THE FORBIDDEN TUTOR II

Rhiannon’s legs were still shaking as Professor Zephyr lifted her off the desk and carried her to the wide leather couch in the corner of his home office. Cum dripped down her inner thighs, marking her as his. She straddled him again without being asked, sinking slowly onto his still-hard cock, gasping at the sensitive stretch.

“Elias…” she moaned, using his first name like a secret. Her hips rolled in lazy circles, grinding her clit against him while her walls fluttered around his thickness.

Zephyr gripped her ass, guiding her movements with strong hands. “You’re going to be the end of me,” he growled, thrusting up to meet her. Sweat slicked their bodies as they fucked slower this time — deeper, more intimate. He sucked one of her nipples into his mouth, biting gently while his cock dragged along her inner walls. Rhiannon’s moans filled the room, softer but no less desperate.

Their pace built again until she came a third time, clenching hard around him. Zephyr buried his face between her breasts and spilled inside her once more, groaning her name like a curse and a prayer.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, breathing heavy. The reality of what they had done settled over them like a heavy blanket.

Rhiannon traced the wedding band on his finger, her voice small. “Your wife… does she know you’re like this? So hungry? So… filthy with your words?”

Zephyr’s stormy eyes darkened with guilt. “No. Our sex life is… polite. Routine.” He stroked Rhiannon’s bare back, his touch possessive. “You awaken something in me I thought was dead. The way your mind engages with the poetry first, then your body follows so eagerly. It’s dangerous.”

Over the next ten days, their tutoring sessions became a drug. They still discussed literature, but every lesson dripped with subtext. One afternoon, while analyzing the raw lust in John Donne’s erotic verses, Zephyr had Rhiannon bent over the same desk, skirt flipped up, as he read lines aloud and fucked her slow and deep from behind.

“‘License my roving hands, and let them go…’” he recited, voice rough, thrusting with every comma. His fingers dug into her hips. “Tell me what it means, Rhiannon.”

“It means… fuck… touch me everywhere, Professor,” she gasped, pushing back onto his cock. He rewarded her by reaching around to rub her clit until she came, soaking his balls.

Another session started with Sappho’s fragments on desire. By the end, Rhiannon was on her knees, throat working around his thick cock while he graded her latest essay. “Swallow every inch like a good student,” he commanded, fucking her face gently. When he came, she drank it all, looking up at him with teary, adoring eyes.

But the emotional weight grew heavier.

One rainy evening, after Zephyr had eaten her pussy for nearly forty minutes — making her squirt across his tongue twice — Rhiannon curled against his chest, tears mixing with sweat.

“I feel so guilty,” she whispered. “You’re married. I’m your student. This isn’t just sex anymore. I think about you constantly. The poems, your voice, the way you make me feel seen… wanted. I’m falling for you, Elias. And it terrifies me.”

Zephyr held her tighter, his own conflict raging. At thirty-eight, he had built a stable life — a respected career, a wife who had supported him through his PhD. Yet Rhiannon’s fresh hunger, her brilliant mind, and the way her body responded to every lesson made him feel young and alive again.

“I struggle too,” he admitted, fingers lazily circling her nipple. “Every time you leave, I stare at my ring and hate myself. But then I remember how your tight little cunt squeezes me, how your moans sound when I quote poetry while buried inside you. I tell myself I’m still teaching you… just not only literature.”

Their next meeting pushed the boundaries further. Zephyr’s wife was returning in two days, adding urgency. He took Rhiannon in every position — against the bookshelf while discussing Romantic poets, on the floor in a sweaty tangle, and finally in his marital bed for a brief, forbidden moment.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered even as he thrust into her missionary style, eyes locked on hers. “But I needed you in this room. Needed to claim you where I sleep beside her.”

Rhiannon wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper. “Then claim me harder. Make me feel like I belong to you, even if it’s wrong.”

He fucked her with punishing strokes, hand over her mouth to muffle her screams as she came. When he filled her again, they both knew the line had vanished completely. Intellectual stimulation had fused with raw sensual exploration. Rhiannon was no longer the sheltered girl who came for poetry help. She was a woman discovering the depths of her desires — and the painful pleasure of guilt.

Zephyr, for his part, felt responsibility cracking under the weight of obsession. He knew the risks: his marriage, his job, her future. Yet he couldn’t stop. The student had become his greatest weakness and his most intoxicating lesson.

As Rhiannon dressed to leave that night, Zephyr pulled her in for one last deep kiss. “One more session,” he said, voice thick. “Late night, before my wife returns. I want to completely break you open. No holding back.”

Rhiannon nodded, heart pounding with equal parts fear and excitement. The passion between them was spiraling out of control, and neither of them wanted to stop the fall.