PROFESSOR'S PET pt 3

Wednesday, 10:07 a.m.

I’m already in the front row when the first students trickle in, pulse hammering between my thighs so hard I have to grip the edge of the desk. I haven’t come since Monday. He didn’t give me permission. Two days of relentless, aching denial—mornings where I woke up soaked and grinding against nothing, showers where I had to brace against the tile and recite poetry aloud to keep from circling my clit, nights riding my pillow until it was drenched while his name spilled from my lips like a plea.

Today I’m wearing a loose, flowing skirt. Mistake. The fabric brushes my bare skin with every shift, reminding me how swollen and sensitive I am. I haven’t been dry since I remembered his promise: nothing under these trousers at all.

The room fills. I don’t look at anyone. I can’t.

10:09.

The door opens.

He strides in like he commands gravity itself. Polished black oxfords first, then long legs in tailored charcoal trousers that hug every powerful line. No belt today—just the trousers sitting low on his hips. A thin black sweater clings to his torso, cashmere soft enough that the outline of his flat nipples shows when the light hits. Hair swept back messily, like fingers have already been through it.

He isn’t wearing anything underneath. He promised.

He writes “Crashaw – The Weeper” on the board. Reaches low to write the title. The trousers pull tight across his ass.

God.

A flash of skin when he shifts. The low waistband dips just enough to reveal the shadowed V of his hips. No waistband of briefs. Nothing. Just him.

My cunt floods instantly, clenching so hard slick drips straight down my inner thighs in a warm trail. My nipples harden against the soft fabric of my top, aching points visible to anyone looking.

He turns, eyes sweeping the room, pausing on me for half a heartbeat. His mouth curves—just barely—then he starts lecturing.

Every movement is designed to ruin me.

He paces. The trousers shift with each step, outlining the heavy swing of his cock when he turns. When he leans on the desk to gesture, the fabric pulls taut in front, revealing the thick, half-hard line of him.

He says words like “tears” and “liquor” and “flow” and “sacred thirst” and I’m throbbing so steadily that slick has soaked the seat beneath me, warm and shameless.

Halfway through he calls on me again.

“Miss Harper. Come to the board.”

I stand. The skirt does nothing to hide how flushed I am—nipples straining, thighs trembling. Slick glistens high on my inner thighs. Gasps ripple through the room. Someone whispers “oh my god.”

I don’t care.

I walk to the front. He hands me the marker, steps aside.

“Write the final stanza. Large. Legible.”

I write. My hand shakes. He stands behind me, close enough that his chest brushes my back every time he breathes. His scent overwhelms me—cedar, smoke, raw arousal.

When I finish he doesn’t step away.

He leans in, lips at my ear, voice so low only I can hear.

“Stay right there.”

Then louder, to the class: “Everyone, open your books to page 217. Read silently until the end of the period. No discussion. No notes. Just read.”

Murmurs. Pages rustling. He waits until they obey.

Then he moves.

He steps in front of me, back to the class, facing me. His eyes lock on mine.

Slowly, deliberately, he reaches down with one hand.

Unbuttons the fly of his trousers.

Pulls the zipper down tooth by tooth.

Parts the fabric.

All the way.

Until his cock is fully exposed—thick, flushed, already leaking. The trousers frame him perfectly, shaft curving up heavy and hard, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

He spreads his stance wider, shoes planted.

Then he grabs my wrist, guides my hand to him.

I touch him for the first time since Monday.

He’s scorching hot, velvet over steel, pulsing in my palm the second my fingers close around him. I stroke once, twice—he’s that ready. Pre-cum coats my fingers instantly, slick and warm.

His face doesn’t change. He looks calm, authoritative, while I stroke him in front of thirty silent students.

He rocks subtly into my grip, fucking my hand in tiny thrusts. His pre-cum runs down my wrist, drips onto the floor.

I twist my palm over the head, thumb spreading the slick. His breath catches—just once. His eyes darken.

He mouths: More.

I add my other hand. Grip him tighter. Pump slow and firm. My thumb teases the underside of the crown on every upstroke.

His thighs start to tense.

He reaches down with one hand, slips it under my loose skirt, finds my bare cunt instantly.

Pushes two thick fingers inside me without warning.

We both stifle a sound.

I’m burning hot, drenched, clenching around him as he sinks deep. The angle is perfect—standing, his back to the class, trousers hiding where his fingers disappear into me.

No one can see. But they know. The room is dead silent except for wet sounds and our breathing.

He starts to move.

Tiny curls of his fingers, barely visible, fucking me in shallow thrusts. My cunt milks him greedily. His thumb finds my clit, circles once.

I’m going to come in seconds.

He knows.

He leans forward like he’s checking my writing on the board, murmurs against my neck.

“Not yet.”

Then he crooks his fingers hard—once, twice—and I feel myself start to unravel.

My walls spasm around his fingers, slick flooding out, running down his wrist and my thighs. My knees buckle slightly; I grip the board ledge to stay upright. My face stays composed, but my eyes flutter shut.

The orgasm rolls through me in waves, silent except for the wet squelch every time he pumps into me.

When it fades he pulls his fingers out slowly, shiny and dripping.

He lets his trousers fall closed, zips up with deliberate care.

Turns to the class.

“Time. Pack up quietly and leave. Door locks behind the last person.”

They scramble out, stunned, avoiding eye contact—some flushed, some wide-eyed, a few openly staring at the bulge still straining his trousers. The door clicks shut. Deadbolt slams home with that final, possessive sound that now owns me completely.

He turns back to me.

My skirt is still hiked from his touch, thighs soaked, a thick strand of slick stretching from my cunt to my knee. I’m breathing like I’ve run miles, chest heaving, every nerve on fire.

Valentin doesn’t speak. He just looks at me—eyes dark, predatory, lips parted from holding back his own release. Then he sinks, slow and deliberate, to his knees right there on the lecture hall carpet.

No warning.

His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He pushes my skirt up to my waist, spreads my thighs wider, and buries his face between them in one ruthless motion.

I cry out—sharp, broken, the sound echoing off the empty seats. My hands fly to his hair, fingers twisting in the messy strands, pulling as he seals his mouth over my clit and sucks hard.

He doesn’t ease in. He devours.

Tongue plunging deep, then dragging up to circle my clit, teeth grazing just enough to make me shake. He drinks me down like he’s starved—loud, wet sounds filling the room, obscene and perfect. My slick coats his chin, drips down his throat, soaks the collar of his sweater. His stubble burns my inner thighs in the best way, red marks blooming where he presses harder.

He pulls back just long enough to growl, voice rough and wrecked.

“Fuck my face, Elena. Use me.”

Then he dives back in, hands sliding to my ass, pulling me forward onto his tongue.

I lose it.

I grind against his mouth hard, hips rolling, riding his face like I’ve fantasized for months. He takes every desperate thrust—groaning into me, the vibrations shooting straight through my clit. His tongue flattens, letting me drag my swollen folds over it, nose buried against my clit on every forward push.

One of his hands slips between his own thighs—I hear the zipper again, the wet sound of him stroking himself fast and rough, matching my rhythm. He’s dripping already—our combined mess slicking his fist.

I’m not going to last.

“Professor—God—I’m—”

He hums deep against my clit, encouraging, and sucks hard.

I come with a shattered scream that rings through the entire hall, hips jerking violently, gushing over his tongue. He drinks every pulse, tongue fucking me through it, drawing out every aftershock until I’m trembling, thighs clamped around his head, whimpering his name.

Only then does he pull back slowly—lips dragging, tongue licking me clean from entrance to clit, gathering every drop. He tucks himself away with shaky fingers, even though he’s still hard and straining.

He stands, legs unsteady for a second, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand—slow, deliberate, licking his lips after like he’s savoring the taste of me.

His voice is gravel-rough, utterly ruined.

“Friday,” he says, dark promise dripping from every word. “Big auditorium. Guest lecture. Two hundred seats.”

He smooths his trousers down—fabric clinging to his wet thighs—then runs a hand through his hair to restore some order.

“Front row, center. Wear something loose. Easy to pull aside.”

He walks to the door on long, slightly unsteady legs, unlocks it, pauses with his hand on the handle.

“Oh, and Elena?”

I look up from where I’m slumped against the board, absolutely wrecked—face flushed, lips bitten raw, cunt still pulsing at the sight of him.

“You still don’t have permission to come until I say. Not once. Not even in your sleep. If you do, I’ll know. And I’ll tie you to the front-row seat on Friday, edge you for the entire lecture, and send you home still dripping.”

He smiles—slow, wicked, devastating.

“Dream about my tongue tonight, darling. Dream about how deep I can bury it when there’s an audience watching every second.”

The door closes softly behind him.

I slide down the board until I’m sitting on the floor, head in my hands, clit throbbing against the soaked seat, thighs aching so bad I can barely breathe.

Friday feels like a lifetime away.

And I’ve never wanted to suffer this beautifully for anyone in my life.