PROFESSOR'S PET

I turned eighteen six weeks ago, and that’s when the lying stopped.

I’m not in British Lit 301 for the credits. I’m here for him.

Professor Valentin Cross. Thirty-four. The man who owns every desperate pulse between my thighs.

I arrive twenty-five minutes early, claim the same seat—third row, left aisle—so I can watch him stride in. Notebook open, skirt smoothed down, like I give a damn about Byron. I’m already soaked just from the anticipation, thighs pressing together under the desk to ease the ache.

The hall fills. Then the door opens and the air shifts, heavy, charged.

He strides in wearing polished oxfords that echo like a promise straight to my clit. Tailored charcoal trousers hugging long legs, belt buckle glinting. Crisp white shirt stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled once to reveal strong forearms dusted with dark hair. Tie loosened just enough to hint at the skin beneath. Hair swept back, a few strands falling forward like they’re begging for my fingers.

He writes the date on the board. The fabric pulls tight across his ass. I swallow a whimper.

Class starts. His voice—deep, smooth, with that clipped British edge—rolls over words like “desire” and “consummation” and I’m instantly throbbing, slick coating the inside of my thighs. I don’t hide it anymore. I stare openly while he paces, trousers shifting over the thick line of his cock when he turns.

I’ve fucked him in my head a hundred times.

He locks the door after class, pins me against it, tie wrapped around my wrists while he grinds that hard length against my soaked panties. Or bent over the podium, trousers shoved down, his tongue dragging slow and filthy up my slit until I’m shaking. Or under his desk during office hours, his head between my thighs, mouth relentless on my clit while I bite my lip bloody to stay quiet.

I’ve come whispering his name into my pillow so many nights my roommate probably thinks I’m possessed.

He knows. Has to. The way his eyes find me, linger, darken.

Today he calls on me.

“Miss Harper.”

The way he says my name is pure sin. My cunt clenches so hard I grip the desk.

He leans against the front desk, arms crossing over his chest, shirt pulling tight across his pecs. “What is Byron worshipping?”

I stammer something about beauty that hurts. He repeats “hurts” low, eyes flicking to the way I’m shifting in my seat, thighs rubbing slick together, then back up.

“Pain and pleasure, Elena. So intertwined you can’t tell them apart.”

Then he walks toward me, slow, deliberate. Stops beside my chair. His cologne floods me—cedar and smoke and raw dominance.

He leans down, hair brushing my cheek, lips barely grazing my ear.

“Stay after.”

Two words. My clit throbs so violently I nearly come right there.

He straightens, walks away, trousers outlining the heavy curve of his cock. The rest of the lecture is agony. Every word drips sex. I’m dripping too—wetness soaking through my panties, warm and shameless.

When the room empties, he locks the door.

Deadbolt. Click.

The sound slams through the empty hall like a claim. My pulse answers, pounding between my legs so hard I feel it in my nipples.

He doesn’t move. Just stands at the front, shoulders squared, chin tilted, watching me with the lazy certainty of someone who already owns every inch of me. The overhead lights catch the stubble along his jaw and turn it into sharp invitation.

I rise on legs that feel liquid. My cunt is so swollen it aches, slick trailing down my inner thigh with every step. Every shift of my skirt drags damp lace over my clit, spreading the mess wider.

He waits until I’m three feet away, then circles me, slow, predatory. The thud of his shoes is the only sound. I feel him behind me before he touches, the heat of his body, the faint brush of cotton against my back. His fingertips start at the base of my neck, nails scraping lightly down my spine. Gooseflesh explodes everywhere. When he reaches the hem of my skirt he doesn’t stop; he slips two fingers just beneath, tracing the curve where thigh meets ass, and I shudder so hard my breath catches.

“You’ve been a wicked little distraction, Elena,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. His accent coils around every word like velvet rope. “Sitting there every class with this greedy cunt dripping for me. Did you think I wouldn’t notice the way you squirm? Did you think I couldn’t smell how badly you wanted me to bend you over the desk and bury myself inside you?”

I try to answer. All that comes out is a broken gasp.

His hand slides around my waist, palm flat against my stomach, fingers splayed wide. He presses his whole body against my back; his chest hard against my shoulder blades, the thick ridge of his cock nestled against my ass. I feel the heat of it through fabric, heavy and insistent.

Then his hand drops lower.

He cups me through my skirt, slow and deliberate, fingers pressing the soaked lace into my folds. I’m so wet the fabric clings obscenely. He squeezes, once, twice, rolling his wrist so the seam drags over my clit. A desperate sound tears out of me.

“Fuck—”

“Language,” he growls, and bites the lobe of my ear, sharp enough that I jerk back into his grip. He holds me there, pinned between his hand and his teeth, stroking me through lace with slow, ruthless precision. “Such a needy little thing. You’ve been soaking for me all semester. Tell me how many times you’ve come with my name on your tongue.”

“Every—every night,” I rasp. “Sometimes… mornings too. In the shower. God, Professor—”

He hums approval and presses harder, thumb circling my clit through the fabric. “Good girl.”

Then his hand is gone and the loss is so sudden I actually whimper, hips chasing nothing.

He steps in front of me, lifts himself onto the wide oak desk like it belongs to him. Trousers pull tight; the thick outline of his cock strains against the zipper, a dark wet spot blooming at the tip. He spreads his thighs slowly, deliberately, until the fabric can’t hide anything anymore.

No briefs. Just the heavy length of him outlined, head flushed dark and leaking through the charcoal wool.

My mouth waters. My cunt clenches so hard more slick drips down my thigh.

“Look at me,” he orders, voice rough.

I drag my eyes up. His pupils are blown, only a thin ring of green left. He reaches up with deliberate slowness and loosens his tie completely, pulls it free. The motion makes his shirt gape, revealing the strong column of his throat and a hint of dark hair beneath.

“You want to ride me right here,” he says. It isn’t a question.

“Yes.” My voice breaks.

“You want to sink down on this cock and fuck me until I’m the one begging.”

“God, yes—”

“You want to feel me come inside you, flood you while I grip your hips hard enough to bruise.”

I nod frantically, hands clenched at my sides so hard my nails bite into my palms.

He smiles, slow and filthy, and leans back on his elbows. The position pulls his shirt tight across his chest, trousers straining further over the rigid length of him. He spreads his legs wider, one foot braced on the desk edge, and the movement makes the wet spot spread.

One large hand trails down his chest, over the buttons, until it reaches the bulge at his groin. He cups himself, squeezes once, and his breath hisses out. Then he unzips slowly, deliberately, freeing his cock. It springs out thick and flushed, head glistening with pre-cum, a single bead trailing down the underside.

My knees nearly give out.

“Look how hard I am for you, Elena,” he says, voice gravel-rough. “I’ve been leaking all lecture, thinking about locking this door and making you beg.”

He wraps his hand around himself, strokes once, twice, slow enough that I can hear the slick sound of pre-cum over skin. His hips roll in tiny circles. His head falls back slightly, exposing his throat. A low groan slips out, raw and real.

I take a helpless step forward.

He stops instantly, hand still gripping the base, and fixes me with a look sharp enough to pin me in place.

“Uh-uh. Hands behind your back.”

I obey instantly, wrists crossing at the small of my back like he bound them.

He starts moving again, stroking himself slowly, eyes locked on mine. His free hand slips inside his open shirt, pinches one flat nipple hard enough that he grunts. The fabric darkens where pre-cum smears.

“I’m going to come just like this,” he says, voice straining. “Watching you throb and drip and suffer. And you’re going to stand there and take it.”

His hips jerk. His thighs tense. The wet sounds get louder, obscene in the quiet room.

“Please,” I choke out. “Please let me—”

“No.” The word cracks like a command. “You watch.”

He comes with a low, guttural growl, back arching off the desk, cock pulsing in his fist in thick ropes that stripe his shirt and drip onto the polished wood beneath him. His whole body shudders for long seconds, breath ragged, jaw clenched.

When the spasms fade he sits up slowly, swipes a thumb through the mess on his abs, and licks it clean without breaking eye contact, tongue deliberate.

Then he tucks himself away, zips up with still-unsteady hands, and straightens his tie.

He walks to me on long legs, cups my jaw with the hand that was just wrapped around his cock; I can smell him on his skin, taste salt and heat on the air between us.

He leans in until his lips brush the corner of my mouth, not quite a kiss.

“Monday,” he murmurs. “Front row. You will be perfect. You will not touch yourself, no matter how badly it hurts. And every time you ache for me, you’ll remember exactly how I taste when I come watching you break.”

His thumb swipes across my lower lip, pressing the scent of him into my mouth.

“Tonight you edge five times, Elena. Five. Bring yourself right to the edge and stop. If you come even once, I’ll know. And I’ll make you wait a month.”

He steps back, turns, unlocks the door.

Just before it closes behind him he glances over his shoulder, eyes dark and glittering.

“Dream of me dripping down your thighs, darling.”

The door shuts.

I stay frozen, cunt pulsing so hard I can feel every heartbeat in my clit, a thick strand of slick now trailing down my leg and pooling in my heel.

Monday is an eternity away.

And I’ve never been more desperate to be good in my entire life.