, battling the sudden dryness in my throat. "There's nothing going on."

"You always stay late," she says, smirking. "Reminds me of me and Professor York junior year of undergrad. That man and his hands…"

"I wish I could relate. But I can't."

"Hmm. Well, who knows? He could be a viable rebound. After, you know, Samson."

The blonde moves on as though she hasn't just stumbled upon my secret.

Professor Adler and I aren't simply hooking up . The nature of our relationship has evolved past anything I ever conceived.

He's come to terrify me at the same time as excite me.

Last night most of all, and how far he was willing to go the second he thought I was in danger…

There's still so much to sort out, including the matter of my punishment because of last night. Any amusement I felt from Heather and Macey fighting among themselves fades. Gooseflesh dances across my skin as I think about what's waiting for me in his classroom come Monday…

Professor Adler requests that I show up an entire hour early to his class Monday morning. He gives me instructions on the outfit he expects me to wear—the same rosy cashmere blouse, plaid skirt, and platform loafers I'd worn the day I bumped into him outside orientation.

He promised punishment was to come after what happened with Mr. Wicker. It seems that day has arrived.

Butterfly-like nerves quake in my belly as I raise my fist to his office door and then knock.

"Come in."

His tone's cool and effortless. Naturally chiding and authoritative.

My pussy clenches in response. I take a second just to gather myself, breathing in and out.

Keep calm, Nys. You got this.

From the first step inside his office, the atmosphere feels adversarial. The room's as warm and dimly lit as it had been that night weeks ago on Halloween when he'd first brought me here and we'd… given into temptation.

My eyes scan the dozens of legal books crammed on the bookshelves and the world globe perched along a filing cabinet against the wall. Flames crackle in the gated fireplace off to my left and raindrops speckle the leaded glass window.

Professor Adler sits behind his desk, his expression pinched. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose as he's angled his head downward and scribbles away furiously at some sort of document. My eyes can't help tracking his movements.

The sleeves of his button-up shirt have been unceremoniously rolled to the elbow, allowing his forearms to be on display. I can't remember ever seeing a pair that were as sophisticated yet solid and masculine as his .

Every indentation, every muscle and defined vein makes breath hitch in my chest. Sparse dark hairs pepper the length, like many other parts of his body. I almost close my eyes remembering how it feels to run my fingers along his arms.

Sink my nails into them as he grips me and fucks me…

I'm flushed and hot by the time I reach his hands.

His hands.

They're positioned so tightly around the pen he holds, his knuckles large and prominent. His nails clean and trimmed. Fingers long, thick, and deft.

Suddenly, I'm recalling how they feel on me. Wide, warm palms canvassing my bare skin, squeezing and groping. I can practically feel his fingers sliding inside my pussy, usually while he teases his tongue to mine and kisses me.

I'm damn near on the verge of orgasming by the time Professor Adler acknowledges my presence.

His gaze snaps up to my face. The pen drops from his grasp. A scowl edges his features, making them harsher, even more masculine.

"You're late."

"By a few minutes," I say, fussing with the strap of my leather bookbag. "I wasn't sure if you meant your office or the lecture hall."

"Don't move."

Simple instruction that should be easy to follow, but as he shoots up to his feet and comes around his desk, I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat. If the little butterflies in my stomach count as movement…

As a result, I hold my breath.

He approaches with an appraising stare. From behind the lens of his glasses, his dark eyes travel the entire length of me, making sure I've dressed as told. When he slips behind me, completely out of sight, I bite down on my lip and ignore how I can feel him.

His closeness. His heat.

He steps toward me and his woody, spiced scent fills my nose too.

Familiar notes of fine paper and clove.

Professor Adler must know what he does to me, because his hand falls to my hip and he comes up so close, I'm braced against his chest. His lips tickle the hot shell of my ear.

"I know you haven't forgotten about Friday night, Miss Oliver," he drawls in his thick, authoritative tone. "Today, you're going to regret ever misleading me. You're going to come clean about what you've been up to, and then you'll hopefully learn your lesson never to do it again."

"Yes, Professor."

"Hands flat on the desk," he orders. "Legs shoulder width apart. Now."

I rush to get into position, my breathing already labored. Palms pressed against the smooth oak wood, I spread my legs 'til it almost feels crass.

Professor Adler's stepped back to observe. "Did you wear no panties like you were told to do so?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what ?" he snaps.

"Professor Adler."

"Professor Adler, what ?"

"Yes, Professor Adler," I blurt out quickly.

"It seems in just a few short days, you've forgotten your manners, Miss Oliver. Don't worry, we'll fix that today."

He walks back to the front of his desk to retrieve an item from a drawer. I'm expecting the familiar slim, hard yardstick to make its appearance, but discover I'm wrong in the next second. He's pulled out the same wooden paddle from Friday night in Jackson Wicker's penthouse.

I hadn't ever meant for Mr. Wicker to get the chance to use it.

The entire situation was a trap. I'd set him up intentionally knowing he'd fall for it hook, line, and sinker. His sick proclivities for underage girls meant he couldn't resist the opportunity. He first messaged me on a site some rich men use to find women called NSFW. He'd recognized me at Kane Driscoll's funeral and suggested we meet up at the Scarlet Room for a potential role play scenario.

He thought he'd fulfill his sick fetish Friday night while I intended on making him the next Valentine victim.

So many years ago, he'd been on the board that voted to expel my mother from school.

More than deserved considering the evil he'd done in his life.

I'd never expected Professor Adler to show up. Or for the wooden paddle to make an appearance today.

"Look familiar?" he taunts. "I believe you know the drill, Miss Oliver. Spanking does seem to be your thing, doesn't it?"

Though he's giving me hell, he's still right.

Professor Adler's helped me discover that almost nothing gets me off as quickly as being spanked. I can come from that alone.

The hard swats against my ass make me wet. The breathless anticipation waiting for the next blow excites me.

There's the element of repetition as I sink into the contrasting sensations.

Pleasure… but also pain.

A swatting pain that actually feels good .

So good.

Professor Adler's massaging hands after the fact are the cherry on top.

He moves back behind me and flips my skirt over to expose my backside. "I expect total honesty from you. For every dishonest or dissatisfactory response, you get a blow. We'll be here all day if we must. If it takes you that long to come fucking clean."

Anger edges into his tone. Resentment I'm sure has grown over the past few days.

I give a nod. "Yes, Professor."

"Why were you texting Jackson Wicker?"

"We exchanged numbers. It was weeks ago."

"For what reason?"

Ugh. Here we go.

"He made a pass at me," I say. "I… I knew I could bait him into meeting up."

I squeeze my eyes shut a millisecond before the first blow. The wooden paddle connects with my ass, eliciting an instant scream out of me. The hot sting sears across my flesh.

For being the first hit, he's gone harder than usual.

"Why would you ever want to bait him, Miss Oliver?" he asks through clenched teeth.

"B-because… I've been… he escaped Valentine the first time."

And he deserves it.

"Why would you care about Valentine?"

I don't respond. I'm caught between the truth and the role I've been playing. No one else but Mom knows about what I'm doing at Castlebury. Nobody's even suspected that I'm infiltrating their circle in order to destroy them in the worst ways.

All out of revenge for my family.

"I found out Jackson Wicker was a pedophile. He told me about it on a meet up site called NSFW. We agreed to meet at the Scarlet Room. He made the proposition and I accepted," I recite half the truth. "He deserved to be taken out by Valentine."

"I thought you said you never intended for him to die."

Professor Adler deals the second blow. It comes crashing down on my ass as hard and brutal as the first. I keen in pain, arching my back despite the fact that I force my hands to remain on the desk.

My ass already feels like it's on fire. I'm sure it's turning red. Will I even be able to sit down in class?

Professor Adler gives me a second to recover before his interrogation continues.

"Are you aware how dangerous what you did is, Miss Oliver? Do you know what could have gone wrong if you did not handle Mr. Wicker properly?"

"Yes," I answer. "But… I did have it under control— argh !"

Professor Adler deals a double blow. Two quick smacks of the paddle in immediate succession.

The air in my lungs runs short. My ass burns and aches while my pussy's started throbbing.

"Tell me the truth," he says. "Have you been behind the Valentine murders?"

"I'm too young, Professor. I wasn't alive when— ARGH !"

The paddle slams into my ass with such force, I press against the desk for leverage. The wooden anchor slides forward from the impact.

I'm openly panting now, my legs shaking. Yet my pussy's wet. I can feel how slick I am .

"Do you need to stop?" he asks me. "You stop, it's over. We're done here. For good."

"No," I choke out. "Keep… keep going."

His rage pulses off him, circling around me in a wave. "Then tell me. Tell me the truth!"

"Yes!" I cry out as the paddle comes down again. And again. "Yes, it was me! I've… I've been doing it, Professor!"

"Why!?"

"Because they deserved it!"

"WHY?!"

The paddle knocks what little air remains out of me. I slump over the front of the desk, panting and shaking and aching as my mask finally slips.

It falls away, and next thing I know, I'm spilling my secret.

Hot, unshed tears brim my eyes and I'm telling Professor Adler about my father who was murdered decades ago. My mother who was ostracized. My childhood which began with the likes of Heather Driscoll, Samson Wicker, and their posse tormenting me.

The paddle slips from Professor Adler's hand and thuds onto the floor. He gathers me up in his arms, lifting me from where I've collapsed against the desk and tilting my head to the side for a look at him.

"Why have you never told me this before?"

"I don't normally go around telling every person I meet my trauma—or that I'm mimicking the crimes of some serial killer in a plot for revenge."

His thumb strokes my cheek. "The authorities won't trace Wicker back to you. We left the scene clean enough. No evidence or anything else traceable. The Valentine card will keep police occupied. Your alibi for that night is that you were studying late at the campus library. The computer system will show you checked out a book. I have known the librarian Ms. Chlebek for twenty years. She will corroborate this. Understand?"

"Yes… but… why?"

"Jackson Wicker was a terrible person. I have no sympathy for him."

I nod. "Thank you."

"But understand," he goes on, peering intensely into my eyes, "if you do something like this again, today will be a cake walk. I will not be happy with you."

"Yes, Professor. I understand."

"I don't think you do, Miss Oliver. The punishment's not over. Hands on the desk."

Words escape me as his warmth fades and his arms disappear from my sides. He steps back as if waiting for me to get in position. A whine almost starts up in my chest. Pain still stings my ass cheeks from the wooden paddle.

I'm not sure I can take many more. Even as wet and turned on as I am.

I flatten my hands on the desk and spread my legs.

Professor Adler reaches into the drawer to withdraw two items I can't make out before he's disappearing behind me again. The back of my skirt's tossed up over me so that I'm exposed and at his mercy.

Nerves flutter away. I focus on my breathing, waiting for the reveal.

I hear the click of a cap and then crinkle of a plastic bottle. "Have you ever been fucked up your ass, Miss Oliver?"

My eyes go big. "What?! No! Never."

"Never?"

"No, Professor. Not once."

"Well, today will be a first. We'll begin by easing you into it. Lucky for you, Miss Oliver, I brought the smallest plug today."

A stunned breath sputters out of me. Once again, words elude me.

"Not so lucky for you, Miss Oliver," he goes on, "you'll have to wear it quite a while. That plump ass of yours should adjust nicely in due time."

Slick, cool liquid slips over my flesh.

Lube.

His fingers gather the liquid, circling my puckered, untouched hole. I squeak when he penetrates me with a single digit, sliding in then out to begin preparation.

"Very, very tight," he says. "I can't wait to see this hole swallow the plug right up."

His words are spoken so matter-of-factly yet carry an arousing element that makes my pussy spasm. I'm struggling to breathe as Professor Adler fingers my rear hole. He goes slow and gentle for a few minutes, then pushes me harder.

He squirts more lube and forces in a second finger to an even shriller squeal from me.

"Are you aware, Miss Oliver, that your tight little asshole sucks at me? It tries to draw me right in. I think you were made for this."

A moan falls freely from my lips as he slides two fingers into my ass and he kisses the side of my neck.

My body responds in ways beyond my mind's control.

My hips begin rocking with the pumping motion of his fingers. Arousal coats my pussy lips and heat burns me from the inside. I've lost all thought and can barely breathe as a kernel of pleasure is born.

It grows, swelling like a balloon that will soon pop.

Erupt with pleasure .

Professor Adler's patient, settling me into the penetration of his fingers. He grips my hip and drops a few more kisses on my throat as he tells me how filthy I am.

I've been so bad.

"Haven't you?" he growls. "You deserve to be punished. Don't you, Miss Oliver?"

"Yes," I pant, quivering. "I do. Please, do it."

"That's what I want to hear. You're ready."

He liberally applies more lube, including to the small spade-shaped steel plug, then begins carefully pushing it against my puckered hole.

My mouth falls open as I stand still with hands on the desk and legs spread. The plug breeches me slowly, opening me up more than I've ever imagined. The ring of muscle expands to make room for the shiny, slippery toy.

Tremors rock through my body. The room begins to feel like it's spinning.

Professor Adler kisses the spot behind my ear and slicks another inch inside. "If only you could see this, Miss Oliver. Your ass is swallowing it right up. It'll be buried deep in no time. You'll be sitting through my class with it inside you. Only you and I will know."

The sound I make in response might as well be a babble. I'm flushed and throbbing, braced against the wooden desk or else I'd sink to the ground.

"But," Professor Adler drawls into my ear, "what would everyone think if they knew? If they found out you were a filthy girl who let your professor insert an anal plug into you minutes before class? What if they found out you're my filthy little whore?"

"OH!" I scream out as he gives a surprise jerk of the plug.

The stretch sensation has me reeling. My pussy throbs harder, one flick of my clit away from coming. I almost go for it. Take my hands off the desk to pleasure myself.

But I know better.

Professor Adler would love to punish me for it.

Finally, the last of the plug slips inside. The handle rests like a crown between my round ass cheeks.

Professor Adler squeezes my hip to mentally draw me back to him. "Is this too much for you, Miss Oliver? Say the word and I'll take it out. But you'll fail. You don't like to fail, do you?"

No… no… never…

I'm panting as I give a fervent shake of my head to the side.

Mom didn't raise a failure. I've never failed at anything in my life. While being able to take a butt plug wasn't an achievement I've ever imagined I'd pride myself at succeeding in, I refuse to give up now.

"Tell me, Miss Oliver. Yes or no?"

"Yes," I whisper. "Yes, I can take it."

"Good girl."

He reaches under me and his fingers glide along my folds to collect my juices. Next, his fingers find my clit to rub circles.

It only takes a few before I'm coming undone.

I cry out as my orgasm ripples through me and the heaviness from the plug applies a new level of pressure.

"Yes," Professor Adler drawls, feeling me shudder against him. He sinks two fingers into me and my back arches. "Fingers in your pussy. A plug in your ass. Miss Oliver, you are so fucking filthy, so fucking gorgeous like this."

My one orgasm multiplies into two as he pumps his fingers inside me and then twists the plug in my rear hole.

Heat licks its way through my body and I break apart in another deep quake.

"Too much?" he whispers, nibbling at my ear, fingers knuckle deep in my pussy. "I can't wait to fuck your pussy with my cock. Feel that little plug buried in your ass."

"P-Professor… oh my… god!"

It's all I can say right now as I slump in his arms, my head propped up against the hard line of his shoulder.

"Later, Miss Oliver. That'll come later."

All at once, his fingers are gone from my pussy and my skirt's righted.

He steps back in appraisal as I stand, wobbling.

He grins, the devilish glint in his eyes shining through his glasses. "Now, time for class."