Seductive Shadows by Marni Mann

humiliation or ever make me feel unworthy, but I could only be brought to orgasm when I was submissive to his commands.
    At that age, I didn’t own any toys, and my fingers didn’t have Tyler’s reach, his speed, or power. His circular motion was more intense than my straight penetration, and the positions he placed me in hit spots that I hadn’t known existed. My time with him didn’t last long before he moved to the other side of town and into his girlfriend’s apartment. But in that short period, I’d been awakened. He plugged into my mind, and unleashed in me a desire to know my own flesh. I learned how to use my senses. He made me listen for the sounds of sex—the noise that was made when his thighs hit my skin and when he pulled out and pushed into my wetness—the smells and tastes that came from our bodies, and how to use these to build my orgasm.
    That was why, even days later, I couldn’t get the sounds of Jay’s demands out of my head. The way he had tasted when I finally got the chance to pleasure him during our second encounter, how his wants had caused my whole body to shudder. The professor’s lecture flowed in and out, as fluidly as Jay had penetrated me the two additional times we’d been together. My body had built from the suspense of his commands. The unknown had made me wet; the thrill, the constant wonder of what he was going to make me do. And because I had relinquished most of my control, I was rewarded with orgasm after orgasm, a pleasure that lasted the whole night, from the moment he entered my wing to the very end of the fall. I had been with others, but Jay had been my favorite so far.
    “Ms. Williams?”
    Most women would want to know what Jay did for a living, if he was married, or had kids. This was why someone as handsome as Jay had a membership to the mansion. In that house, he didn’t need to answer any questions. And he could be whoever he wanted without anyone knowing or questioning him.
    “Charlie!”
    I shook my head to clear thoughts of Jay and the mansion from it. My eyes didn’t have to travel far to find the source of the voice. My professor stood only a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes glaring down at me.
    “Yes, I’m sorry,” I said.
    “I’ve divided the class into partners. Mr. Hardy is yours.”
    “Partners?” I asked.
    In the eight classes I’d taken at Northeastern, we had never worked in groups. We’d had critique groups, but this sounded like something entirely different.
    “Yes, partners,” he said. “Peer support allows you to develop connections creatively and socially. In your case, possibly even professionally.”
    “Thanks, Professor.” I grabbed my bag and stood. “But who’s Mr. Hardy?”
    “That would be me,” someone said from behind.
    I recognized his face immediately, and then the professor’s words possibly even professionally made complete sense. Cameron Hardy’s name had been tossed around class as early as my first week at Northeastern. He had graduated eight or nine years ago, but enrolled in certain courses to keep his skills fresh. That was what I had overheard, anyway, though I wasn’t sure why he needed these courses. Cameron—who went by his first name only—was really building quite a reputation in Boston’s art scene.
    “You’ll learn a lot from Mr. Hardy’s craft,” the professor said. He glanced between us, stopping a little longer on me. “And I believe Mr. Hardy could be inspired by yours.”
    Cameron’s style and tone were much different than mine; he was known for his use of rich, vibrant color in abstracts. But the professor was right: there was so much I could learn from him.
    “Shall we?” Cameron asked.
    I nodded, silently thanking the professor for his patience and pairing, and headed toward the back of the room. Cameron walked behind me. I chose the only partition left with empty chairs. Because his legs were much longer than mine, I sat straight so he could straddle the easel.
    I still