¡ rocketman !

According to an article you read on Psychology Today, ‘seduction is not about the culmination or gratification of desire, it is about the thrill of the desire itself.’ This makes sense to you, or it did when you were fucking yourself with your fingers after shutting the tab with the article open the night before, mind on your blonde haired professor in the front of the classroom. The reward of sex isn’t as lovely a prize if you didn’t work a little for it. If you didn’t have to use every trick up your sleeve to get a man between your legs, fucking you senseless, hands on your body, it’s hardly as spectacular as the times that you did.

For the past three months you’d been working on seducing Professor Taylor. In all the best ways, too - you think you have the art of seduction nailed, because you eventually reached a point where you thought Professor Taylor was just too noble of a man to bend you over his desk, but judging by the things he did to you in his office after hours, he clearly wasn’t. Isn’t.

The key to seduction is subtlety, you think. Subtle, like pulling your skirt higher up on your waist so the backs of your thighs are proudly on display as you saunter into Professor Taylor’s class, swaying your hips a bit more than you usually would, flashing him a smile and placing yourself in a seat in the second row, because - well, you want him to notice you, but you don’t want it to seem like you tried. The girl who sits in front of you (and all love to her, truly) leans forward and exposes her chest to the professor when he speaks, walking up and down the front row, and you think the blatancy of her attempts at seduction is what makes Professor Taylor fail to give her a second glance.

You can almost trick yourself into feeling bad for her. Though the much larger part of your body enjoys the fact that no one else has seen the professor as you have - breathless and red in the face and hips thrusting into you as fast as they can. Have his voice in your ear, breath hot against your skin, Call me professor. And when he pulled out and jerked himself off over your lower stomach, he pulled your head in and kissed you and then told you to call me Roger, actually.

Roger, not Professor Taylor, as you’d originally been conditioned to call him. His name, sweet and fitting, is what you silently mouth as you bring your fist up and knock once twice thrice on the door to his office. Frosted glass windows block you from seeing too much except for the mere shadow moving around inside his office - it rises and then gets darker and more defined until the door opens and he’s standing before you, hand firm on the doorknob, a smile tugging at soft pink lips.

“Miss Y/L/N,” he says in way of greeting, and then his eyes dart around to look behind you. But the hall is barren except for you, hand curved in your back pocket, grinning softly at the man before you. Then he reaches in, grips your waist and pulls you in, and you fall into his lips and embrace with the bare minimum grace you can maintain - it’s hard, keeping steady when his teeth brush your bottom lip, and you whimper into his mouth pathetically.

The door shuts before you even realize you’re inside his office, and then the telltale sound of the door locking, and you’re moving through the room with your arms around him and your eyes closed and you don’t know where you’re going. But it feels so good, his hand on your back trailing down until it’s cupped over the curve of your ass, squeezing and then lifting you up onto his desk.

“Honestly, Roger,” you tell him as his lips press against your neck, and with every brush of his touch on your skin your ego swells just a bit more. “I thought we’d have to have a bit more discussion before diving back in.”

He lifts his mouth off of your neck, eyes meeting yours, and a grin spreads across your face - you wrap your arm around his neck and try to pull him back down to you, but he makes you so weak and you find you can’t muster enough strength to do it.

Roger drags his fingers up the back of your shirt, smoothing circles into your back, and then he says, “Really? I thought we agreed you’d come here at this time to fuck.”

Yeah. That’s what you said over text, anyway, when he called you after class and told you that communicating through his work email was a horrific idea. And you added him as rog into your phone and text just about everyday, now. Which is how this meeting was set up - the hall is null and void of human presence at this time and his office hours are closed, which means you have …

Just about an hour and thirteen minutes to make use of. And you plan on exploiting every last second.

Psychology Today also says that seduction is ‘about getting every ounce of juice out of every experience.’ And that, really, is what you’re doing. You’ve seduced him for three months solid and one encounter just simply isn’t enough for that amount of dedication - this second one and the many more to follow will, perhaps, satisfy the burning craving you have for Professor Roger Taylor.

You did, though, think he’d hold more qualms about the immoral nature of your relationship. Perhaps pull you into his office and tell you that this simply can’t continue, but he’s digging his fingers into the front of your shorts, nails grazing the moist material covering your dripping folds and clit, and if he has problems with your being his student then he certainly fails to show it. 

Wood against the backs of your thighs, edge of the desk digging soft indents into your skin, fingers pulling up the hem of your shirt and then ripping it off, surely tearing into the fabric. There’s a soft thump as it lands somewhere behind Roger, and he lowers himself just a bit, lips pressed against the sheer material of your bra. Your fingers graze through his hair, soft strands tickling your fingers, and you look down at his face in your chest, making eye contact before you’re throwing your head back with a moan.

“How do you want me?” you ask, a break in your voice cutting through the sentence. He pulls his lips away from your covered nipple and brings his face back up to yours, mouth ghosting atop of yours. Fingers pull at your shorts, pulling them down and your knickers as well - they drop onto the desk beside you.