PROFESSOR'S PET pt 3

I’m already in the front row when the first students trickle in, heart jackhammering against my ribs. I haven’t come since Monday. She didn’t give me permission. Two days of constant, throbbing denial, morning wood that never went down, showers where I had to grip the wall and count backward from a hundred to keep from stroking, nights humping the mattress like an animal while her name tore out of my throat.

Today I’m wearing loose gray sweatpants. Mistake. The outline of my cock is obscene even soft, and I haven’t been soft since I woke up thinking about her promise: nothing under the skirt at all.

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

10:09.

The door opens.

She walks in like she owns the air itself. Black stilettos first, then legs in sheer black stockings that stop mid-thigh with a wide lace band. No garter today just the stockings and a skirt so short it’s criminal. Deep burgundy wool, tight, barely covering the curve where thigh meets ass. A thin black sweater clings to her torso, cashmere soft enough that her nipples are already poking through, hard and obvious. Hair in a low, messy knot, strands escaping like she’s already been fucked.

She doesn’t wear panties. She promised.

She writes “Crashaw – The Weeper” on the board. Bends just enough to write low. The skirt rides up in back.

Jesus Christ.

A flash of bare skin. The lower curve of her ass. The shadowed split between her cheeks. No fabric. Nothing. Just her.

My cock floods instantly, thickening so fast it aches. Pre-cum beads and soaks straight through the sweatpants in seconds, a dark circle spreading at the tip.

She turns, eyes sweeping the room, pausing on me for half a heartbeat. Her lips curve—just barely—then she starts lecturing.

Every movement is designed to kill me.

She paces. The skirt flutters with each step, flashing the lace tops of her stockings, the soft skin above. When she leans on the desk to gesture, the hem lifts another inch in back. I can see the bottom swell of her ass cheeks every time she shifts weight.

She says words like “tears” and “liquor” and “flow” and “sacred thirst” and I’m leaking so steadily the wet spot has grown to the size of a fist, slick fabric clinging to the head of my cock.

Halfway through she calls on me again.

“Mr. Harper. Come to the board.”

I stand. The sweatpants do nothing to hide it. My cock juts straight out, heavy and dripping, the outline unmistakable. Wet gray fabric plastered to every vein. Gasps ripple through the room. Someone mutters “fuck.”

I don’t care.

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

“Write the final stanza. Large. Legible.”

I write. My hand shakes. She stands behind me, close enough that her tits brush my back every time she breathes. Her scent floods me—burnt vanilla, wet cunt.

When I finish she doesn’t step away.

She 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. She waits until they obey.

Then she moves.

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

Slowly, deliberately, she reaches under her skirt with both hands.

Lifts the hem.

All the way.

Until the skirt is bunched at her waist.

Her cunt is bare, swollen, glistening. Lips parted, clit peeking, slick already shining on her inner thighs.

She spreads her legs wider, heels planted.

Then she grabs my wrist, guides my hand between her thighs.

I touch her for the first time since Monday.

She’s scorching hot, soaked, dripping down my fingers the second they make contact. I slide two inside her without resistance—she’s that ready. Her walls flutter around me, greedy.

Her face doesn’t change. She looks calm, professional, while I finger-fuck her in front of thirty silent students.

She rocks subtly, fucking herself on my hand. Her juice runs down my wrist, drips onto the floor.

I curl my fingers, find that spot inside her that makes her breath hitch—just once. Her eyes flutter.

She mouths: More.

I add a third finger. Stretch her. Pump slow and deep. My thumb finds her clit, circles.

Her thighs start to tremble.

She reaches down with one hand, grabs the waistband of my sweatpants, yanks it down just enough to free my cock.

It springs out, angry red, slick with pre-cum. A thick strand swings between us and lands on her stocking.

She wraps her hand around me, strokes once, twice, spreading the mess.

Then she guides me to her entrance.

Pushes back.

Takes me inside her in one slow, silent glide.

We both freeze.

She’s burning hot, impossibly wet, clenching around every inch as I sink balls-deep. The angle is perfect, standing, her back to the class, skirt hiding where we’re joined.

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

She starts to move.

Tiny rolls of her hips, barely visible, fucking me in micro-thrusts. Her cunt milks me rhythmically. My fingers are still inside her alongside my cock now, trapped, feeling myself slide in and out.

I’m going to come in seconds.

She knows.

She leans forward like she’s checking my writing on the board, whispers against my neck.

“Not yet.”

Then she clenches hard—once, twice—and I feel her start to come.

Her walls spasm around my cock and fingers, juice flooding out, running down my balls. Her knees buckle slightly; she grips the board ledge to stay upright. Her face stays composed, but her eyes roll back.

The orgasm rolls through her in waves, silent except for the wet squelch every time she grinds back.

When it fades she pulls off me slowly, my cock slipping out shiny and raging.

She lets the skirt fall back into place.

Turns to the class.

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

They scramble out, stunned, avoiding eye contact—some faces flushed, some wide-eyed, a few openly staring at the place where we were joined seconds ago. The door clicks shut. Deadbolt slams home with that final, possessive sound that now lives rent-free in my head.

She turns back to me.

My cock is still out, raging hard, glistening with her slick, a thick strand of mixed fluid stretching from the tip to my thigh. Sweatpants pooled around my upper thighs, trapping my legs. I’m breathing like I’ve run a marathon, chest heaving, every muscle locked.

Valentina doesn’t speak. She just looks at me—eyes dark, predatory, lips swollen from biting back her own moans during that silent, standing fuck. Then she sinks, slow and deliberate, to her knees right there on the lecture hall carpet.

No warning.

Her hands grip my hips, nails digging in hard enough to bruise. She leans forward and takes me to the root in one brutal, wet slide.

I shout—raw, broken, the sound ricocheting off the empty seats. My hands fly to her hair, fingers twisting in that messy knot, pulling strands free as she seals her lips around the base and swallows around my cock.

She doesn’t ease in. She attacks.

Head snapping back and forth, throat opening for me on every forward plunge, gagging herself deliberately—wet, choking sounds filling the room like music. Spit pours from her mouth, thick ropes of it coating my shaft, running down over my balls, dripping onto the floor between my spread knees. Her mascara starts to run in black streaks down her cheeks, tears welling from the force of it, but her eyes stay locked on mine—hungry, triumphant, utterly filthy.

She pulls off just long enough to gasp, spit stringing from her swollen lips to my cockhead.

“Fuck my face, Ethan. Use me.”

Then she dives back down, hands sliding to my ass, pulling me forward.

I lose it.

I thrust into her mouth hard, hips snapping, fucking her throat like it’s her cunt. She takes every brutal stroke—gagging, moaning around me, the vibrations shooting straight to my spine. Her tongue flattens along the underside, swirling on every pull back, lips stretched obscenely wide.

One of her hands slips between her own thighs. I hear the wet sounds of her fingers plunging into her soaked pussy, matching my rhythm. She’s dripping again already, our combined mess running down her legs, soaking the lace tops of her stockings.

I’m not going to last.

“Professor, fuck, I’m….”

She hums around me, deep and encouraging, and slams her face forward until her nose is buried in my pubic bone.

I come with a guttural roar that echoes through the entire hall, hips jerking violently, cock pulsing so hard it hurts. Thick, endless ropes flood her throat. She swallows greedily, throat working around the head, milking me with every contraction. Some spills out the corners of her mouth anyway, creamy white against her red lipstick, dripping down her chin onto her sweater, staining the cashmere dark.

She keeps sucking through it, softer now, drawing out every aftershock until I’m shaking, knees buckling, whimpering her name like a prayer.

Only then does she pull off slowly, lips dragging, tongue licking me clean from root to tip, gathering every drop. She tucks me back into the sweatpants with gentle fingers, even though I’m still half-hard and twitching.

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

Her voice is wrecked, low and smoky.

“Friday,” she says, husky promise dripping from every syllable. “Big auditorium. Guest lecture. Two hundred seats.”

She smooths her tiny skirt down—fabric clinging to her wet thighs—then fingers her hair back into something resembling order.

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

She walks to the door on shaky legs, unlocks it, pauses with her hand on the handle.

“Oh, and Ethan?”

I look up from the floor, absolutely wrecked, face flushed, lips bitten raw, cock already stirring again at the sight of her.

“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 full.”

She smiles, slow, wicked, devastating.

“Dream about my throat tonight, darling. Dream about how deep I can take you when there’s an audience watching every second.”

The door closes softly behind her.

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, head in my hands, cock throbbing against the soaked fabric, balls 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.