My professor and I

I know I shouldn’t be thinking about Mr. Collins like this. This degree means everything to me. It’s the only way I can get a foot in the door, the only leverage I have for a future.

But that doesn’t stop my thighs from pressing together every time I remember the way he looked at me in our first meeting. That deep voice, the salt-and-pepper hair, the control he radiated from behind his desk. Mr. Collins has to be at least twenty years older than me. He could be my father.

I shouldn’t want him. But I do.

My throat is dry as I walk down the long hallway toward his office. All I need to do is apologize, convince him that I’m not as chaotic or distracted as I came across earlier. Then leave. Just leave.

I knock once and try the knob. It opens.

His office is empty.

Relief floods me, and something darker slips in underneath. If he’s not here. . . I could wait. Or I could just go. But instead, I walk in and close the door behind me.

His scent hits me immediately. Clean and commanding. Sandalwood. A sharp touch of citrus. Masculine and overwhelming. It smells like a man who doesn’t share his space.

It smells like him.

I know I should walk away. But instead, I step deeper into his private world. His absence means he’s probably in a meeting, maybe with the board. I could have an entire hour.

And something in me wants to use it.

My skin prickles with heat. No man has ever made my body feel like this before, not even close. I feel flushed, blushing like a schoolgirl, but this time I lean into it, I let the ache take over.

My pussy is already leaking, soaked from nothing more than being near his desk.

And the worst part? I want to touch myself here. In his office. On his desk. I want to imagine what it would feel like if he were here, watching me come apart for him.

I walk up to his desk, slowly circling it until I’m perched right where he would sit down to work. My legs part slightly, skirt tightening across my thighs as I fantasize about him sitting back in his chair and watching me.

My nipples ache, painfully hard beneath my thin blouse. I can feel my panties clinging to my soaked cunt, each step rubbing me in just the right way.

“Ohh…” I moan, softly. “I want you so much, Mr. Collins…”

Saying his name feels wicked. Dirty. And I love it.

“Take me,” I whisper, imagining the way his voice would growl against my skin. “Fill my tight little virgin pussy with that thick cock of yours. Make me yours.”

My fingers slide between my thighs. My breath catches. My heart pounds. My panties are almost dripping.

I stand up, letting them fall down my legs, stepping out of them with slow, deliberate grace.

My wetness clings to my inner thighs. I drag my skirt up to my waist and sit back on his desk, legs parted, giving in to the fantasy.

One finger grazes my clit and my hips buck. It feels electric.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I don’t care.

My body’s on fire, desperate, needy. I slide one finger inside, but it’s not enough. I need more. Something bigger. Something that feels like him.

My eyes fall on the thick black marker on his desk.

Grinning, I pick it up, trace it across my lips, and suck on the end, imagining the look on his face when he smells my pussy on it later.

I spread myself open with one hand and sink the marker into my slick cunt, coating it in my arousal.

“Oh my… Mr. Collins…”

The soft, obscene sounds of my soaked pussy fill the office as I move the marker in and out of myself, my fingers circling my clit. Fucking my pussy harder with the thought of him.

“Fuck… yes… harder… just like that…”

I arch my back, one hand on my clit, the other grabbing my tits, pinching my nipples. The image of Mr. Collins, towering over me, mouth on mine, his cock replacing the marker, has me trembling.

I imagine him picking up this marker without knowing where it’s been. Tasting me on his fingers. Realizing what I did.

I moan louder, on the edge. . .

Then the door opens.

I freeze. My thighs slam shut instinctively. I turn my head.

Mr. Collins is standing there.

Not twenty minutes in.

“What the hell,” he mutters, his voice sharp, eyes wide as he shuts the door behind him and locks it. “What are you doing in my office?”

His eyes drop down to the desk. My wet panties on the floor. The marker. My flushed skin. My legs spread.

“What the fuck is this?”

And all I can think is. . .

Language, Mr. Collins.