Professor's willing pet #1

~Tiffany's POV~

Both my wrists were bound in handcuffs, the cold metal biting into my skin, held right above my head at the headboard of my professor's bed.

I was completely stripped of any clothes, leaving my body bare, exposed, and vulnerable for his viewing pleasure. He stood inches away from the edge of the mattress, naked, his hand slowly jerking his thick, throbbing cock. The veins along the shaft pulsed under his grip, the swollen head already glistening with a bead of precum that he smeared down the length with a lazy stroke.

His eyes... dark, intense, almost black in the low light, devoured every inch of me, from the way my breasts rose and fell with my ragged breaths to the slick sheen already coating my inner thighs.

Professor Sanchez didn't say a word at first. He just watched me squirm, that faint smirk playing on his full lips like he knew exactly how badly I needed him to ruin me. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, laced with that commanding edge that made my pussy clench around nothing.

"Look at you, Tiffany. Spread open like a desperate little sex doll, dripping for your professor's cock. You think you can hide how much you want this? How many nights you've fingered that tight cunt imagining me stretching you out?"

He climbed onto the bed, his muscular thighs straddling my hips. One big hand wrapped around my throat, not squeezing hard, just enough to tilt my head back and make me gasp.

His other hand guided the fat head of his dick against my entrance, rubbing it up and down my slit, teasing my swollen clit until I was whimpering, hips bucking up desperately.

"Beg for it," he growled, leaning down so his breath ghosted over my ear. "Tell me what a filthy student you are for wanting your professor to wreck this pussy."

"Please, Professor... fuck me. I need your cock so bad."

My fantasy shattered when my alarm blared, yanking me back to reality. I groaned, thighs pressed together under the sheets, my panties soaked through.

Another morning ruined by him. Or saved by him, depending on how you looked at it.

Professor Rafael Sanchez had been haunting my thoughts since the first week of grad seminar last semester. I was twenty-three, deep into my literature master's, juggling teaching assistant duties and my own thesis on erotic subtexts in classic novels.

He was the brooding, intense type who taught Contemporary Lit with a passion that made everyone sit up straighter. Six-foot-three, broad shoulders that filled out his crisp button-downs perfectly, and a physique that screamed he spent mornings in the gym punishing heavy weights instead of grading papers. Dark olive skin, sharp jawline dusted with a perpetual five-o'clock shadow, and thick black hair he kept just long enough to run fingers through... messy in that intentional way that made you wonder what it looked like after a rough night.

His eyes were what got me first.

Deep brown, almost predatory when he locked onto you during discussion. He had this way of leaning against the podium, sleeves rolled up to expose corded forearms, smelling like clean cedarwood, a hint of leather from his watch, and something warmer, masculine, that lingered in the air when he walked past my desk.

He dressed like he knew the effect, tailored dark slacks that hugged powerful thighs, leather belt, Oxford shirts stretched across a chest you could tell was solid muscle.

No wedding ring.

Rumors said he was divorced, kept things private. I didn't care about the rumors. I cared about the way his voice dropped when he read aloud from a particularly charged passage, the subtle dominance in how he commanded the room.

My crush had started innocently enough, appreciating his lectures, the way he challenged us. Then it turned filthy.

One late night in the library, rereading Lolita for class, I found myself touching myself under the table imagining him as the forbidden authority figure. From there, it spiraled. Fantasies of him bending me over his desk after hours, of him gripping my hair while I dropped to my knees in his office, sucking him deep until tears pricked my eyes. I started writing them down in a private notebook.

Stupid... risky, but it helped. Or so I told myself.

Today was seminar day. I dressed carefully, tight black jeans that made my ass look incredible, a soft sweater that hugged my full breasts, hair down in loose waves. I wanted him to notice without it being obvious. The lecture hall was already filling when I slipped into my usual seat near the front, heart racing like always.

Professor Sanchez entered exactly on time, shutting the door with a firm click.

"Good afternoon. Let's dive into today's discussion on power dynamics in narrative voice." His gaze swept the room, lingering on me for a fraction longer than the others. Or maybe I imagined it. Heat pooled low in my belly.

As he lectured, voice smooth and authoritative, my mind drifted again. I pulled out my notebook, pretending to take notes, but the pen moved on its own.

He's at the podium right now, but in my head he's got me pinned against it after everyone leaves. My skirt shoved up, panties ripped aside. He'd grip my hips hard enough to leave marks, that thick cock slamming into me from behind while I bite my lip to keep from screaming.

"That's it, you naughty little cock tease," he'd grunt, spanking my ass red. "Take every inch like the greedy student you are. This pussy was made for your professor's dick."

I'd push back, moaning, feeling him hit that spot deep inside until I came shaking, soaking his balls. I was grinning, lost in it, scribbling faster. The fantasy shifted... him in his office, me on my knees, deepthroating him while he gripped my hair and fucked my throat.

The taste of him, salty and addictive. Then the cabin he supposedly owned outside the city, weekends of being tied to the bed, edged for hours, called every dirty name that made me wetter.

"My secret campus whore,"

"professor's eager pet,"

"that dripping literature slut who can't focus unless her cunt's full."

He'd choke me lightly while pounding me in missionary, eyes locked, forcing me to watch him claim me. Or flip me over, ass up, spanking between thrusts, fingering my tight hole while telling me how he'd train every part of me.

I didn't hear the footsteps. Didn't notice the shadow until it was too late.

"Miss Morgan," his voice cut through the haze, low and dangerous, right beside my desk. "Would you like to share what's amusing you with the rest of the class?"

My head snapped up.The notebook slammed shut instinctively, but not fast enough.

Panic flooded me, blood roaring in my ears. The entire class turned, curious murmurs rippling. Professor Sanchez stood there, towering, one eyebrow raised, expression unreadable but with that intense focus that made my thighs clench.

"N-no, sir," I stammered, voice barely above a whisper. My cheeks burned. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

He didn't move. His eyes dropped to the notebook.

Before I could react, he reached down and plucked it from my desk with long fingers. My stomach dropped. Ice cold fear replaced the heat.

He flipped it open casually, scanning the page I'd been writing on. His expression shifted... surprise flickering across those sharp features, jaw tightening just slightly. He read in silence for what felt like eternity. I prayed he wouldn't read it aloud.

Please, God, don't let him say any of it.

He cleared his throat, closing the notebook with a snap. "See me in my office after class, Miss Morgan." His tone was neutral for the class, but I caught the undercurrent.

He tucked the notebook under his arm and returned to the podium like nothing happened, resuming the lecture seamlessly.

The rest of class was torture.

I sat frozen, barely breathing, replaying every filthy line he'd just read. My anonymous stories about him, detailed, raw accounts of him fucking me senseless in every position, degrading me in the hottest ways, making me beg.

When the bell rang, students filed out, casting sideways glances. I lingered, legs shaky, then made my way to his office on the third floor of the humanities building.

I knocked, heart hammering.

"Come in."

His office smelled like him... cedar, leather-bound books, faint coffee. He sat behind a large oak desk, the notebook open in front of him. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, highlighting the strong lines of his face. He looked up, eyes dark.

"Sit down, Tiffany."

I obeyed, perching on the edge of the chair across from him, knees pressed together. The silence stretched. He leaned back, studying me.

"How long have you had these... thoughts?"

I swallowed hard. "I... since last semester. It started with the lectures. You just... you have this presence. It got under my skin."

He flipped a page. "Under your skin. That's one way to put it." His voice dropped, rougher.

"You wrote about me cuffing you to my bed. Jerking off while you waited, dripping. About sucking my cock so deep you gag on it, tears running down your face while I call you my eager little throat slut.”

“About me ripping your panties off in this very office, bending you over the desk and spanking that perfect ass until it's red, then fingering your soaked pussy until you squirt for me. Creative, Miss Morgan. Very... vivid."

My face flamed. I couldn't meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry Professor. It's just a fantasy. I never meant for anyone... for you to see."

"Do you?" He cut me off, standing slowly. He walked around the desk, towering over me. "Truly want me to fuck you that bad? Want your professor to wreck every hole, choke you while I pound that tight cunt, make you moan like the desperate little secret you're keeping?"

The air thickened.

He turned my chair to face him fully, one hand bracing on the armrest, leaning in close enough that I could smell his cologne and the heat of his skin. His free hand tipped my chin up, forcing eye contact.

"Answer me honestly, Tiffany. No bullshit. Do you touch yourself thinking about my cock stretching you open? About me owning this body until you can't walk straight?"

"Yes," I whispered, voice breaking. The confession hung between us, electric.

"God, yes. All the time. I fantasize about you dominating me, calling me your filthy campus toy, your professor's personal fuck-doll. About you deepthroating me until I choke, spanking me, nipple play that hurts so good, fucking me in every position... against the wall, in your car, at that cabin I overheard you mention once. I want the dirty talk, the degradation, the way you'd grip my neck and tell me what a naughty, cock-hungry student I am for craving this."

His breath hitched. The tension coiled tighter, his body heat radiating. I could see the bulge in his slacks, the way his jaw clenched with restraint.

"You've been driving me insane too you know, sitting there in my classes with those tight jeans and that look in your eyes. Not knowing you were writing this shit about me."

He pulled me up from the chair suddenly, one strong arm wrapping around my waist, yanking me flush against his hard body. Before I could process, his mouth crashed down on mine... hot, demanding, no hesitation.

His lips were firm, tasting of coffee and pure sin. Instead of pulling away, I melted into it, hands fisting his shirt, leaning in deeper. My tongue met his, hungry, as he groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me. One hand slid down to grip my ass possessively, squeezing hard enough to make me whimper into the kiss.

The world narrowed to his mouth, his body, the promise of everything filthy I'd written coming true. This was career suicide, but in that moment, I didn't care.

I wanted him to burn it all down.