PROFESSOR'S PET

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

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

Professor Valentina Cross. Thirty-four. The woman who owns every drop of blood in my veins.

I arrive twenty-five minutes early, claim the same seat, third row, left aisle, so I can watch her walk in. Notebook open, pen ready, like I give a damn about Byron. I’m already half-hard just from the anticipation.

The hall fills. Then the door opens and the air turns thick, electric.

She stalks in on four-inch heels that click like a metronome straight to my cock. Charcoal pencil skirt, slit riding high enough to flash black lace stocking tops when she moves. Ivory silk blouse stretched tight across her tits, nipples faintly visible when the light hits right. Hair twisted up, a few strands begging to be yanked free.

She writes the date on the board. The skirt parts. I bite back a groan.

Class starts. Her voice low, smoky, clipped British, slides over words like “desire” and “consummation” and I’m instantly leaking into my boxers. I don’t hide it anymore. I stare openly while she paces, skirt fluttering, tits shifting under silk.

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

She locks the door after class, straddles me in the chair, blouse falling open, grinding on my lap while I suck bruises into her cleavage. Or bent over the podium, skirt flipped, my tongue buried in her soaked cunt until her knees buckle. Or under her desk during office hours, her thighs clamped around my ears while I lick her clit in slow, merciless circles until she comes silently, fingers twisted in my hair.

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

She knows. Has to. The way her eyes find me, linger, darken.

Today she calls me.

“Mr. Harper.”

The way she says my name is pure sex. My cock jerks so hard I grip the desk.

She leans against the front desk, arms folding under her breasts, blouse straining. “What is Byron worshipping?”

I stammer something about beauty that hurts. She repeats “hurts” softly, eyes flicking to the obscene tent in my jeans, then back up.

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

Then she walks toward me, slow, deliberate. Stops beside my chair. Her perfume floods me, burnt vanilla and raw want.

She leans down, hair curtaining us, lips barely brushing my ear.

“Stay after.”

Two words. My balls tighten so fast I nearly come in my pants.

She straightens, walks away, slit flashing lace. The rest of the lecture is torture. Every word drips filth. I’m dripping too—pre-cum soaking through denim, warm and sticky.

When the room empties, she locks the door.

Deadbolt. Click.

The sound ricochets through the empty hall like a gunshot. My pulse answers it, hammering so hard I feel it in my teeth.

She doesn’t move. Just stands there at the front of the room, shoulders back, chin tilted, watching me with the lazy confidence of someone who already owns every inch of me. The overhead lights catch the gloss on her lower lip and turn it into a wet invitation.

I rise on legs that feel borrowed. My cock is so hard it hurts, jutting against my zipper like it’s trying to claw its way to her. Every step is torture; the soaked denim drags over the head with every shift of my hips, spreading the slick mess wider.

She waits until I’m three feet away, then circles me, slow, predatory. The click of her heels is the only sound. I feel her behind me before she touches me, the heat of her body, the faint brush of silk against my back. Her fingertips start at the base of my neck, nails scraping lightly, dragging down the line of my spine. Gooseflesh erupts everywhere she touches. When she reaches the waistband of my jeans she doesn’t stop; she slips two fingers just beneath, tracing the dimples above my ass, and I shudder so hard my knees nearly buckle.

“You’ve been a filthy little distraction, Ethan,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear. Her accent curls around every syllable like smoke. “Sitting there every class with this desperate cock leaking for me. Did you think I wouldn’t notice the wet spots? Did you think I couldn’t smell how badly you wanted to bend me over the podium and shove yourself inside me?”

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

Her hand slides around my waist, palm flat against my stomach, fingers splayed wide. She presses her whole body against my back; her tits crush into my shoulder blades, nipples hard points through silk and cotton. I feel the heat of her cunt through her skirt, just barely grazing the curve of my ass.

Then her hand drops lower.

She cups me through my jeans, slow and deliberate, fingers curling around the full, aching length. I’m so wet the fabric is slick under her palm. She squeezes, once, twice, rolling her wrist so the seam drags over the sensitive head. A choked sound rips out of me.

“Christ—”

“Language,” she purrs, and bites the lobe of my ear, sharp enough that I jerk forward into her grip. She holds me there, pinned between her hand and her teeth, stroking me through denim with slow, cruel precision. “Such a needy little slut. You’ve been dripping for me all semester. Tell me how many times you’ve come with my name in your mouth.”

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

She hums approval and squeezes harder, thumb swiping over the soaked spot at the tip. “Good boy.”

Then her hand is gone and the loss is so sudden I actually whine, hips chasing air.

She steps in front of me, hops up onto the wide oak desk like it’s a throne. The pencil skirt rides high; the slit tears open another inch on its own, baring the lace tops of her stockings and the soft, pale skin above. She spreads her thighs slowly, deliberately, until the skirt can’t hide anything anymore.

No panties. Just black garter straps framing her bare cunt, lips swollen and shining, slick dripping down to the edge of the desk in a single, obscene strand.

My mouth floods with saliva. My cock jerks so hard it slaps against my stomach under the denim.

“Look at me,” she orders, voice low.

I drag my eyes up. Her pupils are blown wide, only a thin ring of green left. She reaches up with deliberate slowness and pulls the single pin from her hair. The knot unravels; thick, dark waves tumble down over her shoulders, brushing the tops of her breasts. She shakes it out, watching my face, and the motion makes her tits shift under the silk.

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

“Yes.” My voice cracks like I’m fourteen again.

“You want to shove this pretty cock inside me and pound me until I scream your name into these empty seats.”

“God, yes….”

“You want to feel me come around you, milk every drop while I claw your back raw.”

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

She smiles, slow and filthy, and leans back on her elbows. The position arches her back, thrusts her tits forward, blouse pulling so tight I can see the outline of her nipples straining against lace. She spreads her legs wider, one heel braced on the edge of the desk, and the movement makes her cunt open for me, pink and dripping.

One elegant finger trails down her sternum, between her breasts, over the silk covering her stomach, until it reaches the place where her skirt is bunched at her hips. She dips lower, parts her folds with two fingers, and circles her clit once, twice, slow enough that I can hear how wet she is.

My knees nearly give out.

“Look how soaked I am for you, Ethan,” she whispers. “I’ve been dripping all lecture, thinking about locking this door and making you beg.”

She slides one finger inside herself, then two, pumping lazily, hips rolling in tiny circles. Her breath hitches; her head falls back, exposing the long column of her throat. A low moan slips out, raw and real.

I take a helpless step forward.

She stops instantly, fingers still buried deep, and fixes me with a look sharp enough to cut.

“Uh-uh. Hands behind your back.”

I obey before I think, wrists crossing at the small of my back like she tied them there.

She starts moving again, fucking herself slowly, eyes locked on mine. Her free hand slips inside her blouse, cups one breast, pinches the nipple hard enough that she gasps. The silk darkens where her fingers press.

“I’m going to come just like this,” she says, voice trembling on the edge. “Watching you throb and leak and suffer. And you’re going to stand there and take it.”

Her hips jerk. Her thighs start to shake. The wet sounds get louder, obscene in the quiet room.

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

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

She comes with a sharp, silent cry, back arching off the desk, cunt clenching around her fingers in waves. Clear fluid spills over her hand, drips onto the polished wood beneath her. Her whole body shudders for long seconds, breath ragged, cheeks flushed dark.

When the tremors fade she sits up slowly, licks her fingers clean without breaking eye contact, tongue curling around each digit like she’s savoring me.

Then she slides off the desk, rights her skirt with trembling hands, and smooths her hair back into something resembling order.

She walks to me on unsteady legs, cups my jaw with the hand that was just inside her; I can smell myself on her skin, taste her on the air between us.

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

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

Her thumb swipes across my lower lip, pressing the scent of her into my mouth.

“Tonight you edge five times, Ethan. 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.”

She steps back, turns, unlocks the door.

Just before it closes behind her she glances over her shoulder, eyes glittering.

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

The door shuts.

I stay frozen, cock pulsing so hard I can see it jerk with every heartbeat, a thick strand of pre-cum now leaking straight through the denim and dripping onto the floor between my feet.

Monday is an eternity away.

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