CHAPTER 3 - PROFESSOR'S PET

SYLVANA

I couldn't speak. His fingers were moving in that devastating rhythm that made my thoughts scatter, my knees weak, my entire existence narrow to the place where he touched me. The library was still active around us, students passing by the end of the aisle, the soft shuffle of footsteps, the occasional cough or whispered conversation—but Julian had me pinned between the bookshelves, hidden in the shadows.

“I said I missed you” he repeated, kissing my neck slowly…I swallowed hard as I felt his dick throbbing in his trousers then he said "Answer me," he commanded, his teeth grazing my earlobe, biting down just hard enough to make me gasp. His fingers thrust deeper, curling against that spot that made my vision blur. "Are you still wet for me?"

"Yes," I choked out, my hands gripping his shoulders, my nails digging into his jacket. "God, yes, Julian, I've been wet since I left your office. I can't—I can't think about anything else—"

"Good girl."

He kept his fingers moving, slow and deliberate, fucking me with his hand while his mouth traveled down my neck, sucking marks into my skin that I knew would bloom purple by morning. I bit my lip to keep from moaning, my hips rocking helplessly against his palm.

Through the gap in the shelves, I could see the library emptying, the studious students packing up, the stragglers shuffling toward the exit.

I couldn't speak. His fingers were moving in that devastating rhythm that made my thoughts scatter, my knees weak, my entire existence narrow to the place where he touched me. The library was still active around us, students passing by the end of the aisle, the soft shuffle of footsteps, the occasional cough or whispered conversation—but Julian had me pinned between the bookshelves, hidden in the shadows, his body a wall of heat and demand.

"Answer me," he commanded, his teeth grazing my earlobe, biting down just hard enough to make me gasp. His fingers thrust deeper, curling against that spot that made my vision blur. "Are you still wet for me?"

"Yes," I choked out, my hands gripping his shoulders, my nails digging into his jacket. "God, yes, Julian, I've been wet since I left your office. I can't—I can't think about anything else—"

"Good girl."

He kept his fingers moving, slow and deliberate, fucking me with his hand while his mouth traveled down my neck, sucking marks into my skin that I knew would bloom purple by morning. I bit my lip to keep from moaning, my hips rocking helplessly against his palm, chasing the friction I needed.

Through the gap in the shelves, I could see the library emptying, the studious students packing up, the stragglers shuffling toward the exit, the afternoon light fading into evening.

"People are leaving," I whispered, panic and arousal warring in my chest. "Julian, someone will see—"

"Let them," he growled, but then he was moving, pulling his fingers from my pussy with a wet sound that made me flush, grabbing my wrist and dragging me deeper into the stacks, past the rare books section, to a corner I'd never seen before—a dead end, hidden from view, secluded.

He pushed me against the wall, his body crowding mine, and I realized with a jolt that he had keys in his other hand—keys that he'd used to unlock the side door, keys that meant he could keep me here after hours, keys that meant we were alone and he had no intention of letting me go.

"I have spare keys," he murmured against my neck, his hands already working at my blouse, unbuttoning quickly. "I can keep you here as long as I want. All night if I need to. And I think I need to, Sylvana. I think I need to feel you come apart on my hand again before I let you leave."

His mouth found my collarbone, his tongue tracing the ridge, his teeth grazing the tendon there with possessive hunger. His hands were everywhere—under my skirt, pushing my underwear aside, cupping my breasts through my blouse, pinching my nipples until I whimpered. I was already so sensitive from the orgasm he'd given me in his office, from the secret climax I'd had in class, that every touch felt magnified, overwhelming, too much and not enough.

"Julian," I gasped as his fingers found my clit again, rubbing tight circles that made my hips buck. "Please—"

"Please what?" He mocked. "Please make you scream where anyone could hear? Please finger this tight little cunt until you soak my hand? Please make you squirt all over my fingers like you did in my office?"

I moaned, the sound escaping before I could catch it, and he silenced me with his mouth, his tongue sweeping inside, claiming me with a kiss that was all teeth and hunger and demand. His fingers never stopped moving, two of them pushing inside my pussy, curling, stroking, his palm grinding against my clit with every thrust.

The library had gone quiet around us—the last students had left, the main lights clicking off one by one, plunging us into only emergency lamps. We were alone. Truly alone. And Julian took full advantage, his movements becoming rougher, more demanding, his fingers pumping in and out of me with obscene wet sounds that echoed in the silence.

"Look at you," he whispered against my mouth, his eyes dark and wild. "Soaked. Swollen. Clutching my fingers like you'll never let go. You want to come, baby? You want to squirt all over my hand again?"

"Yes," I sobbed, my head falling back against the bookshelf. "Please, Julian, make me cum—"

"Not yet."

He changed his angle, pressing his fingers deeper, finding that spot inside me that made my vision blur, my mouth open in a silent scream. His other hand gripped my breast, pinching my nipple hard through the fabric, rolling it between his fingers until I was trembling, shaking, teetering on the edge but unable to fall over it. He kept me there, suspended in agony and ecstasy, his fingers working me mercilessly, his mouth at my ear whispering filthy encouragement.

"That's it, baby. Let go. Soak my hand. Show me how much you missed me."

He gave me what I needed—his fingers moving faster, his thumb rubbing tight, hard circles on my clit, his other hand pinching and rolling my nipple. The combination was devastating, overwhelming, too much and exactly enough.

"Cum for me," he commanded, his voice a whip crack. "Soak my hand. Squirt for me. Now."

I shattered.

The orgasm crashed through me harder than any before it, my pussy clamping down on his invading fingers, my body convulsing as I squirted—all over his hand, dripping down his wrist, soaking his fingers and my thighs with my release. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, my hips bucking helplessly against his palm as wave after wave of pleasure tore through me, my vision whiting out, my entire existence narrowing to the place where his fingers worked inside me.

He held me through it, his fingers still moving slowly, milking every spasm, every drop, drawing out the climax until I was limp and trembling, draped against him like a ragdoll, my breath coming in sobbing gasps.

When I finally went still, he withdrew his hand slowly, deliberately, his fingers glistening with my arousal in the dim light. I watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, his eyes closing in apparent bliss, his groan vibrating through his chest against my cheek.

But my phone buzzed in my pocket—a text message—and reality crashed back in.

I fumbled for it, my hands shaking, and saw my mother's name on the screen: *Where are you? Dinner at 8. Don't be late.*

"I have to go," I said, panic rising in my chest as I buttoned my blouse with unsteady fingers. "My mom—she's waiting for me. I told her I'd be home by eight."

Julian caught my wrist as his expression darkened. He pressed me back against the wall, his body crowding mine, the hard evidence of his arousal grinding against my hip. "Your mom can wait."

"Julian—"

"I need you now." His voice was rough, desperate, his eyes wild with hunger. "Do you feel what you do to me? Do you feel how fucking desperate I am for you?"

I did. He was hard as steel against me, his cock straining against his trousers, insatiable and demanding. But I thought of my mother, of the questions she'd ask, of the way she already suspected something was different about me lately.

"I'll meet you later," I promised, my voice soft, my hand coming up to cup his jaw, my thumb brushing over his lower lip. "I promise. Tonight. I'll sneak out. Just let me go home first, make an appearance, and then I'll come to you. Wherever you want."

Julian studied my face, searching for deception, finding only earnest desire. He must have seen the truth in my eyes—the same desperate need that was consuming him—because he finally relented, releasing my wrist, stepping back with visible effort. His body screamed in protest, his cock throbbing against his zipper, but he was a man of control. Usually.

"Fine," he said, his voice rough. "But you owe me one, Sylvana. You owe me for leaving me like this."

"I owe you," I agreed, my lips curving in a smile that was part innocent, part temptress. "I'll pay up tonight. I promise."

I straightened my clothes, fixed my hair, and slipped out from between the shelves without a backward glance. I heard the lock click behind me—the side door he'd used his keys on—and knew he was watching me go, his hand probably already wrapped around his cock, thinking of me.

The walk home was a blur, my body still humming, my panties damp against my skin, my mind a chaotic tangle of Julian's fingers and his promises and the debt I now owed him.

I paused in the entryway, my keys still in my hand, my body still thrumming from Julian's touch. Something was different. The furniture had been moved. The curtains were open. Music played softly from the kitchen—jazz, my mother's favorite, the kind of music that meant wine and contemplation and decisions being made.

"Mom?" I called, dropping my bag by the stairs.

"In here, honey!"

I followed the voice to the living room, where my mother stood on a step ladder, adjusting a framed photograph on the wall. Reina Voss looked younger somehow, her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun, her face flushed with exertion and something else—happiness? Hope?

"What's going on?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Reina climbed down, brushing her hands on her jeans, and smiled—a real smile, not the strained version she'd worn for years. "I'm arranging things. Changing things. I think it's time for a fresh start, don't you?"

"Fresh start?"

Mom took a breath, squaring her shoulders. "I want to give marriage a second chance."

I blinked, processing. My parents had divorced when I was twelve, my father disappearing to Europe with his new wife, the wounds still raw even a decade later. "Really? Who's the lucky guy?"

Reina's smile turned secretive, almost girlish. "I'll tell you when the time is right. It's... complicated. But good. Very good." She reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "You look flushed, honey. Are you feeling okay?"

"Fine," I lied, my mind racing. My mother, remarrying? To whom? And why the secrecy? "Just tired. Long day at the library."

"Go rest," mother said, already turning back to her redecorating. "I'll order Thai later. We should celebrate."

I climbed the stairs to my room, my thoughts a chaotic tangle. My mother's news should have been the most shocking thing of the evening. But my body still remembered Julian's fingers inside me, his mouth on my neck, the dangerous thrill of almost being caught.

I locked my bedroom door and leaned against it, my heart pounding. I had promised to meet him. Promised to pay my debt. But the waiting—the hours between now and then—stretched before me like an eternity of ache.

My eyes fell on the wardrobe. I walked toward it slowly, my movements deliberate, my body thrumming with unspent desire. I opened the doors and reached to the back, behind my winter sweaters, my fingers closing around the silicone shaft I'd bought on a whim last year and barely used. It was thick, veined, a pale flesh color that looked nothing like Julian but would have to suffice.

I carried it to my bed and lay back against the pillows, my skirt hiked up, my blouse unbuttoned. The house was quiet below, my mother humming to herself in the kitchen. I turned the dildo on, the vibration low and steady, and ran it over my collarbone, down between my breasts.

I thought of Julian. Of his hands, rough and demanding. Of his voice, low and filthy in my ear. I circled the toy around one nipple, then the other, arching into the sensation, imagining it was his mouth, his tongue, his teeth.

"Julian," I whispered, the name a prayer and a curse.

I traced the toy down my stomach, over the swell of my hip, teasing myself, drawing out the anticipation. I was already wet—had been since the library, since he'd made me squirt on his hand. The memory made me clench, made my thighs tremble.

I brought the dildo to my lips, parting them, sucking the tip into my mouth while my free hand slipped between my legs. I was soaked, dripping, ready. I imagined Julian watching me, his dark eyes hungry, his hand on his cock as I performed for him.

The thought sent a spike of heat through me. I wanted him to see this. Wanted him to hear what he did to me.

I reached for my phone, propping it against my pillow, and opened the voice memo app. My finger hovered over the record button, hesitation warring with arousal. Then I pressed it.

The red dot began to pulse.

I brought the dildo back to my mouth, moaning around it, the sound wet and obscene. I pulled it out with a pop, my breath hitching, and dragged it down my body until it rested against my entrance.

"Thinking of you," I whispered into the microphone, my voice throaty and unrecognizable. "Thinking of your fingers inside me. Your mouth on my neck. The way you look at me like you want to eat me alive."

I pushed the toy inside, slow and torturous, my back arching off the bed at the stretch of it. It wasn't Julian—nothing was Julian—but it was thick, filling, and I was so desperate I could cry.

"God," I moaned, not caring if the recording caught the desperation, the need. "Julian, I need you. I need your cock. I need you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name."

I worked the dildo in and out, my hips rising to meet each thrust, my free hand rubbing tight circles over my clit. The bed creaked. My breath came in ragged gasps. I was close—so close—but I didn't let myself fall over the edge. Not yet. Not without him.

"I'm yours," I whimpered, the toy buried deep, my body trembling on the precipice. "However you want me. Whenever you want me. I'm yours."

I pulled the toy out with a cry of frustration, my orgasm receding just out of reach, leaving me panting and unsatisfied and desperate. Perfect. Exactly how I wanted to be for him. Desperate. Needy. His.

I stopped the recording, my finger shaking. I listened to it once—my own voice a stranger, breathless and begging—and felt a fresh wave of arousal soak my thighs. Then I opened my messages, found Julian's name, and sent the voice memo without allowing myself a second thought.

I lay there, the dildo still slick against my thigh, my body coiled tight as a spring, and waited.

Some minutes later, my phone buzzed.

I grabbed it, my heart in my throat, and stared at the screen. It was a text from Julian: *[ lovely ]*

The word hung there, simple and devastating. No punctuation. No elaboration. Just *lovely*, as if I hadn't just recorded myself fucking a silicone cock and begging for his real one. As if he wasn't somewhere in his office or his apartment, hard and aching and thinking of me.

I stared at the message until the screen went dark. Then I smiled, slow and secret, and reached for the dildo again.

"Maybe not today," I whispered to myself. "But soon."