Breathe when you're correct

Different man, my apartment, the cheap desk pushed aside so he could lie on the rug. I had assigned him a page of Anscombe. He summarized it badly while I settled over his mouth.

That's not what she means by intention, I said, and I closed my thighs. He struggled, a wet useless vibration, and I stayed until his hand slapped twice and then one extra second because I am mean when I am right. I rose. He dragged in air and looked furious and hard. Good. Fury means he heard me.

Try again. He tried again, and this time he was closer. I rewarded closer with my clit on his tongue and a little oxygen. He got one clause exactly right. I came almost angrily, grinding, telling him not to stop reciting. He muffled the last sentence straight into me and I let him have a full breath as I shook.

I jerked him off after, slowly, quizzing him. He came when he admitted he hadn't read the footnote. Honesty is the only virtue I reliably reward. He left with a better summary and a sore jaw. I stayed up and rewrote a paragraph I had been lying to myself about. Sex that doesn't improve the argument is just cardio. I like cardio. I like being right more.