My Dirty Professor

Professor Clinton Harry was the kind of man students either feared or fantasized about.

At thirty-eight, he was tall, precise, and always a little too put together. His ties were sharp. His lectures are sharper. But behind that crisp Oxford shirt and those cold eyes was something no student could quite name. Authority, yes. Control, absolutely. But there was something darker in the way he said your name when you got an answer wrong. Something intimate in the way he tapped his fingers against the edge of his desk as if daring someone to try him.

And Jenson—well, Jenson wanted to be tried.

He had never said it out loud. He didn’t have to. The way he stared during class when Clinton unbuttoned his cuffs or leaned over the podium said it all. The way he lingered after every session, asking questions he didn’t care about, just to hear that deep voice a little longer.

Jenson was twenty-two, lean and nervous with soft brown eyes and a body built more for begging than fighting. He was smart too, top of the class, but lately… lately his work had been slipping.

Maybe on purpose.

Maybe because he wanted this.

It was Friday. The campus was quiet. Most students were already gone for the weekend, but Jenson had been told to report to Professor Harry’s office at six thirty sharp. His last essay had been borderline disrespectful. Sloppy. Confused. Lazy.

Maybe it was a cry for attention. Maybe it was bait.

He showed up early anyway.

He stood outside the heavy door, staring at the nameplate like it might bite him. Then he knocked.

“Come in,” Clinton’s voice called from inside.

Jenson stepped in. The room was warm and dim, lit mostly by the amber glow of a desk lamp. Books lined the walls. The air smelled like paper and expensive cologne. Clinton sat behind his desk, tie loosened slightly, sleeves rolled up, a red pen in hand.

He didn’t look up right away.

“Close the door.”

Jenson obeyed.

The click of it shutting was too loud. Too final.

Clinton finally looked up. His eyes were unreadable.

“Sit.”

Jenson sat across from him, legs stiff, fingers clenched in his lap.

There was silence for a beat. Then Clinton picked up the paper from his desk. Jenson’s essay. Covered in corrections. Slashes of red ink like wounds.

“Tell me, Jenson,” Clinton said slowly. “What is this?”

Jenson opened his mouth, then closed it. “It was rushed. I had a lot on my plate.”

“That much is clear. Do you think I’m here to waste my time on rushed work?”

“No, sir.”

Clinton stood. Walked slowly around the desk. Jenson’s pulse jumped. The man didn’t stop until he was behind him, one hand resting lightly on the back of Jenson’s chair.

“Stand up.”

Jenson hesitated. Then rose.

Clinton stepped in front of him. Their bodies were inches apart. The professor’s eyes dropped to his mouth, then back up.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

Jenson swallowed. His throat felt tight. “I’m sorry.”

“No. You’re not.” Clinton reached out, brushed a strand of hair from Jenson’s forehead. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Jenson nodded, barely breathing.

“Say it.”

“I wanted it,” he whispered.

“Wanted what?”

“You.”

Clinton’s lips curved into something close to a smile. But it wasn’t kind. It was dangerous.

“Good. Then you’ll take what I give you.”

Jenson’s breath caught.

Clinton leaned in and kissed him.

It was nothing like what Jenson imagined.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was possessive. Harsh. Like Clinton was erasing the space between them and replacing it with heat and control. Jenson melted into it, mouth opening, hands clutching the older man’s waist.

Clinton pulled back and gripped Jenson’s jaw. “Strip.”

Jenson’s hands shook as he obeyed. First the jacket. Then his shirt. His chest was smooth, flushed with nerves. His pants followed, then his briefs, until he was naked under Clinton’s gaze.

“On the desk.”

Jenson turned and leaned over the polished wood. It was cool against his skin. He heard Clinton move behind him. The sound of a belt unbuckling. The slide of a zipper.

Then a warm hand on his back.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited to ruin you?” Clinton said, voice low and rough. “You think I didn’t notice the way you stared. The way you squirmed when I called on you.”

Jenson moaned softly, his cock already hard against the desk.

Clinton’s hand slid down his back, then between his thighs.

“So ready,” he muttered. “So desperate.”

He spit on his fingers and pushed one inside. Jenson gasped, back arching.

“You ever done this before?”

“No,” Jenson whispered.

Clinton stilled. Then he pulled his finger out and leaned forward, his mouth brushing Jenson’s ear.

“Then I’m going to make sure your first time hurts.”

Jenson shuddered.

Clinton slicked himself up and lined his cock against Jenson’s entrance. Then he pushed.

It was slow at first. Pain bloomed across Jenson’s face as he gritted his teeth, gripping the edges of the desk. Clinton groaned behind him, the tightness nearly undoing him.

“You’ll take it,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’ll take all of me.”

And he did.

Inch by inch, Jenson opened around him. Clinton bottomed out with a rough growl, then paused to let him adjust.

“Fuck,” Jenson whimpered.

Clinton grabbed his hips. “No turning back now.”

He pulled back and slammed in again. The desk shook.

Jenson cried out, the pain giving way to heat, pleasure spreading through his limbs like fire. Clinton set a brutal rhythm, hips snapping forward, cock driving deep. Jenson couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak.

Only feel.

The sound of skin slapping, breath gasping, and low groans filled the room.

“You’re mine now,” Clinton growled. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” Jenson moaned, eyes squeezed shut.

Clinton reached around and gripped Jenson’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Come for me.”

Jenson’s legs shook. He let go, crying out as he spilled across the desk, body jerking. Clinton kept fucking him through it, thrusts getting rougher, sloppier.

Then with a deep groan, he came inside him, hips grinding as he emptied himself.

They stayed like that for a moment.

Breathing.

Sweating.

Silent.

Then Clinton pulled out slowly, cock glistening.

Jenson collapsed forward on the desk, skin hot and marked.

Clinton cleaned them both with a handkerchief from his drawer, then helped him dress without a word. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Intimate. Like something had shifted that neither of them would undo.

When Jenson stood to leave, Clinton caught his wrist.

“We’re not done,” he said quietly.

Jenson looked up at him.

“I’ll come back,” he whispered.

Clinton smiled.

“Good.”