PROFESSOR'S PET pt 2

Monday, 10:07 a.m.

I’m in the front row before the first student even walks in.

Notebook open, pen aligned perfectly, thighs pressed tight together to trap the throb in my clit. I didn’t sleep. I edged five times last night exactly like he ordered, each one more agonizing than the last. By the fifth I was sobbing into my pillow, hips grinding against my fingers, begging out loud for a man who wasn’t even there.

I’m wearing a dark skirt today. The wetness won’t show as fast.

The room fills. I don’t look at anyone. My entire world narrows to the doorway.

10:09.

He walks in.

Same polished oxfords. Different trousers—black wool this time, tailored so perfectly they outline every powerful line of his thighs. White dress shirt, top two buttons undone. I can already see the dark hair at the base of his throat. Tie knotted loosely. Hair swept back, a few strands falling forward like they’re waiting for my hands.

He doesn’t look at me. Not once.

He writes “Donne – The Flea” on the board, turns, and starts lecturing like I’m not sitting here ready to shatter.

His voice is pure sin wrapped in authority. Every time he says “mingled” or “suck’d” or “swell’d” my cunt pulses, another rush of slick soaking my panties. I don’t take a single note. I can’t. My hands are trembling too hard.

Halfway through he pauses, marker hovering.

“Miss Harper.”

My name in his mouth again. I jerk so hard the desk creaks.

“Stand up.”

Every head turns. I rise slowly. My nipples are hard points against my blouse, thighs slick and shining under the skirt. A few people whisper. Someone gasps.

He doesn’t blink.

“Come here.”

I walk down the aisle on legs that feel like water. When I reach the front he steps aside, gestures to the podium.

“Read the stanza aloud. Start at line ten.”

I try. My voice is wrecked. The poem is about blood and sex and marriage inside a flea bite. Every word feels like he chose it for me. I stumble through it while he stands two feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching my mouth like he’s imagining it wrapped around him.

When I finish the last line there’s total silence.

He smiles, small and dangerous.

“Very good. Sit.”

I turn to go back.

“No,” he says quietly. “Here.”

He points to the floor directly beside the podium. Right in front of him. In front of everyone.

I sink to my knees without hesitation.

The room erupts in murmurs. Someone’s phone is definitely out.

He ignores them all, leans down just enough for his cologne to drown me.

“Stay,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “Exactly like that. Hands on your thighs. Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

Then he straightens and continues the lecture like I’m part of the furniture.

Forty-five minutes.

Forty-five minutes of him pacing inches from my face, trousers shifting over the thick ridge of his cock every time he turns. Every time he gestures I can smell him—clean skin, cedar, and the faint musk of arousal. He’s hard. I can see the outline straining against the wool when the light hits right, a dark spot blooming at the tip.

I’m dripping steadily now. The inside of my thighs is soaked, slick threatening to trail down to my knees.

When the lecture ends he doesn’t dismiss the class the normal way.

“Everyone out. Door locked behind you. Miss Harper and I have… research to discuss.”

They file out in stunned silence. The door shuts. Deadbolt. Click.

He turns to me.

I’m still on my knees.

He steps forward until his thighs brush my chest. One polished shoe nudges my knees wider. He towers over me, hair falling forward slightly.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “My perfect, obedient girl. Did you edge for me?”

“Yes, Professor.” My voice is shredded.

“Five times?”

“Yes.”

He cups my jaw, thumb pressing into my lower lip. “Show me how desperate you are.”

I fumble with my skirt, hands shaking. He watches, patient, as I hike it up and slip my soaked panties aside just enough to bare myself.

My cunt is swollen, glistening, a thick strand of slick immediately dripping down to the floor between us.

He hums approval.

“Stay on your knees.”

Then he unbuttons his shirt, slow, deliberate. Every button reveals more hard muscle, dark hair trailing down to his belt. When it falls open his chest is broad, defined, nipples flat and dark.

He shrugs the shirt off, lets it drop.

Reaches down, unbuckles his belt with a sharp metallic sound. The zipper comes next. He frees his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking. No briefs. Just the heavy length of him, a bead of pre-cum trailing down the underside.

He steps closer, thighs framing my face.

“Open.”

I open wide. He slides into my mouth without hesitation, one hand fisting my hair to control the angle.

The first taste explodes across my tongue—salt and heat and pure him. I take him deep, throat relaxing, nose brushing the base as he holds me there.

He fucks my mouth slow at first, hips rolling, cock dragging over my tongue. His free hand braces on the podium, knuckles white.

“Teeth,” he growls. “Lightly—on the head.”

I graze the sensitive crown gently with my teeth. He groans, thighs tensing, and comes hard, flooding my mouth in thick pulses. I swallow every drop, throat working around him until he’s shuddering.

I keep sucking through it, licking him clean, until he pulls out with a wet sound.

He hauls me up by the hair, spins me, bends me over the podium. My skirt is flipped up, panties ripped aside.

He lines up and thrusts in one brutal stroke.

We both shout. He’s impossibly thick, stretching me to the edge of pain, bottoming out against my cervix. My walls flutter around him helplessly.

He stills, buried deep, one hand splayed on my lower back.

“Still.”

I freeze, impaled, clit throbbing against the edge of the podium.

He starts to move, slow at first, dragging out and slamming back in. Every thrust grinds my clit against the wood. My tits bounce against the surface with each impact.

I’m already close, shamefully close.

He leans over me, bites the back of my neck hard enough to bruise.

“Come on my cock,” he rasps against my skin. “Soak me right now.”

That’s all it takes.

I come with a broken cry, cunt clenching hard, gushing around him. He keeps fucking me through it, relentless, until I’m shaking and oversensitive.

He doesn’t stop.

He straightens, grips my hips, and starts pounding in earnest—hard, fast, punishing thrusts that make obscene wet sounds echo in the empty hall.

I stay open for him, dripping, taking every inch like I was made for it.

He reaches around, fingers finding my clit, rubbing tight circles.

I come again, sudden and shattering, walls spasming, screaming his name into the podium.

He flips me onto my back on the desk, hooks my legs over his shoulders, folds me nearly in half, and drives back in.

The angle is devastating; every thrust punches directly against that spot inside me. My nails rake down his back, hard enough to draw blood through his skin.

“Harder,” I beg. “Fucking ruin me.”

He does. He fucks me so hard the desk shakes, so hard my tits bounce wildly, so hard my vision blurs.

I come a third time, screaming, cunt locking down so tight he growls my name like a prayer.

He follows me over, slamming deep and staying there, cock pulsing as he floods me, hot and endless.

We collapse, panting, sweat-slick, his weight pinning me to the desk.

After a minute he laughs, low and wicked.

“Next class is Wednesday,” he murmurs against my throat. “You’ll sit front row again. And this time I won’t be wearing anything under these trousers at all.”

I moan, already clenching around him again.

He thrusts once, deliberate and slow, and smiles.

“Welcome to the semester, Miss Harper.”