bakerstreet | weekly boners'r'us

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Alistair rushes home, like any good husband should when his wife texts him promises of short skirts and sex on his desk without a single word about med school getting in the way. He gets there in time to see her spread out over his desk, her skirt already bunched up, a hand between her legs, and his mouth goes dry.

This is already way hotter than he expected, and he expected it to be really hot.

He stands there, saying nothing, and watches her finger herself, his cock twitching awake in his pants. When she notices he's there, that'll be one thing, but until then, he wants to enjoy the show.

Solona hadn't actually planned to make good on the threat to start without him until he took it somewhere interesting, and then, of course, she had to. The heel of her black ballet flat braced against the surface of the desk, one hand curled around the edge while the other worked beneath the white lace of her panties (good girls wear white, right?). It surprised her how easily she'd been able to toss together something passably school girl (if one was using early Britney Spears or porn as the example, of course--the stuff she'd worn back in her own private school days had been unflattering from blazer to penny loafer) with the little skirt she'd impulsively tugged off the sales rack paired up with a white button-down shirt Alistair had already seen her in a dozen times, and a pair of knee socks.

(She contemplated pigtails, but quickly decided against it--a little too young for her taste.)

She wasn't actually trying to make herself come, of course, but it still felt good, especially after all the teasing texts; good enough that she didn't hear him come in. If she had, she would've put on more of a show, giggling and coy and fluttering with embarrassment at being caught. Since she didn't, she continued to lazily circle her clit with her fingertips, lower lip caught between her teeth, breasts rising and falling steadily with deep, relaxed breaths.

He might've gotten more of a show if she hadn't shifted, the toe of her shoe nudging a plastic pencil cup off of the desk with a clatter. It startled her, and then he startles her, the yelp, the scrambling to get up and shove her clothes back into place, and the color flooding her cheeks not at all an act.

Solona always looks stunning, but today she looks especially so. Everything she's wearing works perfectly--pigtails would have been too much for him, but without them, there's a neat divide between cartoonish fantasy and his actual life. (He's already decided Mr. Theirin's a math teacher, because he can't think of anything he'd less like to teach himself.) And it turns out he could watch her play with herself all day long if given the chance. It's mesmerizing.

"I asked you to wait for me," he says in a slightly throatier voice than usual, walking over to where she's awkwardly straightening herself out. "You started, and you made a mess. Stand up."

They can just jump into this, right? She'll say Beetlejuice if they need to pause.

Solona stands up and folds her arms with a pout, stubborn resentment in her every movement--an attitude that was opposite everything the real Solona Amell had been towards her own instructors. It made it more fun in her mind, acting like a brat at first, a hint of belligerence just begging to be corrected.

"I got tired of waiting," she huffed with a hint of an eye roll. "I was bored."

The thought of Solona Amell sassing a teacher is objectively hilarious to Alistair, but that'll be something to laugh about after they've both come. In the meantime, he's got a naughty schoolgirl in a tiny skirt to punish.

"I was bored, Mr. Theirin," he corrects her, coming closer. It's weird, not cracking jokes, but he's playing a character who's sexy and dangerous and ready to fuck the brains out of Miss Amell. "Sounds like somebody needs a spanking. Face the desk and bend over."

It's definitely going to be a fight not to giggle at first, but so far they're both doing surprisingly well (she doubts either of them would get a job out of it, but still--it's pretty good for them).

Solona sets her jaw stubbornly and swallows, as though fighting to resist doing as she's told. "Fine," she finally murmurs resentfully, turning around and leaning against the desk rather than bending over as instructed.

"Miss Amell," he says in a warning voice, coming right up behind her until their bodies are aligned, his hardening cock pressing up against her arse. Alistair rolls his hips once, pushing her up against the desk, his face in her hair, at her neck, then moves just out of reach. "Do what I say."

That doesn't make hanging on to her character easy, a tiny whimper catching in her throat. Slowly, deliberately, she bends down until her her chest is pressed against the desk, though even more pens and office materials get knocked askew.

"There," she mumbles, glaring at him over her shoulder. "Is that good enough?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's good." It's his normal voice, his character breaking at the sight of her arse sticking out from under her little skirt. Alistair clears his throat, trying to remember what he was trying to say. "Going to have to punish you now."

He flips her skirt up but, for the moment, leaves those lacy panties alone. How hard do you smack people when you're spanking them for sexy reasons? He doesn't want to hurt her, and he knows he's strong.

In the end, he starts with a little smack, something that can't possibly do more than sting a moment, once on each cheek. "When's the last time someone gave you a spanking, Miss Amell?"

The honest answer to that is Never for Actual Solona Amell. But Miss Amell the Naughty School Girl probably does this every week. The smack is more sound than anything--a little sting, a little warmth, but mostly sound.

"I dunno, is that what you call that?" she baits, trying to stay in character and still convey that she's fine with him smacking her a little harder.

"A test of the emergency broadcasting system." If she wants more, he'll give her more, even if the idea of smacking Solona brings with it a lingering, amorphous sort of guilt. Alistair's not sure what to think of the fact that spanking her is fun.

This time, his palm slaps her on the center of her arse with a satisfying crack. About twice as hard as the last two, he thinks, his fingers spread out across her skin. "What do you think of that, Miss Amell?"

If she hadn't been purposefully baiting him, and therefore prepared for it, Solona doubts she would've liked it, much less found it fun. But that's not the case, and so after the initial sharp squeak, it takes effort to refrain from moaning and giggling. There's a spot of stinging warmth on her ass that she suspects is vaguely shaped like Alistair's hand, and for some reason, that's...actually pretty hot.

She doesn't think she's supposed to actually say that, though, so it takes her a second or two to answer. "Fuck, ow," she quietly curses instead, biting her lower lip.

"Bad girls swear," he tells her, bringing his hand back to her bottom--without spanking, this time, instead cupping her arse so his fingers can press up against her white panties near her clit. He presses in, his cock throbbing at the thought of what it must feel like for her. "Are you a bad girl?"

He has to smother something of a laugh himself. Solona Amell, bad girl. Nope. Nowhere close, just like Alistair Theirin, sexy disciplinarian, couldn't be further from the truth. But the exaggeration is proving sexier than he expected, so he's ready to go with it.

"Oh, f--" Solona bites her lower lip and swallows a needy keen, but can't keep her hips from pressing back into the touch. "Yes, sir," she half-pants, half-purrs, so turned on that saying all of it with a straight face is much easier than it was. "But I can be good, Mr. Theirin. I can be such a good girl for you."

"I can find a use for you whether you're good or bad," he answers, pressing in once more before he draws his hand away. Weird, but sexy continues to be the theme of the afternoon, and he's just fine with that. "I like you both ways."

Alistair lays another handprint on her arse as a reminder. After a moment or two, once she's had time to really feel it, he leans in again, pushing her hair aside so he can kiss and suck at her ear. He covers her easily, his body aligned with hers, and he wraps an arm around her so he can paw roughly at her breasts.

Either she's a little more sore now or it's a harder smack, but there's definitely more of a sting, enough that she yelps but nowhere near enough to make her want to stop. She's actually bracing herself for another when he leans in, and she can feel his hard-on beneath his pants pressing against her heated, smarting skin. God, that's hot too. This is doing things to her she didn't anticipate, but like him, she's perfectly happy to roll with it.

Solona arches up a little to give his arm room to slide between her torso and the desk. "Mm, please Mr. Theirin," she coos with just a hint of a giggle and a gasp, his breath and teeth tickling her ear, rough today on her breast making her nipple pebble beneath crisp white shirt and dainty lace bra. "I'll do whatever you say."

Part of him does want to stop at the sound of her crying out--but she hasn't said the safe word, and he doesn't think she'd appreciate him stopping to check on her before that point. Not when they're both as aroused as they are.

His cock fits neatly in the slight dip between her arse cheeks, and he takes advantage of the fact, sliding its length up and down once. He'd like to do more, but he also wants to stretch all of this out a little longer.

Reaching up her shirt and into her bra, he cups one breast, catching her nipple tightly between two fingers. "How do you think I should punish you?" he asks, letting the words hiss into her ear.

It does smart, but in a dim and distant sort of way that's all mixed in with how turned-on she is. And if it still stings later, well--she's fairly certain it's going to be well worth it, and that she can laugh and joke about it later (all while she plost how she's going to turn the tables and pay him back, oh, so much payback, it's going to be fun).

She moans sharply as he pinches her nipple, a lesser sharp sting wrapped up in pleasureable sensations. "I--mm!--I d-don't know," she pants, pressing her ass back against him, more in an attempt to find a little friction for herself than to tease him.

"Don't you?" he murmurs, pulling at her nipple as his other hand moves down her side, over her hip, and around in front of her, hitching her skirt up. He keeps his fingers on the outside of her panties for now, pressing in and stroking her clit through the thin fabric. "What do you imagine when you touch yourself, Miss Amell?"

It seems like the right kind of question to ask, but he also wants to know, just for his own self. Maker, she's beautiful, even when she's pretending to be a spoiled brat.

"Oh my God," she stammers, breath wheezing with the effort it takes to keep from giggling. She bites the lip that wants to curve into a grin and fights to urge to cover his hands with his, as she might do in a setting she could be demanding and encouraging, rather than at his mercy. It helps that she likes being at his mercy.

"My boyfriend," she replies, figuring that's both honest and still in character. And since he hasn't told her not to, she reaches back and presses her hand to the bulge at the front of his pants. He's certainly welcome to correct if she's supposed to keep her hands to herself.

His hand closes tighter around her flesh, palm pressed to her mound, fingers still at her clit. "Detail, Miss Amell. What does he do to you?"

It's hard to get the words out--he has to bite back on a moan as she touches his hard-on through his pants. For now, he'll allow it, but if it goes on too long, they might not get past the foreplay. Fucking her is going to be quick and fast and hard, at this rate.

Solona feels no need to keep quiet, especially since he's urging her to tell him all the dirty thoughts that flit through her head when she's missing his company. She moans and rocks her hips against his hand, her own fingers moving along the front of his pants, tracing the outline of his cock.

"He does everything I want him to," she murmurs, figuring that's an appropriately bratty thing to say. "He's good with his hands. And his tongue. Fuck, his tongue. Why," she purrs, squeezing him lightly. "Are you jealous, Mr. Theirin?"

Alistair groans, eyes shutting, as she squeezes him. He's hard as a rock, and his patience for games is wearing thin. This is fun, but he can't remember the last time he was so desperate to enter her.

"Jealous?" He tries to make it sound like a villain in a Disney cartoon--growly and theatrical--and gives a bark of a laugh. "Why would I be jealous? I'm about to fuck you so hard, you won't remember your boyfriend's name."

He pulls his hand from her breasts, reaching back around her to unfasten his trousers one-handed. Their hips are still so close that every movement of his hand brushes against her arse. "Spread your legs."

Her attempt to duck her head and stifle her snickering at his villainous snarling and Gaston-esque laughter is only partially successful, her shoulders shaking with the suppressed noise, but that they've made it this far without cracking up is pretty impressive. It's then an equal struggle not to whimper happily when he barks another filthy order; the next time they decide to play fun little games, they can try for more patience, but she's dying here.

"Yes sir," she purrs playfully, straightening just enough to hook her thumbs into the elastic of her panties and wriggle them off her hips (they could've been shoved aside, sure, but they're her La Perla, and if they tore she'd be heartbroken as well as sexually satisfied). This is the tricky, potentially uncomfortable part, lifting a leg to rest a bent knee on the desk and bend down over the slick wooden surface. "Like that, Mr. Theirin?"

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