The dry erase marker squeaked, loud and crudely. Your hand was flying across the white board, but it lacked conviction, your usual confidence in writing out equations. Just as Ryland walked back in through the door with coffee for the both of you, you stopped abruptly, hand and marker hovering. With a genuine growl and another obnoxious squeak of the marker, you swipe through your work, erasing bits, scratching through others.

“Hey, hey,” Dr. Grace exclaims softly, occupied hands raised. He sets the coffees down, wearing a worried expression. Your free times had aligned and he was gracious enough to let you use his classroom to work on your thesis, and help as much as he could.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you sigh, bringing your palms to your eyes and pressing in. It’d been a long week. Late nights, too many exams, and something extra. Something that lingered.

“What’s wrong? If this is about your thesis, you’re doing perfectly fi—.”

“It’s not. It’s not the work.”

You’d cut him off. You didn’t mean to sound so snappy, so irritable. It wasn’t your work that was the problem. You knew. God, you knew what was, and you sure as hell couldn’t tell your professor.

“Well, then what is it?”

You turn to finally look at Ryland Grace, his hip pressed into the corner of his desk, arms folded. He’d ditched the blazer and rolled up his sleeves a while ago. The tie he wore was still there though, if not a little loosened.

He was stubborn. As sweet as Dr. Grace was, he didn’t have the reputation that he did for nothing. He looked insistent, eyes locked on yours over his glasses. He looked good. The light in the classroom was low, bathed in a soft burnt orange from the setting sun outside. The glow of the projector casted light and shadows over the room as well.

You laugh gently, leaning down to pick up the marker, to find something to do with your hands. Shaking your head you tell him the only thing you can, “It’s nothing. Just something I’ve been…having trouble with.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing. I mean, I’ve been watching you all week. You’re here but you’re not. You’ve been quiet during lectures, unfocused.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

You try to apologize, try to explain and brush it all away. Ryland Grace doesn’t stop though. He keeps talking, and he starts walking closer, stepping right into the glow of the projector with you, your back to the board.

“You’ve been frustrated. You’ve missed questions that are like child’s play for you. You’re taking it out on my whiteboard,” he rambles, huffing a little laugh.

You know he means well, know he’s not trying to be an asshole, but it pushes you, that hair trigger you’ve been so quick to pull all week. It doesn’t help that he’s so close now. The way he looks, the way he smells, that pushes you too.

“I can’t come.”

Your words are blunt, and heavy. They’re immediately followed by the sound of Ryland choking. His eyes widen, in part confusion, part shock. When he realizes he didn’t mishear you, his cheeks turn pink and you fully expect that to be the end of it. You’d laugh if you weren’t so pent up, maybe even find his flustered state cute if it didn’t add to the pressure wedged between your hip bones.

“What? What do you…mean?”

You don’t expect it. The follow up question, the way his voice drops a little, to a soft whisper between you both. You don’t think it’s meant to be sexy, but rather…inquisitive? He’s not being suave. He’s not making a move. He’s gentle, albeit a little awkward.

The frustration kicks off again. It’s like when you said it, it took the lid off, and now you can’t put it back on. You grumble, voice raising slightly, falling into a ramble, “What I said. I can’t fucking come! All week, no matter what I do, what I’ve tried, I can’t get there and it’s driving me absolutely insane!”

“Hey, hey,” Ryland says again, even softer this time, sweeter. He rushes closer to you, his body dipping down to your height, trying to catch your gaze, but you’re frantic at this point. He unlatched the gate and now you’re twisting and turning on your feet, your fingers tangled in your hair. Ryland’s hands land on your shoulders, planting you still in one place. You keep talking though, hot tears starting to sting your waterline.

“I mean, I just can’t relax and my brain, my brain won’t shut up, and I get all tense and shaky and my chest starts hurting, and then I get anxious…I feel like I’m broken.”

Something in Ryland’s chest squeezes when you say that last part, when your glassy eyes finally find his. The words are out and you seem to deflate now that they’re gone. You lean back against the whiteboard, his hands still firm on the upper, outer part of your shoulders.

Grace softens his voice, tries to find the perfect tone so that you’ll hear him. His thumbs move gently, back and forth, soothing when he speaks.

“You are not broken. A lot of people…struggle with that. You’re young. You’re figuring out what you like, what you don’t. God, even outside the classroom, you’re so hard on yourself. Stop doing that.”

You just stare up at him, feeling defeated, exhausted, and the next thing you do is definitely blame worthy. You blame on it your lack of sleep, lack of sanity, and orgasms. You’ll blame it on a million other things too once you got home tonight.

None of that stops you from leaning in though, from pushing off the whiteboard, the tiptoes of your shoes scuffing against the floor. Your lips press against his. Warm, gentle, closed mouthed. Ryland doesn’t move. From nerves, shock, or if he’s just trying not to hurt your feelings. You’re unsure.

It’s not until you move again, relaxing your jaw and leaning in harder, your lips actually parting his, that he pulls away.

“Help me,” you whisper, cutting him off before he can say anything. His grip tightens on your shoulders, fingers flexing. You reach out and grab his tie, gently. Your voice wavers again, “I can’t fix it on my own, Dr. Grace. Please. Help me.”

You’re kissing him again. Small kisses, pressed to his lips, the corner of his mouth, his nose. They’re peppered between your broken words, your pretty pleases and his name. His fucking name. You pull on his tie, needy, pathetic. He can’t stop himself.

Your back collides with the whiteboard, his larger fingers coming up to frame your jaw. You have no choice but to open up for him, his thumb pressing in at the hinge, spit pooling across your tongue. The kiss is consuming. Not in a dominant way, or an aggressive way, but like he’s trying to breathe you in.

It’s slow, and deep. The sweep of his tongue against yours pulls a whine from your chest. He groans in response, almost standing to his full height, his grip still on your face, making you scramble farther up onto your toes. You bow off the whiteboard, and then slam back into it with a thud when he pushes you back again.

It trips something inside you, the way he handles you. That hunger, that need you’ve felt all week. You feel desperate, reaching out to grasp at his other arm. You pull at him, tugging, your fingers clasped tight around his wrist, shoving it down towards the hem of your jeans.

He rips his mouth from yours, and halts your rushed movements. His hands slip into your hair, pushing back the flyaways, and he shakes his head, forehead pressed to yours.

“Slow,” he whispers, “we go slow.”

You know he’s right. It’s been part of your issue. The longer your problem kept persisting, the more your impatience built. Your movements every night turned too fast, too much, chasing instead of feeling.

Dr. Grace doesn’t give you a chance to agree. You’re pulled into another kiss, and pulled, and pulled, across the tiles of the floor. Eventually you feel the edge of his desk, bumping into it. He lifts you, stepping between your knees.

His voice is low and broken, “Tell me. Tell me what you’ve tried. Hmm? How’d you try to make yourself come?”

You physically shiver at the question, your mind spinning at the reality of having this conversation with your professor. Ryland. Dr. Grace, who’s standing between your legs, whose desk you’re currently sitting on. You take a deep breath, “Um, my fingers, and then…toys. They didn’t…work either.”

“Fuck,” he breathes. “What kinda toys?”

You whimper, your cheeks burning. “A vibrator, and a…a dildo.”

Embarrassment floods you, every limb. Your skin feels too hot. You let out a groan. You swear you can feel him physically shake where he leans into you, and you wonder if he’s picturing it, you using it on yourself.

His mouth is on yours again, slow and prying, licking deeply inside. He pulls away, his voice sounding like gravel, his chest heaving. “And what do you want from me?”

“I want you to make me come,” you whine.

He squeezes your cheeks between his fingers. “No. What do you want? How?”

You freeze, swallowing hard. You hadn’t thought that far ahead, your brain too foggy, mind racing too fast. This was your problem. You felt stuck. Overwhelmed.

You feel the tap of his thumb against your jaw, your eyes refocusing. He was looking at you, hard and gentle all at once. “Don’t do that. Wherever you just went…don’t. Focus on me.”

He kisses you again. Softer this time, like he’s just trying to give you a moment to settle. You can’t help but stare when he pulls away. His lips are kiss bitten, and red. You reach up, trailing the tips of your fingers over his bottom lip. You don’t expect it, when he leans in and takes the three of them into his mouth. It’s so warm, and wet. The feeling of his tongue swirling around each one makes your eyes start to roll back.

He has an honest to god smirk on his face, watching you like he’s not the one sucking on your fingers. He looks so sexy, so dirty. He pulls off your fingers with a pop. “Is that what you want? My mouth?”

“Oh god…yes, please.”

He only hums. You hear the hooking sound of his shoe catching the desk chair, pulling it towards him. He sits.

The height difference is intimate. He’s close. Your legs are spread wide for the chair, his arms around your waist, your hands in his hair. You remember from earlier. Slow. Slow is better. So you don’t try to rush him. His face is level with your chest, and he just leans in, breathing deep, nuzzling.

His glasses slip down his face, and then he’s kissing your chest through your shirt. It feels so juvenile, but not. Not really. It feels good. So good. You just want his mouth for real, not the teasing.

He rubs his face across your chest again, over the top swell of your boob, and then he sinks his teeth in. Hard. You gasp, curling the fingers you have buried in his hair. He moans when you tug at the strands a second time. It spurs him on, but not enough to give up teasing you. He reaches up to yank your bralette down beneath your shirt, still keeping you covered.

You’re confused, until he pinches one of your nipples through the fabric. He keeps teasing, rolling them and tugging. Eventually you feel the warmth of his mouth, still through your shirt, but your pussy clenches anyway. He sucks on your nipple, soaking the fabric with his spit.

It’s not until you hiccup, your arms shaking, unsure if you wanna push his mouth away or pull him in, that he finally relents. He shoves your shirt up, and starts all over again.

His mouth is hot, and wet against the bare skin of your chest. He doesn’t rush. Grace uses every part of his mouth to torture you. His teeth, his lips, his tongue. When he’s not sucking dark marks into the fatty parts, he sucks on your nipples, so slowly, and softly you think you might scream. It’s like he’s savoring it.

“Dr. Grace. Dr. Grace, oh fuck, please. Please. I need more,” you cry, your voice actually wavering as you claw at him.

The next few minutes are filled with soft shuffling, a foot precariously balanced here and there as Dr. Grace pulls your jeans off. All your nerves float to the very top, painting your skin in little goosebumps. He notices. Of course he does. How couldn’t he with the way you’re sitting awkwardly on the edge of his desk still.

With a soft smug smile, he places a hand to the certain of your chest, and pushes you to lie back. You catch yourself on your elbows, keeping your knees pressed together.

Dr. Grace gives you a look, an amused one, his eyebrows quirked. He simply leans back himself, unbothered. He settles into the chair, and drops his voice. “Show me.”

Your cheeks burn, and Ryland only gives you those puppy dog eyes in return. “C’mon, baby. How can I make it feel better if you don’t show me?…Show me your pussy.”

It’s startling. Not just the sound of his voice, but hearing those words come from his mouth. Dr. Ryland Grace’s mouth. The professor that wears glasses and cardigans, and converse sneakers. He just told you to show him your pussy, so he could make it feel better. It’s filthy. It makes your nipples harden, and somewhere between your legs pulse.

Slowly your knees start to part, and all the cockiness slips from Grace’s face. You swear his eyes darken. Along with his cheeks. The cool air hits your pussy, and you can feel how wet you are. Dr. Grace must see it, with the way he reaches down to squeeze himself through his pants. His eyes flutter shut, and a soft, “fuccck,” leaves his mouth.

“Dr. Grace, please…please make it feel better,” you beg.

And that’s all he lets you say before he’s grabbing you, dragging your bare ass to the edge of his desk. He slips your legs over his shoulders and lowers his face.

You almost ask him to put his glasses back on, the mental image of him eating you out while wearing them popping into your head. You don’t get the chance though, before his mouth is on your pussy, and it’s like he knew. Your thighs instantly clench around his head, your back bowing, muscles tightening. You would’ve crushed his frames.

Any and all teasing Dr. Grace had in him was gone. He eats like he’s starving, his face buried, jaw working. The burn of his stubble is just on the right side of painful, dragging up and down your pussy as he licks you open. His lips wraps around your clit, sucking it into his mouth.

It’s not too long before you feel it. That pressure in your back. It feels off though, like it has all week. It’s too heavy, too hard. The muscles in your legs start to burn, and not in a good way. You feel the sole of your left foot start to cramp, but it’s still close. It’s still something. So you push towards it. You hold your breath.

Ryland feels it, all of it, and pulls away.

“Uh-uh. Breathe,” he pants softly against your pussy, “breathe for me baby.”

You gasp, growl, and then whimper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

A frustrated groan bleeds from you. You feel like crying again, the tears stinging your eyes. It’s Ryland’s hands that ground you, that slide up from your hips, up and over your belly, your ribs. The feeling of his hands on your body helps, some of the tension melting away.

He does it until your legs fall open again, a little more, a little easier. It’s so intimate. Ryland’s just there, his head resting on the inside of your thigh, face inches away from your bare pussy. His eyes are on yours though.

“You are trying too hard,” he says softly. He brings his thumb to your pussy, spreading the wetness all around, circling your clit lightly. “Don’t chase it. Let me give it to you.”

His hands don’t stop. They run up and down your body, his fingers finding your nipples again, playing with them gently. His mouth comes back to your pussy, slower this time. He kisses it so messily, his face soaked, his tongue running through you, nose brushing your clit repeatedly.

He zeros in on it, drawing these tiny figure eights with the tip of his tongue. Over and over again. You feel it then. Your hips lift, pushing up into his mouth. Ryland’s arms come down immediately, folding over your hips and your tummy, not hard, just there. He keeps the pace. His tongue swirling, and swirling.

That spark, the right one. It catches, and you feel like you could cry. You actually do. It’s a choked out sob. Broken and pathetic. “R-Rylan—.”

Your fingers slide through his hair, and you try, you do. You try so hard to keep your hips down, to not tense up. It’s building fast though. A warm heat right where Ryland’s mouth is, and at the base of your spine. You can’t help it.

Your thighs tighten around his head, and your hips start raising off the table…only for Ryland to slam you back down. His arms lock like steal across your hips, pinning you.

That’s what sends you over the edge.

Your brain gives you one crucial piece of cognitive advice. Don’t scream. You’re on campus property, currently getting your pussy eaten by your professor, and coming harder than you ever have before. Do not scream.

You don’t. Scream out loud that is. Your orgasm rips through you though, hard and deep. You feel it in the bottom of your feet, tingling, your toes curling. Your eyes roll back.

It feels like an instant high. Your limps go all floaty, and heavy. You’re trying to remember how to start breathing again while Ryland’s mouth is still working between your legs. Softer now but he keeps going, licking you through it, cleaning you.

It’s not until you cry out again and tug at his hair that he pulls away, slowly standing from the chair and draping himself across your body.

You kiss him. His face wet with spit, and your juices, your come. It’s so fucking hot. You lick into Ryland’s mouth, chasing the taste. He groans deeply, his voice wrecked.

“Yeah? You like the way your pussy taste, baby?”

You moan, letting your head fall back against the desk. He laughs. You do too. He kisses all over your face, your neck, while you slowly come back to him. Your eyes are still a little fuzzy when he says, “I wanna make you come again…can I?”

You run your fingers through his hair gently. That’s when you feel him for the first time. He’s hard, and still wearing his jeans completely buttoned. You swallow, and press your knee up into his cock. His breath catches, head falling to your shoulder.

“Together. I wanna come with you.”

—