Professor Erotica Novels & Stories

When she wrapped her hand around his heavy shaft, he hissed, "Fuck me, professor. Please fuck me."

All of my students loved me, and seemed to love my teachings. When the first year ended and the second year began, I was not prepared for the influx of young girls, students, throwing themselves at me. I was disgusted. It's an unspoken tradition at this school that every professor would end up sleeping with a student by the end of their second year teaching. That didn't happen with me. The students we have here, or at least the ones I end up teaching, are all spoiled rich kids. The girls are bratty, and not in the way I like.

he murmured, running one hand up the back of my thigh and squeezing my ass hard enough to make me gasp. “Look at you already dripping for your professor in the middle of the lecture hall where anyone could have walked in and seen what a slutty little pet you have become.” He unzipped his pants, and I heard the sound of his thick cock springing free before he rubbed the swollen head along my wet folds, teasing me until I was whimpering and pushing back against him. “Please, Professor,” I whispered, gripping the edge of the desk. “I need you inside me right now. Fuck me hard on your desk and fill me up again.”

He turned me around, pressing me back against the pole, yanking the thong down my thighs until it caught at my ankles. My pussy red, and dripping was exposed. Elliott’s eyes darkened as he dipped two of his fingers into it possessively. Rough strokes, thumb circling the clit. "Beg like a good slut." "Please, Professor, fuck me." Words spilling out like a confession, shame and need tangled together. He released his cock, massive, veined, heavy, curving with a bead of pre-cum at the tip. He slapped it against my ass, the wet sound echoing in the room before he pressed into my entrance.

**Host’s Introduction** Welcome back... Power can be the ultimate aphrodisiac. Especially when it’s held by a man who knows exactly how to break a woman down and rebuild her into his perfect little pet. Tonight’s confession is about a strict professor and his failing student — turned into a very personal, very secret research subject on the limits of female pleasure. This one is slow-burning, controlling, and deliciously filthy. Here is the confession of “Professor’s Pet Project.” ---

Applying gentle pressure under her chin, he raised her face back to meet his gaze. All traces of arrogance evaporated, replaced by a deep, unwavering sincerity. "What are you afraid of, gorgeous?" he asked softly. Swallowing with difficulty, her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she confessed: "You're my university professor... and you're years older than me. What about the college? What about my family? They would never accept this if they found out! I'm not a game to you, and I refuse to be some fleeting fling in your office..."

“Hey, what's wrong with your face?” “I just... Someone pissed me off.” “That guy over there, huh?” Shanon refused to look at Anthony because she knew Anthony expected her to do that. “He’s an ass.” “You know him? I saw you chatting with him.” "He's my professor on campus." “Wow, you have a really hot professor. How could he possibly teach without getting naughty glances from his students?” “Sorry, Tom. I don't want to discuss it. Give me that drinks, I'll deliver them to our customers.”

“I’m not sure if you calling me Professor Alessandro is erotic to me or disturbing.” XXX

“Taking advantage of your student like this. Such a dirty whore professor, spreading your legs for me in your office, in your apartment, letting me cum inside you. You’re nothing but a cock-hungry cunt who uses her power to get fucked.” His words were harsh, degrading, and they made me even wetter. He pounded into me harder, the wet slap of his hips against mine echoing in the shower. “Say it,” he demanded, gripping my ass tightly as he railed me against the wall. “I’m a slut,” I moaned, clinging to him. “Your slut professor. I take advantage of my student because I’m a desperate whore for your cock.” Sophia and Marcus watched from the bench. Sophia’s hand was between her legs, fingers rubbi

He simply gathered his notes, slid them into a leather satchel, and jerked his head toward the side exit that led to faculty offices. She followed, skirt swishing against her thighs, the click of her heeled boots echoing down the empty corridor. His office door was already open, dark wood, brass nameplate reading *Dr. Damien Blackwood, Professor of Nineteenth-Century Literature and Cultural Erotics*. The irony wasn’t lost on her.