Wilding

Office hours: Wednesday, 2–4 p.m.

The sign on his door read as much, but Sophia was there at 1:55, pulse racing.

She knocked once.

“Come in.”

Professor Grant sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened, reading glasses on. A stack of ungraded midterms waited beside him. The door to the outer hallway was closed; the blinds drawn just enough to dim the afternoon light.

He didn’t look up from his papers.

“On your knees, pet. Under the desk.”

Sophia’s breath caught. She slipped inside, locked the door behind her, and dropped her bag by the chair. The space under his large oak desk was generous—plenty of room for her to kneel between his spread legs.

She crawled in slowly, skirt riding up her thighs, heart hammering at the thrill of it. Anyone could knock. A colleague. A student with a legitimate question.

He pushed his chair back just enough for her to settle between his feet, then rolled forward again, trapping her in warm, dim confinement. The scent of him—cologne, paper, faint arousal—filled the space.

His zipper rasped quietly.

“Take me out.”

Her hands trembled as she freed him—already hard, thick, curving up against his stomach. She wrapped her fingers around the base, tongue darting out to lick the bead of precome from the tip.

He exhaled slowly above her, pen scratching across a paper as he began grading.

“No rushing,” he murmured. “You’re going to warm my cock with that pretty mouth for the next two hours. Slow. Worship it. And if anyone knocks… you don’t stop.”

Sophia moaned softly around the head as she took him in—inch by inch, until her lips met her fingers at the base. She held him there, throat relaxing, nose pressed to the soft hair at his groin.

His free hand dropped under the desk, fingers threading gently through her hair—not pushing, just resting. Possessing.

“Good girl.”

She started slow, exactly as ordered. Long, lazy pulls of her mouth, tongue tracing every vein, swirling around the head on each upstroke. Saliva built quickly, slicking him until wet sounds filled the quiet space beneath the desk.

Above, he worked steadily—pen moving, pages turning, occasional soft mutters about “sloppy citations” or “insightful, but needs polish.”

The contrast drove her insane: his calm, professorial demeanor while she knelt hidden, sucking him like a secret.

Twenty minutes in, there was a knock at the door.

Sophia froze, lips stretched around him.

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Come in,” he called, voice perfectly steady.

The door opened. Footsteps. A male voice—another professor, by the sound.

“Elias, quick question about the faculty meeting agenda—”

Sophia’s heart thundered. She could see polished shoes just beyond the desk.

Grant’s hand tightened fractionally in her hair—a silent command: keep going.

She did.

Slowly, carefully, she bobbed her head—shallow movements, tongue working the underside, throat swallowing around him to stay quiet.

Above, he discussed department politics with complete composure, pen tapping occasionally on the desk just inches from her head.

The intruder lingered for five excruciating minutes.

When the door finally closed again, Grant exhaled a low, rough sound.

“Fuck, pet. That mouth…”

He let her set a faster pace then—still controlled, but deeper, wetter. She hollowed her cheeks, sucked harder, hand stroking what her mouth couldn’t take.

Another knock twenty minutes later—a female student this time, anxious about her thesis extension.

Again, he spoke calmly, professionally.

Again, Sophia didn’t stop. If anything, the risk made her bolder—taking him to the back of her throat, humming softly around him until his thighs tensed under her palms.

The student left.

The door clicked shut.

His composure cracked.

“Enough teasing,” he growled quietly.

Both hands dropped under the desk now, gripping her hair, guiding her rhythm—faster, deeper, fucking her mouth in short, controlled thrusts.

She moaned around him, drool spilling down her chin, dripping onto her blouse.

“Come when I do,” he ordered, voice strained. “Touch yourself. Now.”

Her hand flew under her skirt—no panties, as instructed—fingers circling her swollen clit frantically.

He thrust once, twice more—deep—and came with a stifled groan, pulsing hot down her throat.

Sophia swallowed greedily, her own orgasm crashing through her at the taste of him, thighs shaking as she muffled her cries against his base.

He held her there until he softened slightly, then pulled her up gently by the hair.

She emerged flushed, lips swollen, chin wet.

He wiped her mouth with his discarded tie, then pulled her into his lap, kissing her slow and deep—tasting himself on her tongue.

“You were perfect,” he murmured against her lips.

Office hours still had forty-five minutes left.

He reached for the next midterm, settled her more comfortably astride him—his cock already stirring again against her soaked pussy.

“Keep me hard while I finish these,” he said. “We’ll take care of you properly when the sign comes down.”

Sophia smiled, grinding slowly against him.

“Yes, Sir.”