All Chapters of UNHOLY CRAVINGS: Dirty Shorts : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

By late Sunday afternoon the need had turned into something sharp and constant.I had asked three more times. Each time Grant said no. He kept me close—on the couch while he read, in the kitchen while he made a late lunch, in the backyard while he checked something on the car. My shorts stayed damp. My nipples stayed tight against the thin bralette. Every small movement reminded me how long he had kept me on edge.I lasted until the light started to soften outside the windows.Grant sat in the armchair in the living room, tablet in hand, the picture of calm. I stood in front of him with my hands balled at my sides and the ache between my legs so fierce it made my voice unsteady.“Please.”He looked up.“Please what?”“Please let me come. I can’t—” I stopped, corrected myself. “I need it. Please, sir.”Grant set the tablet aside and regarded me for a long moment. The silence stretched until my thighs pressed together of their own accord.“On your knees.”I dropped.The hardwood bit int

I had been in the rectory five days when it happened. The laundry needed putting away. Father Tobias had left a small stack of clean clerical shirts and black pants on the dryer, the kind of ordinary task that had already settled into my routine. His bedroom door stood half-open, the way he often left it during the day. I knocked once out of habit, heard nothing, and pushed it wider with my shoulder while balancing the folded clothes. He stood near the dresser with his back partly turned. The black clerical shirt was gone. So was the white collar. He wore only dark trousers, the belt undone, the waistband sitting low on his hips. His bare back was broad and still faintly damp from a recent shower. The line of his spine. The shift of muscle when he reached for something in the top drawer. I saw the edge of his stomach, the trail of dark hair leading down, the clear shape of his cock resting against the open fabric of his pants before he registered the sound of the door. He turned h

I followed the rule the next morning. No underwear. No bra. I put on a simple cotton dress that fell to my knees, the kind I usually wore for cleaning, and nothing else. The fabric moved against my bare tits and settled between my thighs with every step down the stairs. Cool air from the hallway brushed my cunt. By the time I reached the kitchen my nipples had already tightened against the thin cloth. Father Tobias was at the table with coffee and the parish bulletin. He looked up when I entered. His eyes moved over the dress once—across the soft drape over my chest, the way the skirt shifted against bare legs—and a quiet recognition settled in his expression. “Good,” was all he said. I started the day’s work. Dusting the front rooms. Sweeping the hall. Changing the linens in the rarely used guest room. Every task felt different without the usual layers. When I stretched to reach a high shelf the dress lifted along my thighs. When I bent to wipe a baseboard the fabric pulled tigh

I arrived at four-ten. The English department hallway was quieter than the main buildings. Most of the office doors stood closed. A single strip of light showed under Professor Lang’s. I knocked once. “Come in.” He sat behind the desk in the small office, sleeves rolled, a stack of papers at his elbow. The room smelled like old books and the faint trace of his cologne. A narrow window looked out over the quad. He watched me enter and close the door behind me without being asked. The soft click of the latch changed the air. Professor Lang leaned back in his chair. “Ms. Voss. I wasn’t certain you’d come.” “You said office hours were from four to six.” “I did.” His eyes moved over me—blouse, skirt, the same careful choices as the day before—then returned to my face. “Sit down.” I sat in the chair across from his desk. The cushion was firm. My skirt rode slightly higher on my thighs when I crossed my legs. I left it. He didn’t reach for any books or notes. He simply regarded me

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