elusive-grace

[elusive-grace]

Intimate perspectives. You can't stop staring at his handwriting in the margins of your paper. The way his g's curl, how his exclamation points lean slightly to the right, as if reaching toward you. "Exceptional imagery," he's written beside the paragraph where you describe morning light filtering through library windows. It's that same light that falls across his face every Tuesday and Thursday morning while he lectures to his students. To you.

The professor takes his glasses off when he really wants to make a point, and you've memorized the gesture: the way his fingers grip the stems, how he absently polishes the lenses with the edge of his sweater while he speaks. It’s in those moments that you can look directly into his eyes. You wrote about those eyes in your story — scholar's eyes, artist's eyes — though you'd hidden the reference in metaphor.

"Your attention to detail is remarkable," he wrote at the bottom of page three. If only he knew how many details you've collected about him: the coffee cup that's always at his elbow (cream, no sugar, you've seen him make it in the English department staff room), the slight lilt in his voice that emerges when he quotes poetry, the way one dark curl falls over his forehead when he's deep in discussion.

When his email arrives late that evening, your heart skips:

I hope you don't mind me reaching out directly, but I wanted to follow up about your piece. Have you considered submitting to Ploughshares? Your story has exactly the kind of intimate perspective they tend to favor. I'd be happy to discuss other possibilities during office hours. Best, Dr. B

You read it ten times, cursor hovering over the reply button, and in your mind, you compose a hundred responses: The story is about you. Every word is about you. That intimate perspective is how I see you, how I've watched you all semester, how I...

Instead, you write: "Thank you for the suggestion, Professor. I'll look into that journal."

In class the next morning, he uses your story as an example of effective second person narration. "Notice how the author creates immediacy," he says, removing his glasses to look directly at the class. His eyes pass over you, and you feel the weight of everything unsaid. "How she makes us feel as though we're living inside this moment of realization."

You duck your head, pretending to take notes, but what you're really doing is writing down this moment. His voice, the morning light, the sweet ache in your chest. Maybe you'll turn it into another story someday, when the feeling is less raw. When you can look back and smile at the beautiful impossibility of it all. For now though, you rip the notes out and tuck it between the pages of your favorite novel. Words to reread on lonely nights, evidence that for one bright moment, your writing — if nothing else — caught his attention completely.

[elusive-grace]

Master's games. He’s got this new rule now, and it’s wormed its way into your brain and your body, turning you into a twitching, needy mess. You can only touch yourself if you’re pleasing him at the same time. It's simple. Hand on your cunt? Your mouth better be wrapped around his cock. Fingers teasing that throbbing ache between your legs? You better be grinding against him like some desperate animal while you do it. No exceptions.

It started simple enough. He’d smirk, lounging back on couch, “Go ahead, pet. You wanna cum? Earn it.” At first, you thought you could outsmart him — play it cool, keep your dignity. But that lasted about a day. Now? Now you’re a fucking wreck, and he knows it. Your clit’s a traitor, pulsing every time he so much as shifts his hips, and your hands itch to dive down your panties the second he’s in the room. But you can’t. Not without him.

Yesterday was the breaking point. You’d been squirming all morning, thighs pressed together so tight it hurt, trying to ignore the wetness pooling between your thighs. He was just sitting there, scrolling on his phone, dick half hard in those stupid gray sweats. He knew what he was doing to you. And you snapped. Dropped to your knees right in front of him, voice all shaky and pathetic, “Please, Master, can I… just let me suck you off, I need it, I can’t take it anymore.” He didn’t even look up at first, just raised an eyebrow and muttered, “Go on then.”

So you did. Yanked those sweats down, hands trembling, and took him in your mouth like it was the only thing keeping you sane. Because it was. The second your lips closed around him, hot and heavy on your tongue, you shoved your hand between your legs, fingers slipping against the slick mess you’d been trying to ignore all day. It was instant. Your whole body lit up, a whine bubbling out around his cock as you rubbed yourself stupid, chasing that edge you’d been denied for hours. He groaned, fingers tangling in your hair, and that just made it worse. You were drooling, gagging, a total slut for it, and you didn’t care. All you could think about was how good it felt to finally touch, how his taste was flooding your head, how you’d do anything — anything — to keep this going.

Now it’s a routine. You’re hooked, a junkie for his dick, and he’s loving every second of it. This morning, you woke up already aching, sheets tangled around your legs, and you didn’t even hesitate. Crawled over to him before he was even awake, tugging at his waistband with this pitiful little whimper. “Master, please, I-I need you, I can’t wait.” He cracked one eye open, looking at you like the smug asshole he is, and just nodded. That was it. Permission. You dove in, mouth on him, fingers scrambling to your clit, and it’s like a switch flipped. You’re moaning around him, hips bucking against nothing, so wet it’s dripping down your thighs, and all you can think is how you’re never getting out of this. You don’t want to.

He’s turned you into something unrecognizable. You’ll beg now — fuck, you’ll grovel. Last night, you were on your hands and knees, ass up, practically sobbing, “Let me — just use me, any hole, I’ll be good, I swear.” And he did. Grabbed you by the back of the head, fucked your ass raw while you fumbled with yourself, cumming so hard you nearly blacked out, his cock still twitching inside you. It’s humiliating how much you crave it, how you’ll trade every shred of pride just to feel that rush again.

Today’s no different. You’re pacing, antsy, that dull throb between your legs driving you up the wall. He’s in the kitchen, sipping coffee, like he’s not the reason you’re a walking disaster. You can’t take it anymore. You stumble over, drop to your knees right there on the tile, hands already reaching for his belt. “I-I need it, just a little more, fuck me again, please…” Your voice is a mess, high and frantic, and he just chuckles, setting the mug down.

“Again? You're a greedy little whore,” he says, but there’s no bite to it — just amusement, pride in what he's turned you into.

[elusive-grace]

The bell above the coffee shop door sings its familiar song, but this time my heart joins the chorus — it's you. Holding the door so it doesn't slam shut, wearing that polite, embarrassed smile, hoping you didn’t cause too much of a stir.

You do try so hard to blend in, with your lips an innocent pink, your neck and ears unadorned. A sensible wool cardigan in that dull shade of dove grey, buttoned only at the middle. Even your stockings are unremarkable — the kind sold in packs of three at department stores — yet somehow their very ordinariness makes them extraordinary on you, like everything else you choose to wear. I see you.

I see past the cage of modesty you've carefully constructed, built from others' expectations. But you don't have to stay locked away. I can shatter those bars. If only you'll let me.

I watch you place your order – earl grey with a splash of milk, no sugar. The same as always, but today something's different. Your fingers drum an agitated rhythm on the counter while you wait, and there's a tightness around your eyes that others wouldn't notice. But I do. I always do.

When I call out your drink, you start slightly, as if pulled from deep thought. Our fingers don't touch during the handoff – they haven't in weeks, not since that day when your hand slipped, and your cheeks flushed that lovely shade of pink that keeps me awake at night.

You choose your usual table by the window, where the morning light catches the loose strands of hair that escape your practical bun. But instead of pulling out your laptop or one of those dog-eared paperbacks you love so much, you stare into your tea, watching the milk swirl.

I want to ask what's wrong. I want to tell you that I'll understand — that I've memorized every expression that crosses your face, every subtle shift in your routine. That I know something's wrong. You're not quite yourself, not quite the you I know. You need me.

I untie my apron, smooth down my shirt, and step out from behind the counter. Each footfall is deliberate, measured, like I'm approaching a nervous deer that might bolt at any sudden movement.

"Your tea's getting cold," I say softly, pausing beside your table. You look up, and that same lovely flush I remember spreads across your cheeks. "I could make you a fresh cup, if you'd like."

A strand of hair falls across your face, and your fingers twitch as if to brush it away, but you don't. You leave it there like a shield. "Oh, no, I... I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you?" The words come out harsher than I intended, weighted with all the care I've accumulated watching you these past months. Your eyes widen slightly, and I see your throat work as you swallow.

"I'm sorry?"

I smile, warm but not too familiar. "It's part of the job. Making sure the regulars are taken care of."

You touch the cover of the book peeking from your bag – well-worn and much-loved, judging by the creased spine. "I suppose it's nice of you to notice."

"Do you mind?" I indicate the empty chair across from you. You hesitate, but nod eventually, and I slide into the seat with practiced grace. "You know, I think you can tell a lot about a person from the way they take their tea."

The flush deepens on your cheeks, but you don't look away. Instead, you lean forward slightly, inching your chair in a bit. "And what do my choices say about me?"

“If I had to guess…” I pause, savoring the moment like you would the last sip, letting it linger on my tongue. "You don’t drink earl grey because you love it — you just think it’s what a sensible person would drink on a Tuesday morning."

Your teeth graze your bottom lip, mulling it over, leaving marks I’ll dream of recreating, "That's a rather intimate observation for someone who just makes my tea." you say, as your fingers pause mid-stroke on the teacup's rim, leaving a half-finished pattern I've seen you trace a hundred times before. "Is this what you do with all your customers? Watch them so carefully?"

"Some more than others." I let my smile warm a few degrees more, "I'm sorry, I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?"

You glance at your watch, then back at me, and I see the moment you make your decision. Your fingers find that wayward strand of hair at last, tucking it behind your ear with deliberate care — your first surrender. "No," you say softly. "No, I'm not in any hurry."

[elusive-grace]

“that’s it baby, keep trying to fight back. you know you don’t win but it will make me fuck you harder”

[elusive-grace]

let’s have a self care day but instead of skin care it’s just me violently fucking you while you cum over and over on my cock until it’s so sensitive that you beg me to stop.

So instead I gag you and kiss your neck while I slap your pussy with my cock and slip it back in, pushing deep inside you until I reach your cervix and start pounding you to make sure I bruise it so you can’t think about anything but how I used you the next day

[elusive-grace]

girls act all innocent until they have a drop of alcohol then all of sudden they want to be chased through the woods, handcuffed and used until they pass out

[elusive-grace]

[elusive-grace]

[elusive-grace]

🫦

Pulling your head back with a fist full of your hair as I press my blade to your neck and whisper all the awful things I’m about to do to you

[elusive-grace]

[elusive-grace]

Can you use me infront my friends ?

Yeah I can I’ll force your slutty legs spread open and shove my fat rapist cock into your cunt right in front of them I’ll let them watch how much of a desperate and needy whore you become for a perv like me and I’ll make you tell them how much you love it when I rape and abuse you over and over again they’ll honestly think so little of you it pathetic I might even make you hold them down for me too

[elusive-grace]

In the mood to have a cute innocent girl all tied up in her bed unable to move while I proceed to tease her with her own toys for my own amusement. Listening to her whimpers and moans while degrading her and telling her about all the ways I'm about to use her.

[elusive-grace]

"I need", she whispers, "I know, little one", he replies, "How?", she asks, "You're mine. I always know". She sighs.

[elusive-grace]

I'll make you beg. I'll fuck you until you can't feel your legs. Whisper in your ear to cum for me while you dig your nails into my back.

[elusive-grace]

I do this all the time...

I wanna be the reason you slightly tilt your phone away from others when you read it 🥰

[elusive-grace]

I want to destroy you. But I also want to be able to put you back together so we can do it all over again.

[elusive-grace]

Fingering her clit and praising her “good girl” while showing her a video of how her throat looks like with my cock when she takes me deep. Oh baby you do an amazing job. I trained you so well. Didn't I? You wanna do it again? Maybe I slide you forward, tilt your face back and take a few more videos. Mmmm. How hot it looks with your lips, wrapped around my cock, my hands on your neck feeling it as I am pushing inch by inch, disregarding your shaking and shivering body. Yes, take it like that. Fuck such a good personal pornstar for me.