Title: Lesson One - Focus
Plot Abstract: You’ve always taken a great interest in Professor Rafayel’s sketches. Every line and curve he draws feels like black and white paintings given life. Desperate to know how he works his magic, you make a wish. One he seeks to fulfil by giving you a private lesson. However, your hot tutor has a special way of teaching his favorite student.
The wind at Whitesand Bay carry the scent of the sea – salty, fresh, satisfying with just a tinge of paint tint and spicy musk, all intertwined in the gentle whiffs of rose petals and scented candles. Rafayel’s mansion as always is a safe space to clear the mind, heart and soul after a tiring week.
Walking into your Lemurian lover’s home in a mini skirt, a sweater and thigh-high boots, your feet click-clack on the marble tiles, alerting the house’s owner. Hearing your footsteps, Rafayel lifts his head from a pile of paperwork on his table. Legs crossed, chin resting on his wrist encircled by a Rolex watch and rings, his blue pink eyes glow a subtle hue behind the lucid lens of reading glasses.
His eyes are perfectly fine, but he’s once confessed that wearing glasses sometimes makes the title ‘Professor’ feel like a part of him. Like an anchor it keeps him grounded during lectures and it instils a sense of discipline in students who think him too young or too pretty.
You couldn’t care less about what his students think or the role the accessory plays. He looks sexy in those glasses and he knows it. Especially today when he’s wearing that black turtleneck you love so much. The right side of his lips curl into a smile. He knows he looks good. He always does.
“Hey, cutie. I missed ya.” Rafa taps his brown couch twice, setting down the red pen in his right hand. He’s scoring his students. He’s so hot that you imagine shoving the books and piles of paper off the table, then kissing him senseless. But the thought remains imprisoned in your head – for now.
“Hey Rafa. Whatcha doing?” The question leaves your lips with a sweet tone as your arms wrap his shoulders. Your lips plant lovely warmth on his cheeks and nose in kisses. He chuckles. Ears and cheeks glowing a pretty shade of red. How cute.
“I gave my students an assignment to improve their skills in shading. Now I’m grading them. Looks good so far. I’m glad they pay attention in class.” His words carry a drop of ego and a dash of pride.
“Oh, anyone would listen to your Rafa. Your voice is like honey to the ears.” Flustered by your own words you avoid his gaze. Too quick to speak and you can’t bite the words back. It’s his fault for being so perfect.
“Oh? You think my voice ear candy, cutie?” With one arm, he guides you to sit on his thighs. His arms slide around your waist, pressing tightly yet gentle enough to feel your softness while giving you comfort.
“I hope other parts of me are just as sweet to you.” Rafayel coos in a husky whisper. His hot breath fanning your neck like it isn’t warm enough already.
“Those look really good. I don’t think anyone would get a bad grade.” You change the topic.
Rafayel smiles. One moment you’re riling him up, the next you’re a coward to your desires. How very typical of you, but he loves it. This side of you is what makes teasing more fun.
“Yeah. They applied what was taught. That’s how to be a good student you know?”
Your eyes remain fixed on the sketches. They’re all good but they’re nothing compared to drawings on his sketchbook sitting right next to the stack of papers. As always, Rafayel’s sketches are outstanding. Like his paintings each one reaches the heart, touches the soul and puzzles the mind.
“I wish I could draw like you.” The words shoot straight from your heart.
Rafayel gently turns your face to meet his gaze “Anyone can draw, cutie. You just gotta put your pencil on the note and go with the flow of your heart. You know…I can teach you things I’m good at pretty easily. Want a private lesson?” His voice rolls from a bold tune to a slutty whisper.
“P…private lesson?”
“Yes.” Rafayel’s lips press on your neck once, twice and then a bite.
“Professor Rafayel would be honored to give his favorite student a lesson. Just say the word and my time is yours, cutie.”
You can’t hold back the whimper that slips off your lips. This is a bad idea, yet it’s a good one. You might not learn a thing but you might learn something new.
After a deep breath not from hesitation but determination, you turn to meet his gaze, your words clear as the skies in summer “Teach me.”
A smirk plays on Professor Rafayel’s lips. He takes in a deep breath and lets it go. Loud, deep, hot.
“Good girl. I’ll make sure to teach you well.”
With those words, he pulls you close so you’re sitting between his parted legs. There’s something arousing about seeing your boots perched between his shoes. Your thighs look inviting from above between his legs. Too inviting. You already know this but it hits you twice as hard now – your skirt is much too short.
You feel his eyes on your thighs. The fiend in you loves it, but the angel you try to be gets flushed hot all over and spouts any words your brain can find “Why are we in this position, Rafa? Doesn’t proper learning etiquette require eye contact between teacher and student?”
“Mmm…” His voice rumbles in his chest like a purr. You love when he does that.
“True. However, this is my lesson. My class, my rules. Also, I’d like to show you a simple sketch for an example and I can’t draw if you stare at me. I forget to draw whenever a certain someone does that.”
A giggle leaves you. He speaks so boldly, yet you don’t need to see his face to know he’s tomato red right now “Alright Professor. Do as you wish.”
Rafayel coughs burying his face on your nape “Rule number one. Don’t say things…like that.”
Maybe it’s the close proximity or the tightness of the fabric he’s wearing, but you can feel his heart beat rapidly against your back. Each thrum racing the last like galloping horses set free. His blood in a rush for you.
He lets out a hot breath against your neck. The hairs on your skin stand, heat flushes over every inch of you. Nerves set alight with a new frenzy.
“Let’s start with something simple, yeah? A fish.” Rafayel places his sketchbook on your thighs and in hasty lines there’s a gorgeous fish on the once blank page. The layering is exceptional and his technique unlike no other. The simple art of lines takes the shape of fish one could claim real.
“Wow. This is looks incredible and in just a few seconds? You’re a genius Rafayel” You can’t see Rafa’s face but you can feel him smile from ear to ear at your astonishment. He likes being praised.
He flips over the page and presents you with one blank. The pencil once in his hand slides into yours. He lets his hold on yours still for a few seconds savoring the feel of your skin and he lets go.
“Your turn.”
“What should I draw?”
“Same thing, cutie. A fish. And no, you can’t do it that cute way you always do when you literally draw the figure ‘8’ and clean off the bottom, replace it with a straight line for a tail and then call it a day.” His silken voice mellows with a rough edge. He sounds stern.
Flustered with embarrassment you try to snap back but your words are caught between silly stutters. His breath brushing over your neck doesn’t help either. He’s much too close.
“I…I…only did that once.”
“I know cutie. And I loved it. I love anything you draw. Even if you draw a fish like a kettle.” He laughs. The moment you try to turn your neck, his lips meet yours with a gentle tap. How cunning.
Feigning anger, you turn away from his gaze, eyes burning holes into the blank page before you. Sensing he’s teased you too far, Rafayel’s palm sits on your head. Your tight muscles loosen at the feel of it. You heart melts into his touch.
“Being a good artist does require a lot of skills, cutie. Some unique to every artist. But one of the most important steps when attempting art is experimentation. Drawing again and again. And that takes patience, cutie. There’s no need to rush. Take in a deep breath.”
His palm leaves your head and rolls small circles around your shoulders and arms “Flex your arms. Relax. You’re too stiff. You’ve got to flow with your imagination. Don’t fight your hand. Let it interpret what you see in your mind’s eye the way it knows how.”
Rafayel’s hands slide down your arms and pushes up the sleeve of your dominant hand “Your sleeve is too long. Roll it up like this…expose your wrist.”
He brings your wrist to his lips, takes in a long whiff of your scent like one gone mad and licks it. A whimper escapes you and Rafayel smiles against your exposed flesh. He lets go of your wrist and presses his chest closer to your back. His racing heart drums against your skin with every breath he takes, every word he offers.
“My darling favorite student. I just had a fun idea. Wanna hear it?”
“Okay?”
What is he planning this time?
“The first lesson for Professor Rafayel’s private class is ‘Focus’. You need to be able to ignore distractions to be a good and efficient artist, because distractions are everywhere. So, while you draw, I’ll be your distraction. You can’t stop drawing. You mustn’t. Remember what I said about going with the flow of your heart and flowing with your art? It means no broken lines, no rogue marks, no mistakes. Not today.”
His hands slide under your sleeves, massaging your waist and the soft folds of flesh there. They feel so warm, so soft, so you. Rafayel bites down a moan and licks your nape.
“Should you make a single mistake, you’ll have to start again. You have only four tries. At the fourth time I’ll punish you.”
Your blood races through your veins in rapid pulses. Heat settles over your skin. Breathing seems a harder task than it should and not in the painful way like when anxiety would ruin you with panic attacks. No. This is different. With each stifled breath, a butterfly takes flight in the blooms within your tummy and chest.
“P…punish me? How?”
“I’d rather my favorite student be unprepared for her punishment should she get one. Now cutie, draw.” His voice travels with the breeze laced with something so intoxicating, shivers take control of your hands.
“You’re trembling, cutie.” He whispers next to your ear after a chaste kiss on the slant of your neck. “Relax.”
Taking in a deep breath and a shaky exhale, your fingers trace a curve slowly on the sketchbook. Then a pause when you feel Rafayel’s chest push close to you, like he seeks to merge his scent with yours. Despite having you between his thighs, he craves more of you.
His hands settle lazily on your calves, gliding up your knees and now your thighs. Every inch of his palm tracing over you as though committing the shape of you to memory. Each touch a light and teasing graze that sets your heart ablaze and burns your skin with want. No. Need.
“Keep going. Yeah just like that. Good job.” Rafayel’s praises ride into your ears in a sultry tone. His eyes focused on your trembling wrist as he feeds on your cute struggle. However, his hands don’t stop.
His fingers dig into your flesh when he reaches your thighs. You hear a muffled moan escape his lips. He buries his flushed face into to the hollow of your neck. Calloused hands and steady fingers now gliding up your waist and underneath your shirt. Then without warning he cups your breasts, pressing against the softness of flesh and smooth cotton of brassiere.
“Ngh…” You break at his touch. The once smooth curve on the sketchbook now a hasty line that runs across the page. Pulses echo between your thighs as sticky pools begin to gather. Your teeth finds your lower lip keeping the soft flesh trapped. You want him.
“What did I say about mistakes, my darling student?” Rafayel’s voice drops an octave lower.
“I want none.” He rips the sheet with your half drawing off the sketchbook and folds it. Your eyes catch him bury it in his pocket. You stifle a laugh. Even now he remains a yearner, obsessed with all you do and seeing no wrong in your work.
“Again.” One word and its command get your fingers moving. Pencil scratching over paper with both intent and a hint of fear.
A curve. Now another. A line and you pause yet again.
Rafayel’s hands massage your tummy and slides up your bra again. What a wrong day to wear a front closure bra. In a second with one finger he snaps at the zip and it comes undone, setting your girls free under your sleeves.
“You need as much comfort as you can possibly get…to draw…cutie.” His voice is stained with moans when his palms begin to knead your bare skin. Massaging your breasts. Kneading both with gentle circles and subtle pressure like he would clay.
“Rafa..ngh…I…I…”
“Shh…you’re squirming, cutie. Who said you could stop drawing? Eyes on the paper or you’ll get your second strike.”
You’re desperate to avoid the punishment he speaks of. Yet you’re eager to receive it. It’s a sweet torture you relish. A troublesome kind that’s sweet. While struggling to do as he says due to fear of the unknown, arousal flourishes at his wicked teasing. Delicious. Like him. You need him.
Fingers twitch with pencil as you start drawing again. Faster this time. Perhaps if you’re quick enough drawing this fish, the fish behind you won’t have any more reason to continue this torture – not that you want it to end.
“Don’t rush, cutie. Gently now. One stroke…all…the way…down.” Rafayel counts his words and without warning drags his tongue down the curve of your neck. The cold track over your burning skin draws a long moan from your parted lips. You need him inside you like you need air to breathe.
“Rafa…I…”
“It’s Professor to you. Focus.” At his words, Rafa sucks on your neck and bites down gently. His palms caress your breasts in one motion and in the whiff of a breath, he traps your painfully hard nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, pressing softly. The waters between your legs drip, soaking your panties shamelessly. Your legs as though on instinct part wider, meeting with his thighs.
Rafayel scoffs “You’re a naughty student, cutie. Careful now. Two more strikes and I’ll have to punish you.”
He presses on your nipples again, drags his tongue up your neck and like a devil born for lustful torture, he starts rolling your nipples between his fingers, tightly pulling.
Caution be damned. Bring on the punishment already.
Your hand grasps at the fragile pencil desperate for an anchor. The lid pierces into the paper and in a failed attempt to draw, your mistake tears right through the page. Professor Rafayel laughs. His voice thrumming in his chest and against your back.
“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Strike two. That punishment is getting closer, my dearest étudiante.” He rips off the torn page and like the last one folds it neatly and keeps it in his pocket.
“You’re getting messy, no?”
Your breath halts for a second at his words. What mess does he speak of? The ripped paper or the smear dripping down your thighs. Your walls pulse with desire, clamping down at nothing.
Torture.
“Again.” Rafayel coos next to your ear, nipping at your earlobe. His hands stroll down your tummy, grazing over the waist band of your mini skirt.
“You’re so warm.” His honeyed voice muffles against your left shoulder when his left hand sinks down the elastic waistband of your mini skirt, burying itself between the warmth of your thighs. His right hand caresses your right breast. His thumb brushing over your hard nipple quickly, bringing you to the edge.
“Rafa…I can’t…”
“You can’t what cutie? Draw? You can. Lesson one. Focus.” Pushing down the slacked neckline of your sweater, he sneers biting down on your shoulder. He palms your mound, dragging slow circles over your flesh. Riling up nerves that shouldn’t be excited during an art lesson.
Parting your legs wider to give him more access, your moans become clearer, sweeter, longer. Professor Rafayel bites down his lower lip keeping a moan in his throat but a grunt escapes him nonetheless.
“Eyes on the sketchbook, cutie. Keep drawing or I’ll stop.” He threatens. His fingers grazing over your clit in devishly slow circles. His free hand now working your left nipple, pinching, pulling, rolling as your waters spread more soaking his fingers.
“Don’t…ngh…stop…ah” Sritching over the blank page, your fingers make an unsteady attempt at a curve once more. It feels too good for him to stop. If drawing is what it takes to keep this sweet torture going, then draw you shall.
“You’re enjoying this way too much, cutie.” He whispers and his thumb smeared in your essence presses down on your clit.
A long moan tears through you and the curve on paper becomes a messy straight line once again.
“Strike three.” Rafayel laughs peppering your neck and exposed shoulder with kisses. He rips off the paper, folds it and places it in his pocket like a routine registered to muscle memory.
“Fourth strike and you’ll be punished, Miss.” He blows cool air through his lips over your left ear and whispers “Would you like to get more comfortable?”
You can only manage a nod, panting like the breath in your lungs would be nonexistent in any second.
At your response, Rafayel coos “Pull yourself up for me cutie.”
When you get off the small space between his legs, Rafayel pulls down your soaked panties. His fingers slowly pulling down the fabric while worshipping your skin in soft grazes leaving your bootheels on. He takes the panties off completely, sniffs the material and throws it to the end of the couch.
He pushes leans against the couch, back straight. “Sit”
You settle comfortably between his legs. His chest heaving against your back. “Relax your wrists, cutie. You can lean against me. Let me be your sofa.”
Taking a deep breath, legs spread apart, the sketchbook lifted in one hand, your dominant hand holding the pencil with a slight crack, you start drawing.
Rafayel doesn’t do a thing. He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t kiss you. His eyes remain focused on your drawing. Finally, you can breathe. How unfortunate.
Just when you’re right at the edge of the second curve drawn on the sketchbook, Rafayel’s right hand quickly palms your mound. He inserts one finger long and slow into your core. You’re wet. Tight. And he loves it.
His voice eludes his soft lips unsteady. Despite his attempt to maintain composure he can’t. You feel so good. He’s missed you.
“You’re holding the pencil wrong, cutie. Flex your wrists. Curl your finger.” While his words roll of his lips, Rafayel’s finger curls inside you. His free hand palms one of your breasts, nipping at the flesh and teasing your nipple.
“Mmm, curl it a bit more.” His tongue leaves a wet cold trace over your neck. He slides in a second finger and stills, letting your walls clamp down and pulse against his digits.
“You should be drawing, cutie.”
Draw? Right now? That word no longer has meaning. Your hand feels weak. The pencil is sure to slip off your fingers, as you feel your grip on it loosen.
Desperate for friction, your back archs against him. Your eyes widen at the feel of something poking your backside. It feels pointy, full, huge, a tad wet. He’s hard.
The thought of Professor Rafayel getting hard from merely teasing you is arousing. Only it’s neither a thought, nor a figment of your imagination. It’s happening right now. He wants you just as much as you want him.
You circle your waist and hips. Subtly grinding and rubbing your backside against his bulge painfully pushing at fabric to be set free. Rafayel lets out a grunt. His face falls into the crook of your neck.
Feeling precum escape him, he bites down hard on his lower lip trying to regain composure which he does soon enough.
Rafayel takes his hand from under your sleeves and pinches your neck until you wince. He cools off the pain with his tongue whispering into your ear “You’re being a bad student.”
“Draw or I’ll take my fingers off you.”
Trembling, your dominant hand draws a shaky line over the page on the sketch book held up with your second hand.
“Good girl.” His praises follow slow thrusts into your core with his fingers, curling the way you love it.
“Ngh…ah…ah..,.Rafa…” Your moans echo the paces of his fingers thrusting you and he loves it. With a smirk Rafayel increases the pace of his thrusts. His free hand rolling one of your nipples. His thumb pressing down on your clit.
You feel your walls clench around his fingers and he feels it too. Wet. Tight. Greedy. The feel of your walls clamping down on his skin, makes Rafayel soak his pants more. He yearns to be inside you, but he wants to enjoy this a bit longer.
Essence sticky and warm eludes you with every thrust getting deeper with intent and purpose. His fingers skillfully curling to graze over that sweet spot you love so much. Your legs part wider, now hooked over his knees. The sketch book becomes a tale of the past. The pencil long gone – both on the floor after slipping off your hands somewhere between moans and the first climax.
“Come for me, cutie.” Rafa’s voice silken with love and made heavy with lust graces your ears, slowly pushing you off the edge.
His fingers thrust faster. The plops of your wet core echoes in his mansion. Your moans loud, raw and free. Hands once holding art tools now thrown over your head gripping at his neck.
One. Two. Three. On the third slow thrust, deep and curled just right, his thumb presses against your clit, stilling your body for a bit. Your back archs like a bowstring ready to snap. Legs and thighs spasm and frail about while toes curl.
Rafayel feels your walls clamp down on his fingers and pulse. He pulls out his fingers half way letting a gush of your essence escape you in indecent squirts. He pushes back in. Not halfway, but as deep as he can go. Curling his fingers and thrusting you through your orgasm.
Your hands grip his but he doesn’t stop when your moans clearly show how much you enjoy this.
“What a messy student. Come for me again.”
At his words, your walls clench around him hard, sucking him in deeper. Your eyes roll back. It’s maddening but not enough. You want something else. That precious Lemurian gem poking at your back and leaking at the tip.
“Rafa I…” Before your words make a sentence of coherence, Rafayel pulls his fingers out of you and lifts you with one hand. With his second hand, he sweeps the piles of paper, textbooks, notepads, pencils and everything else off the table in haste, leaving the furniture bare.
He lays you on the table gently like a fragile flower keeping your legs parted with a knee. Pushing the glasses now crocked on his face, he lifts it up his hair like a headband. A smirk plays on his face. His eyes with a glint you know too well. The blue and pink within his irises glimmer dark shades of red and a deep blue likened to purple. His bondmark glows bright red through the turtleneck he wears.
Keeping you trapped under him, his hands on either side of your head so your eyes are fixed on his, Rafayel leans in and smiles “Strike four, cutie. You deserve to get punished.”
His lips crashes into yours. Tongue and teeth communing in heat and warmth. While his tongue slides and swirls sweetly over yours, one of his hands finds your mound, circling your clit. He keeps your moans silent, kissing you deeper with greed only gods can boast of.
Pulling away from the kiss with a bite to your lower lip, he smirks “Do you know what’s amazing about getting punished in Professor Rafayel’s island?”
Rafayel leans close. His cheek pressed against yours as he whispers right into your right ear with a puff of hot breath “No one can hear you scream.”
You feel your walls pulse his name.
He pulls away only slightly, grabbing your chin with a hint of kindness and a drizzle of fright.
“Now, tell me cutie. Are you ready for the second lesson?”
Thank you so much for reading darlings. If you enjoyed it, feel free to check my masterlist for other works of mine.
This fiction was inspired by one of my darlings' prompt on X.
Most of the dialogue was also inspired by Rafayel's secret times, 'Drawing Time'