College Professor: Part 4

The private study sessions became a fixed part of the week.

Tuesdays and Thursdays, four o’clock. I stopped pretending the visits had anything to do with coursework. Professor Lang stopped pretending too. He would send a short email the morning of each session—Office at four. Don’t be late.—and I would arrive with nothing under my skirt, already wet from the anticipation that had built since the last time he had me over his desk.

The door locked behind me the moment I entered. Sometimes he had me bend over the desk immediately. Sometimes he made me sit in the chair first and tell him exactly how wet I had been during lecture while he watched me from the other side of the desk. The outcome was always the same. My skirt ended up around my waist. His cock ended up buried in my cunt. The office filled with the quiet, wet sound of him fucking me while the rest of the department carried on outside the locked door.

One Thursday he varied the routine.

I stepped inside, locked the door, and found him already standing by the window. He pointed to the desk without speaking. I bent forward and placed my hands on the wood. He lifted my skirt, found me bare and slick, and pushed two fingers inside me at once. The stretch pulled a soft gasp from my throat. He worked me open with exact pressure until my thighs shook, then replaced his fingers with his cock in one hard thrust.

He fucked me deeper that day, one hand on my hip and the other wrapped lightly around the front of my throat, holding me in place while he drove into me. The desk scraped faintly against the wall with every stroke. I came first, biting my own wrist to stay quiet, my cunt clamping around his dick in hard pulses. He followed soon after, burying himself to the root and flooding me while a low sound left his chest.

Afterward he kept me bent over the desk for a full minute, watching his come slip out of me and down my thighs.

“You’ll come back Tuesday,” he said. “Same time. Same rules. If I decide I want an extra session, I’ll email. You’ll clear whatever else you have and be here.”

“Yes, Professor.”

He tugged my skirt back into place and returned to his chair like the previous twenty minutes had been nothing more than a scheduled appointment. I left the office with his come still warm between my legs and the next session already fixed in my mind.

The pattern held through the rest of the term.

I sat in his lectures with the memory of his cock inside me and the knowledge that in a few hours I would be back over the same desk. Some days he made me wait until the full hour of office time had passed before he touched me, keeping me on edge while he graded papers or answered emails. Other days he locked the door, pushed me to my knees first, and fucked my mouth until my eyes watered before bending me over the wood. Every version ended the same way—my skirt around my waist, his dick buried deep, the quiet order to come when he decided I was allowed.

By the final weeks of the semester the sessions felt as regular as any class on my schedule. I stopped wearing panties on Tuesdays and Thursdays entirely, even to other lectures. The bare friction under my skirts kept me wet from morning until the moment his office door closed and he took what he had claimed.

On the last Thursday before finals he had me on the desk facing him for once, my legs hooked over his arms while he thrust into me in long, controlled strokes. He watched my face the entire time, eyes dark, jaw tight, and when he told me to come I broke apart around his cock with a muffled cry. He followed hard, filling me while his forehead rested against mine for a brief second longer than usual.

When he pulled out he stayed close, looking down at the mess he had made between my thighs.

“Next term,” he said quietly. “You’ll take my advanced seminar. The sessions continue. Clear?”

“Yes, Professor.”

He nodded once, fixed his trousers, and returned to the ordinary business of the office. I smoothed my skirt down, collected my bag, and stepped back into the hallway with his come sliding along my skin and the next term’s schedule already settled.

The lectures would change.

The readings would change.

But the locked door at four o’clock on Tuesdays and Thursdays would stay exactly the same—and I would keep arriving with nothing underneath, ready for whatever he decided the private study session required.