My Daddy is my Professor

I was late on purpose.

The door to the lecture hall felt heavier than usual when I pushed it open. Half the seats were already filled with the usual mix of people scrolling on their phones or talking in low voices. I expected Dr. Langley’s tired face and the same flat voice that usually put half the room to sleep. That's his thing,his is a sleep magician.

But instead I saw him.

Derek Reed stood at the front of the room, back partially turned, writing on the whiteboard in clean, controlled strokes. Dark shirt. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. The same broad shoulders I saw every morning in the kitchen when he made coffee, and the same quiet way of occupying space like he didn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed.

My stomach twisted. Then the heat hit, low and immediate, spreading between my legs so fast it almost made me miss the next step.

I knew exactly who he was. My mother’s new husband. Tyler’s father. The man who slept down the hall from me and never looked at me longer than necessary at home. None of it stopped the reaction. My nipples tightened against my bra and I could already feel myself getting wet, the fabric of my jeans suddenly too rough.

I walked down the steps and took a seat in the second row, dead center. Close enough that he wouldn’t be able to ignore me even if he tried.

He finished writing, set the marker down, and turned to face the class. His eyes moved across the room once in a slow sweep. They landed on me for half a second. No smile, or flicker of recognition. Nop, just a flat, unreadable look before he started speaking.

“Dr. Langley had a family emergency. I’ll be covering Introduction to Psychology for the next two weeks. Derek Reed. Same syllabus. Same expectations. Don’t waste my time please.”

His voice was lower than Langley’s. Steadier. Like a man who's built of control. It went straight through me and settled heavy between my thighs.

I sat there with my legs pressed together, already restless, already imagining what it would feel like if he walked over and put those big hands on me in front of everyone.

Fifteen minutes in, I made the first real move.

The shirt I wore was long enough to pass for a dress if I was careful. I slipped both hands under the desk, unbuttoned my jeans, and worked them down my legs as quietly as I could. The denim scraped over my thighs. No one looked my way. I balled the jeans up and shoved them into my bag. Bare skin against the plastic chair. No panties. I’d left them on my bedroom floor that morning for exactly this reason. Or something like this.

When he started walking the aisle with a stack of printed articles, I opened my knees.

Not wide enough to be obvious to the people beside me. Just enough. The hem of the shirt rode up. Cool air touched the wet heat between my legs. I kept my eyes on him the entire time he moved closer, watching for any crack in that calm expression.

His gaze dropped for one second when he reached my row.

One second. Long enough to see what I was offering.

Then he handed the papers to the student behind me and kept walking like nothing had happened.

That tiny refusal made my clit throb so hard I had to shift in my seat.

I spent the next hour testing him in every small way I could think of.

I asked a question I already knew the answer to, my voice softer and prettier than usual, and held eye contact while he replied. He answered in the same even tone he used with everyone else and moved on without lingering, without giving me anything extra.

A little later I “accidentally” dropped my pen when he was near the front. I bent to pick it up slowly, letting the shirt lift higher on my thighs, high enough that anyone looking from the right angle would see I had nothing underneath. When I sat back up, his eyes were already back on the slides. No reaction. Not even a pause in his sentence.

I crossed and uncrossed my legs more than necessary, making sure the movement pulled the fabric up each time. I leaned forward when he spoke, resting my elbows on the desk so the neckline of my shirt dipped. I kept my lips slightly parted. Every time I thought I caught him looking, his expression stayed the same--Controlled n unmoved. Like I was just another student wasting his oxygen.

By the forty-minute mark I was soaked. The plastic chair felt slick under me. My pulse was high in my throat. I could smell myself every time I shifted. The more he ignored me, the worse it got. I started imagining walking up there, hiking the shirt up, and sitting on the edge of his desk with my legs spread just to force him to look into it.

I did the next best thing.

When he asked if there were any questions about the reading, I raised my hand and waited until he called on me. Then I stood up. The shirt hem brushed the tops of my bare thighs. I asked something pointless about classical conditioning, voice a little breathy, and stayed standing longer than I needed to while he answered. I watched his face the whole time. He looked at me like I was a mild inconvenience and told me to sit down and review page nineteen.

I sat. My cunt was aching.

By the time he dismissed the class, I was throbbing. Students stood and started packing. Bags zipped. Conversations started up around me. I stayed in my seat, moving as slowly as possible, waiting until the last person left and the door clicked shut behind them.

Silence settled over the room. It felt heavier than it should have.

Derek was erasing the board with his back to me.

The muscles in his forearms shifted with each long stroke of the eraser. I stood up. The shirt hem brushed the bare tops of my thighs again. Cool air moved against the wetness between my legs and I walked toward his desk and stopped close enough that he had to turn around.

He did.

His face gave me nothing. Same calm. Same distance.

“Class is over,” he said.

“I know.”

“Then go.”

I stepped closer instead. Close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with clean skin. Close enough that the front of my shirt nearly brushed his chest. I could feel the heat coming off him.

“I couldn’t focus today,” I said. My voice came out lower than I planned. “Not even a little.”

“Not my problem.”

“It is when you’re the reason.”

Something tightened in his jaw. He set the eraser down with deliberate care, like he was forcing himself to move slowly.

“Cynthia.” He said my full name like a warning, every syllable clear and cold. The sound of it in that empty room made my stomach flip and my clit juicy. “Stay far away from me. Do you understand?”

The way he said it only made the ache worse. I ignored the order and closed the last bit of space between us until my chest almost touched his.

“I’ve been thinking about you, Dad. A lot. About what that big cock of yours could do to me.”

His hands came up and gripped my waist. Hard. Fingers digging in through the thin fabric, holding me in place like he was deciding whether to push me away or pull me closer. For a second I thought he might actually close the distance and kiss me. His eyes went dark and dangerous, the calm professor mask slipping just enough to show what was underneath.

“You’ve no idea what you’re asking for.”