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STORY 45 - PROFESSOR MC’CUM AND ME (I)

Author: Dirty Diana
last update publish date: 2026-05-15 00:16:18

I didn't mean to want him. Nobody walks into a graduate seminar thinking I'm going to ruin my academic career for a man in a tweed jacket. But Dr. James Harrison doesn't wear tweed. He wears dark fitted shirts rolled to his elbows and glasses he pushes up his nose when he's thinking and he reads my thesis drafts with a pen between his teeth and marginalia so precise it feels like being intellectually fingered.

I'm twenty-eight. He's forty-three. I'm his thesis advisee. He's my committee chair.
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  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 52 - LOCKED IN WITH MY RIVAL (II)

    I bite his lip. Hard. I taste copper – his blood on my tongue, metallic and warm – and instead of pulling back he groans into my mouth and his hands fist in my hair and he pulls me closer and his tongue pushes past the bite and invades my mouth with the same aggressive force he uses in meetings.I hate him. I’m kissing him back so hard our teeth clash.The hate-fuck begins against the security door that won’t open.He pins me – my back against the cold metal, his body a wall of heat against my front. His mouth on my neck – not kissing, biting. Sinking his teeth into the tendon that flexes when I turn my head, hard enough to bruise, marking me the way he’s been marking my career.“I fucking hate you,” I spit. My hands grabbing his shirt, yanking it from his pants, popping two buttons because I’m not being careful with a single thing that belongs to him.“I know you do.” He bites my collarbone. “That’s why you’re dripping right now.”His hand shoves up my skirt – not finessing, not aski

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 52 - LOCKED IN WITH MY RIVAL (I)

    Grant Holloway stole my promotion six months ago and I’ve been imagining his destruction every day since.Not metaphorical destruction – detailed, vivid fantasies of dismantling his career the way he dismantled mine. Catching him in a lie during a board meeting. Finding the email where he cc’d himself on my strategy deck and presented it as his own. Watching his smug face collapse when security escorts him out with a cardboard box and everyone in the department watches and nobody says goodbye.That’s the fantasy I’m comfortable with. The other fantasy – the one where his hands are in my hair with his body is pinning mine to a surface and I’m cumming so hard I forget why I hate him – that one I bury. Deep. Under six months of professional rage, three glasses of wine on weeknights, and the fury of watching a mediocre man succeed on work that came from my brain.He’s everything I’m not. Loud where I’m strategic. Aggressive where I’m precise. He talks over people in meetings – over me spe

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 51 - BEDTIME WITH THE MAFIA BOSS (III)

    He pushes into me in a steady, continuous push that doesn’t pause or adjust, just sinks deeper and deeper until he bottoms out and I feel him against my cervix and my mouth falls open and the sound that comes out isn’t a moan, it’s a plea."Fuck – Luca – you’re so –”“Deep?” He holds still. Buried to the hilt. His scarred hands cupping my face – both of them, holding me like I’m breakable while his cock splits me open. “I’m going to go deeper.”He pulls back. Slow. The drag of his cock against my swollen walls is agonizing – every ridge, every vein, the texture of his uncut cock creating friction that cut cocks don’t achieve. He pushes back in – harder, deeper, his pelvis grinding against my clit at the bottom of the stroke.“Look at me,” he says. “I want to see your face while I’m inside you.”I look. His dark eyes hold mine and he starts to move – slow, deep, grinding strokes that press my body into the silk with each thrust. His hands stay on my face. His thumbs trace my cheekbones

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 51 - BEDTIME WITH THE MAFIA BOSS (III)

    He pushes into me in a steady, continuous push that doesn’t pause or adjust, just sinks deeper and deeper until he bottoms out and I feel him against my cervix and my mouth falls open and the sound that comes out isn’t a moan, it’s a plea."Fuck – Luca – you’re so –”“Deep?” He holds still. Buried to the hilt. His scarred hands cupping my face – both of them, holding me like I’m breakable while his cock splits me open. “I’m going to go deeper.”He pulls back. Slow. The drag of his cock against my swollen walls is agonizing – every ridge, every vein, the texture of his uncut cock creating friction that cut cocks don’t achieve. He pushes back in – harder, deeper, his pelvis grinding against my clit at the bottom of the stroke.“Look at me,” he says. “I want to see your face while I’m inside you.”I look. His dark eyes hold mine and he starts to move – slow, deep, grinding strokes that press my body into the silk with each thrust. His hands stay on my face. His thumbs trace my cheekbones

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 51 - BEDTIME WITH THE MAFIA BOSS (II)

    He lies beside me. Fully clothed – his suit against my bare skin, the contrast of fabric and flesh making me hyperaware of every point of contact. His body curves behind mine – spooning, his chest against my back, his arm draping over my waist, his hand flat on my stomach.He’s hard. I feel his cock against my lower back through his suit pants – thick, insistent, impossible to ignore. He doesn’t press it against me. Doesn’t grind. Just lets me feel the evidence of what I do to him and waits.The tension of waiting is worse than anything he could do. Every second he doesn’t act, my body winds tighter. His hand on my stomach – warm, still, his fingertips barely touching my skin above the waistband of my underwear. His breath on the back of my neck – slow, controlled. His cock against my back – a promise he’s not cashing in.“Ask me,” he says. His mouth against the back of my ear. “I won’t take what isn’t offered.”“And if I don’t ask?”“Then we sleep. And tomorrow I’ll make you breakfas

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 51 - BEDTIME WITH THE MAFIA BOSS (I)

    My father owes two million dollars to a man who dissolves problems in acid.That’s the word on the street – not metaphorical, not exaggerated. Luca Moretti runs the eastern seaboard’s most profitable organization and the people who cross him don’t file complaints because the people who cross him stop existing. My father borrowed money eighteen months ago to save his restaurant. The restaurant failed anyway. The debt didn’t.Now Luca wants payment and my father – fifty-seven, diabetic, hands that shake when he’s scared – called me crying at 4 AM saying they’re coming, Elena, they’re coming for the house and I did what I’ve always done. I fixed it. I called the number my father was given and said I want to meet with Mr. Moretti and the voice on the other end laughed and said he doesn’t take meetings and I said tell him Anthony Vasquez’s daughter wants to negotiate and the line went quiet and then: Tomorrow. 8 PM. Come alone.I’m standing in the lobby of a building that doesn’t appear on

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