6: PROFESSOR’S FILTHY PET (1)

CHAPTER 1: BENT OVER HIS DESK

EMILY’S POV

I’m that girl, you know? The one with the glasses always slightly askew, a stack of books taller than I am, and a permanent coffee stain on my cardigan.

My idea of a wild Friday night is annotating my favorite fantasy novel with a new pack of colorful pens.

So, how did I end up bent over my Ethics professor’s desk with his cum dripping down my thighs?

It started with my thesis. I’d poured my entire soul into forty-seven pages on the feminist lens of Reclaiming Female Promiscuity in Erotic Fiction.

I’d lived on cold pizza and adrenaline for three days straight, convinced this was my magnum opus.

Professor Herman did not agree.

The fluorescent lights in his office hummed. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, not even looking at me as he flipped through my pages.

His fingers—long, elegant, the kind that should be playing Chopin—tapped the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. My stomach was in knots.

"You call this a thesis?" His voice cut through the quiet office. "It reads like a teenager's diary. Emotional, unfocused, lazy."

My breath hitched. Lazy.

The word settled in my chest like a stone. I had bled for this paper. I had skipped meals, ignored texts from my friends, let my laundry pile up like a monument to my obsession.

And he—he—was calling it lazy?

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but the look he gave me silenced the protest before it could form.

His eyes were the color of storm clouds, dark and heavy with something I couldn’t name. Not quite anger. Not quite amusement. Something hungrier.

"Maybe," he said, leaning back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, "you need a more... hands-on education."

The air in the room shifted. My skin prickled, heat crawling up my neck. Was he—? No. No, he couldn’t be implying...

"Stay after hours tomorrow," he said, as if he were suggesting I pick up a book from the library. "We’ll go over this. Thoroughly."

I wore my shortest skirt the next day.

I told myself it was because the weather had turned unseasonably warm, that my usual jeans were in the wash, that I hadn’t spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror practicing how to sit without flashing my panties.

But the way Professor Herman’s gaze flicked down to my bare legs when I stepped into his office told me he knew the truth.

The door clicked shut behind me. Locked.

"On the desk, Miss Whitmore," he said, not looking up from the stack of papers in his hand. "Let’s see if you’ve learned anything."

My heart was pounding so loud I thought he could hear it. I pressed my palms flat against his desk, the polished wood cold under my hands.

I froze—just for a second. But that second was enough.

His chair scraped. He stood up behind me, and I could feel how close he was. The heat he radiated.

"You’re wasting my time," he murmured, his breath hot against the shell of my ear. His hand settled on the small of my back, fingers splayed, pressing just hard enough to make me arch into his touch. "And yours."

I swallowed. "I—I didn’t mean to—"

"Quiet." His other hand slid up my thigh, bunching the fabric of my skirt until it was riding high, exposing the lace trim of my panties. "You talk too much. That’s your first problem."

A whimper escaped me before I could stop it. His fingers traced the edge of my underwear, teasing, not quite touching where I ached.

"Your thesis is wordy, Emily. Just like you. All this unnecessary fluff."His nail grazed my clit through the fabric, and my hips jerked forward with a gasp. "See? Even your body knows when to shut up."

I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. The sting grounded me, just a little.

"Professor, I—"

"Second problem." His hand cracked down on my ass, the sound sharp in the quiet office. Pain bloomed across my skin, and I yelped, my fingers clawing at the desk. "You argue."

Another smack, this one harder. My breath came in short, hitched bursts.

"Every time I give you a note, you push back. Do you think I enjoy repeating myself?"

"No," I whispered.

"Good." His palm rubbed the sting away, soothing, before delivering another stinging slap. "Because I don’t. And I certainly don’t enjoy reading the same mediocre drivel twice."

I was dripping. I could feel it, the wet heat between my thighs, the way my panties clung to me. My face burned with humiliation. With need.

"Please," I breathed.

He stilled. Then, slowly, his fingers hooked under the waistband of my panties and tugged them down. The cool air hit my bare skin, and I shivered.

"Please what, Emily?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Teach me."

A low chuckle vibrated against my back.

"Finally. A correct answer."

His fingers slid between my legs, parting me with a roughness that made me whine.

"You’re soaked." His voice was a dark caress, dripping with satisfaction. "And you haven’t even earned it yet."

I moaned as he circled my clit, his touch maddeningly light.

"Professor—"

"Third problem." His fingers left me abruptly, and I whined at the loss. The sound of his belt unbuckling made my stomach flip. "You’re impatient."

The zipper followed, the rustle of fabric. Then, thud. Something heavy landed on the desk beside my head. A book. "The Eros Discipline."

His voice was a smirk. "Ever read it?"

I shook my head, my cheeks flaming.

"Pity." His hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back so I could see the cover—a woman bound in ropes, her body arched in submission. "It’s about a professor who re-educates his student. Sound familiar?"

Before I could answer, he shoved two fingers inside me, curling them upward. My back arched, a wanton cry tearing from my throat.

"Fuck—!"

"Language, Emily." His fingers pumped in and out, brutal, pounding, while his thumb pressed down on my clit. "A lady doesn’t curse. Especially not in my office."

I was going to come. I was going to come from his fingers, like some desperate, untrained—

"Fourth problem." His fingers withdrew. I keened at the emptiness, my hips chasing his touch. "You lack control."

The head of his cock pressed against my entrance, thick and hot. I froze. This was—this was real. This was happening.

"Relax," he murmured, his free hand sliding up my spine, pressing me down until my chest was flat against the desk. "Or it’ll hurt."