R-18: TEACHER'S PET

She dreamed of him again.

It started the same way it always did—soft light, leather-bound books, the scent of worn pages and something deeper, darker. Ysbelle was alone in his office, except she wasn’t. He was there too. Sitting in his chair. Watching her.

His eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, tired in that intoxicating, late-night way—followed her every move. He said nothing. He didn’t have to.

She sat on his desk, her skirt hiked up past her thighs, fingers sliding beneath lace. Her breath caught.

Lucien didn’t stop her.

He just leaned back, one hand loosely holding a pen, the other resting on his knee. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, forearms tense. He looked like he’d been working for hours—like she had just interrupted him.

She didn’t care.

Her fingers moved slow at first. Gentle circles. Her eyes never left his.

She imagined what those hands would feel like on her skin. Calloused from writing. Big enough to hold her hips in place. She’d watched them in class—how they turned the pages of their textbook, how they pressed into the table when he lectured.

She bit her lip as a móan threatened to escape.

Still, he said nothing.

But his eyes… they darkened. As if he could feel what she felt. As if he knew.

She moved faster, wetter now. Every stroke making her thíghs tremble. Her other hand slid under her shirt, squeezing her bréast, pinching the nípple like she imagined he would—rough, precise, greedy.

She wanted to be taken apart by him. Quietly. Carefully. Brutally.

Her órgasm came fast, like it always did when she thought of him. Her body arched, lips parted, hand soaked. Lucien didn’t move. But something in his eyes burned.

And then—

She woke up.

Ysbelle blinked at the ceiling of her dorm room, her breath still uneven, her panties damp, her legs sticky with the aftermath of want. Shame didn’t come anymore. Not with him.

It wasn’t the first time.

And it wouldn’t be the last.

---

She arrived three minutes late.

Not enough to warrant a call-out, but enough to know he saw her.

Lucien paused mid-sentence as the door clicked shut behind her. She mumbled a quiet apology as she slid into the third row—her seat. Always the third row, always to the left. Just far enough to seem casual. Just close enough to drink him in.

He didn’t acknowledge her aloud, but his gaze flicked up from his notes, just for a breath, and caught hers. And in that fraction of a second, her entire body burned.

He knew.

He always knew.

Lucien resumed the lecture, voice calm, deliberate, tinged with that gravelly undertone that always made her thighs press just a little tighter together under the desk.

“Steinbeck wrote that discipline is choosing between what you want now and what you want most,” he said. “Discuss.”

And then, as if rehearsed, his eyes landed on her again.

“Ysbelle?”

There it was.

The name. The invitation. The command.

She swallowed and sat up straighter. “I think Steinbeck’s talking about repression, not discipline.”

A murmur of interest stirred in the classroom. Lucien’s eyebrow arched—subtle, pleased.

“Go on,” he said, and now his voice was lower.

Isabella was already warm under her sweater. “Repression is pretending the desire doesn’t exist. Discipline is knowing exactly what you want and still choosing not to touch it.”

Lucien paused. Held her gaze. His jaw shifted—his only tell. It was so slight, but she saw it. She felt it.

“Interesting distinction,” he murmured. “And which do you think is harder?”

“Wanting something you can’t have,” she said, without blinking.

The class laughed nervously, not quite understanding. But he did. Oh, he did.

His lips twitched into the barest smile. “Thank you, Ysbelle. Insightful as always.”

Teacher’s pet.

The nickname wasn’t official, but everyone thought it. She didn’t care. Let them think she was just the eager student with the top marks and the always-perfect attendance. They didn’t know she replayed every word he spoke in her head at night. That she ached after every class. That her hands had learned the shape of her desire like a ritual.

Lucien returned to the lecture, but the tension had shifted. The room was thick with something only the two of them could smell.

He called on a few more students, let the discussion drift, but he never looked at her again—not until the very end, when students were packing up, and she was slow, deliberate.

She was the last to leave. Always.

As she reached the door, he spoke—just for her.

“Ysbelle.”

She turned.

“Office hours,” he said. “Today. Five PM.”

“Is that mandatory?”

“For you,” he said, holding her gaze, “yes.”

Her breath caught.

She nodded. “I’ll be there.”

---

Ysbelle showed up early.

Lucien’s door was cracked open. She could hear him pacing—soft footfalls against hardwood, the rustle of papers, the quiet hum of classical music he never turned up too loud.

She adjusted her blouse in the reflection of the department's framed glass case. Ivory silk, just sheer enough to hint there's nothing underneath. A tailored skirt, hem riding a few inches too high for a professional visit.

She knocked. Just twice.

“Come in,” he said, without looking.

He was at the bookshelf, one hand braced against the top shelf, the other holding a paperback copy of something she’d probably already read. When he finally turned, his eyes fell on her legs—then her lips—then back to her eyes.

Lucien’s jaw clenched. A tell. A small one.

“You’re early.”

“I figured you’d appreciate initiative.”

He gave a short, quiet laugh. “You’ve never had a problem showing initiative, Ysbelle.”

She closed the door behind her, slow and soft. “You asked me here.”

“I did.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit.”

She obeyed—graceful, controlled, composed. But her pulse thudded in her throat.

Lucien sat across from her, arms folded, eyes unreadable. “I gave a lecture earlier, did you catch the last ten minutes?”

She smiled, slow. “The part about student-teacher relationships?”

“Yes.”

“Where you said any such entanglement was, quote, inherently unethical and compromised by imbalance of power and emotion?”

He arched a brow. “You were listening.”

“I always listen,” she said. “Especially when you’re lying.”

That did it.

His mouth twitched—almost into a smile. Almost.

“I said it because it’s the rule.”

“You said it like you didn’t believe it.”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Just leaned forward, eyes locked on hers, every second dragging its fingernails down her spine.

“You’re not afraid of playing with fire, are you?”

She leaned in too. “Not if it’s your match I’m striking.”

The silence between them tightened. His hand flexed. Her thighs pressed together instinctively.

“I should report this,” he murmured.

“Then why haven’t you?”

Lucien stood up. Sharp, controlled.

He circled behind her—quiet, slow—and stopped directly behind the chair. She didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe.

“I’ve spent the last two months trying to pretend this is nothing,” he said, voice like hot breath at her ear. “Trying to act like the way you look at me doesn’t make me want to drag you onto this desk.”

“You should stop pretending,” she whispered.

That was it. The last thread.

Lucien’s hand gripped her shoulder—firm, possessive—and turned her to face him as he leaned down, kissed her hard. His mouth claimed hers like he was furious about needing it, like he’d been denying himself oxygen and just remembered how to breathe.

Ysbelle gasped into him, her fingers clawing at the buttons of his shirt—impatient, greedy, trembling.

He walked her backward until her thíghs hit the edge of the desk.

“Sit,” he growled.

She obeyed, breathless.

Her skirt rode up her thíghs as she hopped onto the desk, legs parting instinctively. Her pànties were soaked, and he could see it—eyes locked between her legs like he didn’t know whether to be furious or turned on.

“You came here like this?” he hissed. “You planned this?”

Her smile was lazy, provocative. “You gave me a time. I came ready.”

Lucien gripped her thíghs, spreading them wider. “No bra. Wet. Acting like a fucking innocent.”

He tugged her pànties down slowly—not teasing her, but savoring it, watching the way her slick clung to the thin fabric as he pulled it away. He balled them in one fist and stuffed them in the drawer behind him without breaking eye contact.

“Keep quiet,” he warned, voice low and sharp.

Ysbelle nodded, heart pounding so hard she felt it in her throat.

He unzipped his slacks—one hand freeing himself, the other spreading her folds with practiced control. His fingers dipped into her heat—slow, dragging—then drew upward to circle her clit, firm and relentless.

She shuddered.

Lucien leaned in, his lips just brushing hers. “You’re soaking my fingers and I haven’t even fvcked you yet.”

“Then do it,” she whispered. “Before I scream and someone comes running.”

That broke him.

He pushed inside her in one deep, brutal thrust that made her cry out—but he was already covering her mouth with his hand, holding her there, buried deep. The stretch stole her breath, made her eyes roll back.

He filled her completely. Thick, hot, perfect.

“Fvck,” he hissed against her jaw. “You feel better than I ever imagined.”

He began to move—slow at first, each thrust deliberate, grinding against her like he wanted to memorize the feel of her. Her hands clutched at his back, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt.

The pace built fast.

He fvcked her hard, holding one of her legs over his shoulder, the desk slamming softly into the wall behind with each snap of his hips. His hand slid up her shirt, tugging it down to expose one bréast. He sucked her nípple into his mouth, biting gently, and she arched into him.

Ysbelle tried to stay quiet—she tried—but a high, choked móan escaped her lips as he hit just the right spot. He clamped a hand over her mouth again, sweat slicking his brow.

“You love this, don’t you?” he groaned. “Being bent over your professor’s desk like a fvcking slut while his assistant’s down the hall.”

She nodded, wild-eyed, gasping under his palm.

Every thrust drove deeper, more intense. The room spun. The desk creaked. His balls slapped against her soaked skin. Her thíghs trembled around him, stomach tightening, the órgasm tearing through her before she could brace for it.

Lucien felt it—her walls fluttering around him—and grunted low in her ear.

“Fvck, you’re gonna make me—”

He didn’t pull out.

He drove into her harder, twice more, before burying himself deep and groaning her name into her neck. Hot spurts filled her, thick and endless, his body shaking with the force of it.

They stayed like that for a moment—her legs wrapped around him, their bodies trembling, stuck in the sticky, dangerous aftermath.

Then—footsteps outside the office.

Lucien straightened, fast. Grabbed a folder. Adjusted his shirt, breath ragged.

“You have to go.”

Ysbelle slid off the desk on shaky legs, reaching for her panties—only to find them gone.

She looked at him.

He smirked, holding the balled-up lace in his hand. “I’ll keep these.”