He didn't let me touch him. That was the rule too, apparently. I got one hand on his c**k and he took it off, gentle, and put it back on the mattress beside my head. "Later."
"You're joking."
"I'm teaching." He got off the bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants with me lying there naked and furious. "We're eating dinner. And then we're doing it again."
We ate dinner. He made pasta. My mother was upstairs with a migraine, door shut, dark room, so we had the whole ground floor — and he sat across from me at the kitchen table in sweatpants and a t-shirt, with his c**k clearly not going anywhere, and ate like he was having a normal Tuesday.
I sat down on the chair and felt the wood against my swollen cunt and had to bite the inside of my cheek.
"Eat," he said.
"I am."
"You're squirming.
