College Professor: Part 3

Tuesday came slower than it should have.

I spent the days between lectures wet and restless. Every time Professor Lang’s voice carried across the hall I felt the memory of his cock stretching me open over that desk. By the time four o’clock arrived on Tuesday I was already slick between my thighs. I wore a soft skirt and a blouse with no bra. No panties, exactly as he had told me.

The department hallway was quiet. I knocked once.

“Come in.”

I stepped inside and locked the door behind me without waiting for the instruction. Professor Lang sat behind the desk in his usual rolled sleeves. His eyes moved over me once—blouse, skirt, the knowledge of what was missing underneath—and something dark settled in his expression.

“On the desk,” he said. “Facing away. Hands flat.”

I walked around, placed both palms on the wooden surface, and bent forward. Papers shifted under my fingers. He stood, came up behind me, and lifted the back of my skirt to my waist in one motion. Cool air touched my bare cunt. I was already shining with need.

Professor Lang made a low sound of approval.

“You followed instructions.”

“Yes.”

His hand settled between my legs, two fingers sliding through the wetness and pushing inside. The stretch pulled a short gasp from my throat. He worked them in slow strokes, curling against the front wall while his thumb pressed my clit. My hips moved against his hand. He pinned me harder to the desk with his free forearm.

“Stay still. I decide the pace.”

I forced my body quiet while he fingered me with exact, unhurried pressure. The wet sound of it filled the small office. My nipples scraped against the inside of the blouse with every uneven breath. The edge built too fast after days of waiting. My thighs started to tremble.

“Please—”

“Not yet.”

He pulled his fingers free. I heard the belt, the zipper, the soft shift of fabric. Then the thick head of his cock rubbed through my folds, coating itself, before he thrust in to the root.

The sudden fullness forced a broken noise out of me. Professor Lang gripped my hips and fucked me in deep, steady strokes that rocked the desk against the wall. My skirt stayed bunched around my waist. My bare tits pressed against the wood through the thin blouse. Every drive of his dick dragged over the sensitive place inside me until my arms shook.

He kept the rhythm controlled and relentless. One hand slid up my back, tangled in my hair, and pulled my head up just enough that I had to arch.

“This is what the private sessions are for,” he said, voice rough. “Not essays. Not questions about the readings. This. My cock in your cunt whenever I schedule it.”

“Yes.”

“Say it properly.”

“Your cock in my cunt whenever you schedule it.”

He rewarded the words with harder thrusts. The desk creaked. I bit down on my own wrist to keep the sounds in, but soft, helpless noises still escaped. His free hand reached around and found my clit again, rubbing tight circles in time with his dick. The dual pressure shoved me toward the edge at once.

“Come,” he ordered.

I shattered around him. My cunt clamped down on his cock in hard pulses while I gasped against the desk, shaking through the waves. He fucked me through every one of them, never slowing, until the sensitivity bordered on too much.

Only then did his control slip.

He gripped both hips, slammed deep, and came with a low, strained groan, flooding me in thick hot spurts. I felt every pulse of his dick as he emptied inside me. For several seconds he stayed buried, breathing hard against my back, while his come began to leak out around his cock and down my thighs.

When he finally pulled out, the slow slide of it left me empty and dripping. Professor Lang stepped back, fixed his trousers, and looked at the mess he had made of me—skirt around my waist, cunt wet and used, his come trailing down the inside of my legs.

“Stay like that for a minute,” he said. “I want to see it.”

I remained bent over the desk, breathing unevenly, while he watched his come slip out of me onto the wood. The exposure made a fresh, weak pulse of heat move through my spent body. After a long moment he reached past me, picked up a tissue, and cleaned the worst of the mess from the desk. Then he tugged my skirt back down over my hips.

“Stand up.”

I straightened on unsteady legs. His come continued to slide down my thighs under the skirt. Professor Lang returned to his chair, straightened a stack of papers, and met my eyes with the same calm authority he used in lecture.

“Thursday,” he said. “Same time. Same rules. Nothing under the skirt. You’ll come straight here after the last class and you’ll stay until I finish with you.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good. Now go. And keep your thighs together when you walk through the hallway. I don’t want anyone else seeing what I left on you.”

I collected my bag, unlocked the door, and stepped back into the quiet department corridor. Every step reminded me of how deep he had been and how much of him I still carried. The ordinary sounds of the building—distant voices, a printer, a closing door—felt far away.

Thursday was two days off.

I already knew I would spend both of them wet and counting the hours until the lock on his office door clicked shut behind me again.