#profesor

You walk into his office without knocking.

Not because you’re rude — well, maybe a little — but because you like watching that small twitch in his jaw when you break his rules. You know he hears the soft click of your heels across the floor. You know he smells the faint trace of your vanilla perfume before you even speak.

You also know the skirt you’re wearing is inappropriate.

Too tight. Too short. And paired with a cardigan that’s falling off one shoulder, it’s your version of war paint. You’re not wearing it by accident.

“Professor Christensen,” you purr, stopping just short of his desk. “Do you have a minute?”

He doesn’t look up right away. Just clicks his pen, slowly. Once. Twice. His other hand stays poised over a graded stack of essays. Yours, maybe, somewhere in there.

Then he lifts his head.

His eyes, those clear stormy blues, skim you like a scalpel — precise, assessing, a little dangerous. He’s not amused. But he’s not stopping you, either.

“I have five,” he says coolly, voice a low drawl. “Choose your words wisely.”

You smile, stepping closer. “Five minutes should be enough.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For you to tell me why you gave me a B- on an essay I worked on for two nights straight.”

“That explains the grade,” he mutters dryly, then leans back in his chair. “You rushed it. And before you argue, I’ll remind you — this is a literature class, not a seduction workshop. Your metaphors were lazy. Your ending was sloppy. Your thesis… unfinished.”

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, pretending to be wounded. “I thought you liked my imagination.”

His eyes darken.

“I like control,” he replies. “You should’ve learned that by now.”

There it is — that low, simmering line between what he says and what he means. You’ve been dancing on it for weeks. In every smirk you throw his way. Every knowing look you give him when you stretch a little too slowly in class. Every time you call him sir just a little too softly.

But today, you’re done playing.

You walk around the side of his desk. His brows raise in warning, but you don’t stop — not until you’re perched on the edge of the wood, legs crossed at the ankle, close enough for him to smell the cocoa butter on your thighs.

“Maybe,” you whisper, “I wanted to see what happens when I test your patience.”

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Hayden…” you say softly, deliberately.

His name on your lips is gasoline. You know it. He does too.

“Say that again,” he murmurs, standing slowly, his full height towering over you. You feel the temperature in the room shift. He’s no longer sitting behind his desk. There’s no more barrier between you.

You say it again. “Hayden…”

He leans down, so close you feel his breath on your lips.

“Yes, baby, that’s my name,” he murmurs. “Remember it well… because tonight you’ll be screaming it at the top of your lungs.”

Then — his fingers brush your lips. Long, slender, ink-stained fingers. You part your lips instinctively, and they slip inside with shocking ease.

They taste like salt and ink and something darker. You suck gently, heat blooming low in your belly. Your breath hitches when he presses deeper, grazing the back of your throat.

“Wider,” he orders softly, throat thick. “Open them wider and suck on my fingers.”

You obey — not because you have to, but because you want to. Because his control has always been a delicious kind of poison.

You swirl your tongue around his knuckles, moaning softly. He watches your mouth with reverence, like he’s watching you commit sin in real time.

When you lightly graze his finger with your teeth, his jaw clenches — but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, he rewards you.

His other hand lifts to your throat.

A gentle grip. Warm. Firm. Possessive.

“Keep going,” he breathes. “Take it. Be a good girl and take what I give you.”

His fingers glide from your throat to your jaw as he pulls out of your mouth — slow, slick, and utterly depraved — a thin string of spit still connecting you when he speaks.

“You came in here to provoke me,” he says, voice deep and almost calm. Too calm. “Did you even read the feedback I gave you?”

“No,” you admit sweetly, licking the corner of your mouth. “I figured you’d prefer a verbal apology.”

He scoffs under his breath, shaking his head like he’s tired of your games — but his hand is already on your thigh. Squeezing. Traveling up.

“And how exactly,” he asks, fingers inching under your skirt, “were you planning to apologize?”

You grin. “With enthusiasm.”

That earns you a smirk. His eyes flick down as he parts your legs slowly, revealing just how not innocent you are. No panties. You didn’t even try to hide it.

“You’re shameless,” he mutters, voice gone rough, fingers now grazing the heat between your thighs. “Walking into your professor’s office dripping wet. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I was hoping,” you whisper, “you’d finally shut me up.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Oh, baby. I plan to do a lot more than that.”

In a blur, he grabs you by the hips and flips you onto your stomach across his desk. Papers scatter. A pen rolls to the floor. The hard surface presses into your ribs, but all you feel is the burn between your legs and the way his hand slaps your ass without warning.

You gasp — loud.

“Quiet,” he warns. “Unless you want someone to hear.”

You nod quickly, gripping the edge of the desk, heart thundering in your chest.

He leans over you, mouth brushing your ear.

“Use that bratty mouth now and I’ll gag you with my tie. Understand?”

You nod again. “Yes, sir.”

“Mm. Good girl.”

His fingers slide between your thighs — rougher now, greedy. He groans when he feels how soaked you are.

“All this from just sucking my fingers?” he growls. “You’re filthier than I thought.”

You moan when two of his fingers thrust inside you — slow at first, then faster, until you’re arching off the desk, biting your lip to stay quiet. He curves them just right, hitting that spot over and over until your legs tremble.

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Hayden—please—”

“Not yet,” he snaps. “You don’t come until I say. You want to act like a slut in my office? Then you’ll come like one too. On my fingers. On my desk. Loud enough that the TA outside will wonder why your grade suddenly improved.”

You almost lose it right then.

He fingers you harder, faster, while his other hand holds your hips down. You can feel how soaked you are, hear the filthy sound of it echoing in the silence of the room. His breathing is harsh. Controlled. But you can tell he’s close to breaking.

“You like this, don’t you?” he pants. “Being bent over where anyone could walk in. Letting me use you like the little slut you are.”

“Yes,” you cry, voice muffled against your own arm. “Please—I need—”

“You’ll take what I give you.”

And you do.

You let go — shaking, gasping, coming all over his fingers as he presses them deep and doesn’t stop until you whimper from overstimulation. He pulls them out slowly, spreading you open just to watch his cum-slicked fingers glisten under the light.

He brings them to your mouth again.

You don’t hesitate.

You suck them clean while he watches, his pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like he’s about to lose every ounce of restraint he’s ever had.

Your lips are still wrapped around his fingers when he finally yanks them out with a soft pop, strings of spit stretching between them. You stare up at him through fluttering lashes, chest rising, legs still trembling from the orgasm he ripped out of you.

But he’s not done.

His voice is darker now. Hoarse. Barely tethered.

“Get on your knees.”

You hesitate — just long enough to feel the thrill of defiance light behind your ribs — before sinking down onto the hardwood floor, letting your thighs press together. He watches every movement like a starving man, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to stay sane.

“You don’t even care that this is wrong, do you?” he mutters, eyes locked on yours.

You smirk, tilting your head. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

He laughs once. A dry, bitter sound.

“Too late for that.”

His hands go to his belt. You watch, biting your lip, as he unbuckles it with slow, deliberate precision. The sound alone sends a pulse straight between your legs. When he finally frees himself, thick and already leaking for you, your mouth waters.

You reach for him.

He doesn’t stop you.

Your lips part as you take him in — slowly, teasingly — swirling your tongue around the head, just to watch him flinch. His hand instantly fists in your hair, holding you in place as you slide deeper, inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat and you gag around him.

“Fuck,” he growls, head tipping back. “Just like that. Take it. Let me fuck that smart mouth of yours.”

You moan around him, bobbing your head faster, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock while the other claws at his thigh for balance. He’s thick, heavy, perfect — and you’re dripping again just from the way he sounds when he groans your name.

But it’s not enough for him.

He pulls you off with a wet gasp and yanks you to your feet, spinning you around to sit on the edge of the desk again. Your skirt is bunched up around your waist, your thighs still slick, and when he steps between them and grabs your hips, you feel it — the hunger, the need, the loss of control.

“This is the only time,” he grits out, lining himself up. “This doesn’t happen again.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Liar.”

Then he thrusts into you.

Hard. Deep. Perfect.

Your head tips back as a strangled cry escapes your throat. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, pulling you closer with every punishing thrust. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, digging your nails into the fabric of his shirt.

You’ve imagined this — in class, while reading, even while touching yourself late at night after one of his lectures. But nothing compares to the brutal, gorgeous reality of being fucked on your professor’s desk, his name strangled in your throat with every thrust.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growls into your ear, slamming into you so hard the desk creaks.

“Yes—fuck, yes, please—”

He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls your head back so he can look into your eyes while he ruins you.

“I should fail you for this,” he pants, lips brushing yours.

You grin through the haze. “You’d miss this mouth too much.”

That earns you a brutal snap of his hips that makes your vision blur. The edge comes fast — embarrassingly fast — but he feels it. His fingers slide down and rub furious circles over your clit.

“Come again,” he orders. “Right now. While I’m inside you. Be a good girl and make a mess on my cock.”

You fall apart.

Harder this time. Louder. Clutching at his shoulders, legs shaking, choking out his name like a prayer. He fucks you through it, relentless, eyes locked on yours like he wants to remember exactly what you look like when you fall apart for him.

Then — with a groan, a growl, a broken curse of your name — he comes too, buried deep inside you, holding you down like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You both breathe hard, tangled in silence. His forehead pressed to yours. His hand still wrapped around your waist.

You’re still clinging to him when the haze begins to lift — both of you panting, sweaty, tangled in something dangerous and raw. His cock is still buried inside you, twitching slightly with the last aftershocks. Your thighs are sticky with slick and cum. The room smells like sex and old books, like guilt and satisfaction.

He exhales against your cheek, voice still gravel-rough. “Jesus Christ…”

You smile, lips grazing his jaw. “You say that like you didn’t enjoy it.”

He groans and slowly pulls out, his hands steadying you when your legs wobble. You wince slightly at the oversensitivity, at the wet mess pooling between your thighs, at the sharp edge of the desk digging into your skin. But you’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

He grabs a tissue from the corner of the desk, swipes carefully between your legs — and even that small act is so surprisingly gentle, it makes your chest ache. You don’t expect it. But it lingers.

Then, buttoning his slacks, he clears his throat and mutters, “This didn’t happen.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “Twice, actually.”

His eyes flick to yours, narrowing. “Don’t push your luck.”

But you do. Of course you do.

You stand, straighten your skirt, and with the sweetest, filthiest grin on your face, you lean across his desk — exactly how you started — and coo, “So… about my grade.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

You bat your lashes innocently. “I just think it would be unfair if my performance today didn’t count toward my final. I was such a… dedicated student.”

His jaw clenches. His eyes blaze.

“I mean—” you trail a finger down his tie, voice a sultry whisper, “I followed all instructions. Showed… initiative. Oral participation was off the charts. Surely that deserves an A.”

He exhales a slow, pained breath through his nose — like he’s doing everything in his power not to bend you over the desk again.

“Out,” he says flatly.

You pout. “Seriously?”

He steps in close — too close — mouth barely a breath from yours. His hand finds your throat again, light, teasing pressure that makes you melt.

“If you don’t leave right now,” he whispers darkly, “I’m going to make you repeat the entire lesson. On your knees. With my belt around your wrists this time.”

Your thighs clench.

You grin. “Tempting, professor. But maybe I’ll save that for next week.”

He groans like he’s actually in pain as you strut toward the door, throwing one last look over your shoulder before opening it.

“Oh, and sir?” you say sweetly.

He raises an eyebrow.

“I expect to see an A+ on my paper by morning. After all—” you wink, “I’ve never worked so hard for a grade in my life.”

You close the door behind you with a soft click and leave him standing there — breathless, undone, and very, very far from finished.