CHAPTER 4 - AVERY

My breath caught. “Professor?” My voice was barely a whisper.

“On my lap.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command. His eyes dared me to defy him.

My body, traitorous and eager, began to move. I rose from the armchair, my legs feeling like jelly, and walked towards his desk. He didn’t move, just watched me, that dark, knowing gaze burning into me. I reached the side of his desk, and he shifted slightly, patting his thigh.

I hesitated for only a second, then swung my leg over, straddling his lap. The fabric of his suit trousers was smooth beneath my skirt. His legs were hard, muscular beneath me. My hips settled against his, and I could feel the undeniable swell of his erection pressing against my inner thigh. He was already hard. For me. Here. Now.

His arms came around my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. My hands instinctively rested on his broad shoulders. The scent of his expensive cologne, that intoxicating male scent, filled my senses.

“Better,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against my ear. He leaned in, his lips brushing my temple. “Now, about those aspirations, Avery.”

His right hand, large and warm, slid down my back, over the curve of my ass, and then, with a shocking intimacy, slipped between my thighs, under the hem of my skirt. My breath hitched. He found the lace of my panties, already damp, and then his fingers were there, pressing against my clit.

I gasped, a small, strangled sound. My pussy was already drenched, aching for him. The direct contact sent a jolt of pure pleasure through me, making my hips instinctively rock against his.

“Tell me, Avery,” he whispered, his thumb pressing harder, circling my clit. “What do you truly desire from this department? From your education?”

His fingers slid lower, pushing past the wet lace, finding my entrance. One finger, then two, slid inside, stretching me. I whimpered, my head falling back against his shoulder.

“I… I want to… to learn, Professor,” I stuttered, trying desperately to focus, to form coherent words. Each thrust of his fingers made my vision blur.

“Learn what, little bird?” he murmured, his voice a low growl, his fingers moving deeper, faster. He pulled one finger out, then slammed it back in, hitting a spot that made me cry out. “The classics? The romantics? Or something… more visceral?”

He leaned back slightly, his eyes burning into mine, dark and predatory. His left hand reached up, his fingers finding the open buttons of my blouse. He pulled the fabric aside, exposing my breasts. My nipples, already hard, sprang to attention. His thumb brushed over one, then the other, sending searing sensations straight to my core.

“Your body,” he whispered, his gaze fixed on my nipples. “It seems to have its own curriculum.” He leaned down, his hot mouth closing over one of my nipples, sucking hard through the silk.

A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through me, making my back arch. My fingers dug into his shoulders, gripping the expensive fabric of his suit. He continued to suck, his tongue laving the sensitive bud, sending waves of pleasure through my entire body. My pussy clenched around his fingers, milking them.

He pulled away from my breast, a faint, wet mark on the plum silk. His eyes were dark with lust. “You’re so wet for me, Avery. Already. Just from a few words.”

He shifted slightly, his hands gripping my hips. With a surprising, fluid motion, he lifted me, twisting me around until I was lying face down on his desk, my skirt rucked up around my waist, my ass exposed. The cold leather of the desk pressed against my stomach, a familiar chill.

He stood over me, his broad shoulders filling my vision. I could feel his hard cock pressing against my ass, a heavy, insistent weight.

“Now, Avery,” he rumbled, his voice a low command. “Let’s continue our discussion on… academic rigor.”

His hand came down, a sharp, stinging slap against my left ass cheek. It wasn't truly painful, not in a damaging way, but it was firm, shocking. My breath hitched, a gasp escaping my lips. A thrill, dark and unexpected, shot through me.

“Did that grab your attention, little bird?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

Another slap, harder this time, on my right cheek. My ass burned, a delicious ache. “Y-yes, Professor,” I gasped, my voice shaky.

His fingers, still slick from my pussy, slid down, finding the wet, swollen lips of my cunt. He pressed his thumb hard against my clit, then began to rub, circling, teasing. My hips instinctively bucked against the desk.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice closer now, as if he’d leaned down. “Because we have much to cover. Tell me, Avery, what are the key characteristics of the Victorian novel?” His fingers moved faster, a relentless assault on my senses.

“U-um… social commentary… realism… long… long sentences,” I stammered, trying to articulate, trying to think, even as my body was spiraling out of control.

He chuckled, a dark, low sound. His fingers continued their merciless work. “Long sentences, indeed. And what about the role of women in Victorian literature? How are they typically portrayed?”

His fingers plunged deep inside me, stretching me, then pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in. The sensation was overwhelming. My body convulsed.

“Th-they’re… confined… trapped… by society,” I choked out, my voice breaking.

“Confined, yes.” He pulled his fingers out, and I whimpered in protest. Then, with a swift, shocking movement, his hand came down, a sharp, open-palmed slap against my wet pussy.

My body jolted, a scream tearing from my throat, muffled against the cold leather. The sting was intense, but the shock, the sheer audacity of it, sent a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure crashing through me. My orgasm hit me like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. My body clenched, spasmed, bucked against the desk, my legs trembling uncontrollably.

He watched me come, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He didn't touch me again, just let me ride the waves of my climax, exposed and vulnerable on his desk.

When the tremors finally subsided, leaving me breathless and slick, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from my face. He pulled my skirt back down, covering me. The sudden modesty felt strange after the raw exposure.

He walked around the desk, sitting back in his chair. He picked up his pen again, tapping it lightly. He looked utterly composed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

“That concludes our welcome meeting, Avery,” he said, his voice calm, professional once more. “I look forward to seeing you in my Victorian Narratives class.”

My mind was a blank. My body was still buzzing, aching. I slowly pushed myself up, my legs wobbly. I adjusted my skirt, my blouse, trying to regain some semblance of composure. My cheeks were still burning.

“Thank you, Professor Thorne,” I managed, my voice hoarse.

As I reached the door, my hand on the doorknob, he spoke again, his voice a low, almost intimate rumble. “And Avery?”

I paused, my hand on the doorknob, turning back to face him.

His eyes were dark, a predatory gleam in their depths. “Next time, don’t be late.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Next time. There would be a next time. And he expected me to be there. He wasn't just my professor. He was my captor, my master, and I, the student, was already irrevocably caught in his syllabus.