#st vecna

The grass is cool under your thin slippers as you cross the lawn. Your heart pounds, rabbit quick, and there's heat in your cheeks that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun. You know you shouldn't. He's been so clear about the rules, about the monsters, about keeping you safe.

But your feet carry you forward anyway.

The tree line looms closer. The shadows between the trunks seem to shift and breathe. You're ten feet away, then five, then close enough to touch the rough bark of an oak tree when you hear it.

"My dear."

His voice stops you cold. Not loud, not angry. Just... firm. You turn slowly, and there he is on the porch in his brown suit, his glasses catching the light. The wide brimmed hat casts his face in shadow, but you can feel his gaze nonetheless.

"Come inside, please."

The walk back feels three times as long. Your legs shake with each step, and that heat in your cheeks has spread down your neck, into your chest. Fear and anticipation twist together in your stomach until you can't tell one from the other.

He holds the door open for you, ever the gentleman, and you step into the cool dimness of the entry hall. The door closes with a soft click.

"I'm terribly disappointed," he says quietly, removing his hat and setting it on the hall table. His movements are measured, controlled. "You understand, don't you, that the rules exist for your protection? I've explained this. The woods are not safe. And yet you went to them anyway."

"I'm sorry, I just..." Your voice comes out smaller than you intended.

"Just what, darling?" He steps closer, and you can see his eyes now behind those gold rimmed glasses. Blue and sharp and seeing right through you. "You were curious? You thought you knew better than I did?" He tilts his head slightly. "Or perhaps you wanted this. Needed it, even."

Your breath catches. "I don't..."

"Don't lie to me." His fingers brush your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "You think I don't see you? That I haven't watched the way you look at those trees, day after day? The way your pulse quickens when I remind you of the rules?" His thumb traces your lower lip. "You've been waiting for this. Haven't you?"

The words you've been too afraid to say lodge in your throat, but he sees them anyway. He always does.

"Come with me."

He takes your hand and leads you to the sitting room, to the velvet settee where you've spent so many evenings reading while he worked. But he doesn't sit. He stands there, looking at you with that mixture of disappointment and something else, something darker and more promising.

"You know what happens when rules are broken," he says. It's not a question.

Your mouth is dry. "Yes."

"Then lift your skirts and come here."

The fabric whispers as you gather it in trembling hands, layers and layers until you're holding it all at your waist. The cool air kisses your stockinged legs, the bare skin of your thighs above them. You're aware of every inch of exposure, of how vulnerable you are, of the dampness already gathering between your legs.

He sits and pats his knee. "Over my lap, darling."

You drape yourself across his thighs, your palms flat against the floor for balance, your backside elevated and utterly exposed. The position is mortifying and electrifying in equal measure. You can feel the solid muscle of his legs beneath you, the expensive fabric of his trousers, the heat of his body.

His hand rests on the curve of your bottom, and even through the thin cotton of your drawers, his touch burns.

"How many do you think you deserve?" he asks conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "For putting yourself in danger? For worrying me so?"

"I don't know," you whisper.

"No, you don't." His fingers trace the edge of your drawers, then slowly, deliberately, he draws them down to your knees. The air hits your bare skin and you gasp. "But I do. Twenty, I think. Count them for me."

The first slap lands with shocking force. Pain blooms hot and sharp across your right cheek, and you cry out.

"One," you manage.

"Good girl."

The second follows quickly, on the left this time. Your fingers curl against the floor. "Two."

He establishes a rhythm, alternating sides, each strike precise and measured. By five, your skin is burning. By ten, you're squirming against his lap, and you can feel him hard beneath you, his arousal pressing against your hip. By fifteen, you're sobbing out the numbers, tears streaming down your face, but between your legs you're slick and aching and desperate.

"Sixteen." Your voice breaks.

"You're doing so well, darling," he murmurs, and his other hand comes to rest on your lower back, grounding you. "Just a few more."

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.

Twenty lands harder than the rest, right where the curve of your bottom meets your thigh, and you let out a broken sound with it, trembling and gasping.

"There we are." His hand smooths over your burning skin, soothing now. "All done. You took that beautifully. So very beautifully."

His fingers trail lower, exploring, and you feel him pause when he discovers how wet you are, how the arousal has been dripping down your thighs.

"Oh, darling," he murmurs, and there's something almost reverent in his voice. "Look at this. Look at what you've been hiding from me." His fingers slide through your slickness, slow and deliberate. "Your body tells me the truth, even when your words don't. You needed this. You've been craving it. Haven't you?"

Still draped over his lap, vulnerable and exposed, you can only whimper as he explores you leisurely, as if he has all the time in the world.

"My sweet, reckless wife," he says softly, and his voice takes on that hypnotic quality, measured and certain. "You think you were seeking freedom out there in those woods. But this is what you were truly seeking. This surrender. This release." His fingers find your entrance and circle it, teasing. "I know what you need. I've always known."

"Please," you breathe. "Please, Henry."

His fingers stroke through your folds, circling but not quite touching where you need him most. "Please what?"

"Please touch me. Please, I've been so good, I've waited so long..."

"You have been good," he agrees, and finally, finally, his fingers find your clit. The sensation makes you jerk in his arms. "Except for today. But we've dealt with that, haven't we?"

He works you with maddening skill, fingers stroking and circling, occasionally dipping inside you just to make you gasp. His other hand rests on the small of your back, keeping you pinned in place, completely at his mercy.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear you. Let me hear what I do to you."

The pleasure builds and builds, coiling tight in your belly. Your hips move against his hand, chasing it, shameless now despite the humiliating position. His fingers press firmly against your clit and everything inside you pulls taut, suspended on the edge.

"Come for me, darling," he says, and you do.

The orgasm crashes through you in waves, pleasure so intense it borders on pain. You cry out, your body shaking, your fingers scrabbling against the floor for purchase. He works you through it, gentle and relentless, drawing out every last tremor until you're boneless and gasping, draped across his lap.

When you finally still, he withdraws his hand. You hear the soft sound of him tasting his fingers, and even without seeing it, the knowledge makes something clench deep inside you all over again.

"Beautiful," he says softly. "Absolutely beautiful."

He helps you up then, carefully arranging you to sit sideways in his lap, your head on his shoulder. He produces a handkerchief to dry your tears, his hands gentle now, stroking your hair, your back, soothing away the last of the tension.

"You scared me," he says quietly. "When I saw you at the tree line. The thought of losing you..."

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I won't do it again."

"I know you won't." He tilts your chin up and kisses your forehead. "Because you understand now, don't you? Why the rules exist?"

You nod against his chest. Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Maybe the monsters in the woods are real, or maybe the only monster is the man holding you so tenderly, the one who just made you sob and scream and come apart. Maybe it doesn't matter.

"Let's get you upstairs," he says. "A bath, I think, and some salve for your poor bottom. And then dinner, and perhaps we'll read together by the fire."

He carries you up the stairs as if you weigh nothing, and you let yourself be carried. Let yourself be cared for. Let yourself sink into the safety of his arms and the beautiful prison of his Victorian house.

The woods can wait.

They'll always be there, dark and full of promises, whenever you're brave enough to try again.

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. . .

He’s the kind of professor who sounds gentle, every sentence an invitation to think rather than a demand to agree. Soft voice, careful phrasing, that faint almost-smile when someone makes a decent point.

Which is exactly why it’s ruining her… Not to mention, he’s physically attractive…

She sits in the second row with her notebook open, pen poised, trying to act like a normal student who came here for the assigned reading not like someone who’s been privately losing her mind since week one.

Professor Creel turns a page in his notes and the movement is so small it shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

Because his hands are always steady, deliberate. Because his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show the line of his forearm when he writes on the board. Because he leans forward when he gets interested, like the room becomes intimate without permission.

“Let’s talk about the narrator,” he says, and his voice is low enough that everyone quiets automatically. Not out of fear, out of habit. Out of wanting to hear him.

Her eyes flick down to his mouth before she can stop herself.

At this point, it isn’t even a choice. Her attention always returns to him.

She forces herself to look at the text. Ink. Words. Meaning. She can do this. She’s literally good at this.

He walks between the desks, slow, unhurried and stops near her.

Not in front of her. Not directly beside her. Just close enough for her to catch the clean scent of soap and paper. Close enough to hear the quiet click of his shoes and the soft drag of his breath when he pauses to think.

“Most people,” he says, “assume the narrator is trustworthy because he’s articulate.”

Her pen scratches too hard against the page.

It’s stupid. It’s stupid to be affected by the way he says articulate, like the word has weight. Like he’s tasting it. Like he has no idea what that does to her.

He glances down at her notebook.

She tries not to react. She tries to look normal, composed, academic, except she can feel heat rising under her skin, her body threatening to betray her in the most humiliating way possible

Then he says her name.

Not sharply. Not as though she’s in trouble. Curiously.

“Y/N.”

Her stomach drops with a sick, lovely thud.

“Yes?” she manages, and she hates that it comes out slightly breathless.

His gaze stays on her just long enough to make her aware of her own mouth, her own hands, her own pulse. He doesn’t stare. He doesn’t leer. That’s the worst part: it’s all restraint. All control. All professional.

“Do you agree?” he asks, mild and polite, standing close enough to make her feel singled out.

Her brain tries to reboot.

She drags her focus back to the page, to the lecture, to the safety of analysis. Even then, she’s still aware of him beside her, waiting.

“I don’t,” she says, finally, her voice steadier now, because this part she can do.

His eyebrows lift. Interested.

And she loves that look on him. She shouldn’t. But she does.

“I think we mistake articulation for honesty,” she continues. “Someone can sound convincing and still be—selective.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. A recognition.

“Selective,” he repeats, and something about hearing her word in his voice makes her spine go tight.

He leans slightly closer, barely enough to matter, yet she suddenly becomes intensely aware of how she’s sitting. How her knee is angled. How tightly she’s gripping her pen. How she’s breathing.

“Explain,” he says softly.

She swallows.

This isn’t flirting. It’s academic. It’s normal. It’s what she came for.

So why does it feel like he just asked her to confess something?

She keeps her eyes on the book because if she looks at him she’ll get reckless.

“Because omission is a choice,” she says. “And he omits too neatly.”

Silence settles, classroom silence, the kind that means people are listening.

Professor Creel’s gaze doesn’t leave her.

And she can feel it like a touch that isn’t happening.

“Good,” he says, very quietly, and the word hits her in the chest like she’s been rewarded.

He straightens, steps away with that maddening calm of his, and continues as if he didn’t just make her entire nervous system light up.

Her pen hovers above the page.

She tries to write down the next point. She really does.

But all she can think about is the way he said her name. The way he leaned in. The way he looked at her like her mind was something worth examining up close.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even know she’s holding herself together by sheer willpower.

. . .

A few days later, the numbers start to betray her.

Not in lecture, never in lecture. In lecture she’s sharp, attentive, answering questions as though she was made for this room. She takes notes. She underlines. She argues the right points with the right citations. She looks like she belongs here.

It’s the tests that ruin her.

The moment the paper lands in front of her, her brain does that awful thing where it wanders. Not to the book, not to the themes, but to him. To his voice reading a line aloud. To the way he watches the class when he thinks no one notices. To the quiet approval in his eyes when she challenges him.

She sits there staring at a question she absolutely knows, and still her mind turns traitor.

By the time he hands back the second exam, the grade at the top is lower than the first.

She knows it’s bad before she even looks.

He places the stack on the front desk and dismisses the class with a gentle, “That’s all for today.”

Chairs scrape, backpacks zip. People file out, talking, laughing, free.

She starts to stand with them, desperate to disappear into the current.

“Y/N.”

Her name is calm. Not loud. Not angry.

It still stops her cold.

Everyone else keeps moving. The door swings. Air from the hallway washes in. A few students glance back with mild curiosity, then leave.

She remains half-standing, half-frozen, her fingers still hooked around her bag strap.

“Yes?” she manages, trying for casual and landing somewhere too tight.

Professor Creel waits until the room is mostly empty. He doesn’t watch the last student go. His attention is already on her, steady as a hand at the small of her back.

When the door clicks shut, the classroom changes. It’s the same space, but without an audience it feels smaller. More private.

“Stay a moment,” he says.

Not a question. Not unkind. Just certain.

She swallows and sinks back into her chair. Her legs seem to decide for her.

He doesn’t come around her desk. He doesn’t crowd her. He sets the graded papers on the edge of his podium, then takes his glasses off, slow and deliberate, and folds them like he has all the time in the world.

That movement should be meaningless. It isn’t.

He looks at her over the bare bridge of his nose, expression composed. Soft. Professional. The way he always is.

Except his eyes are too focused.

“Your lecture performance hasn’t changed,” he says, voice even. “But your test scores have.”

She forces a small laugh that sounds wrong in the quiet. “I’ve just been… off, I guess.”

“Off,” he repeats, a faint pause around the word suggesting he doesn’t believe it.

He lifts her exam, this one, and taps the page once with a finger. Not hard. Not aggressive.

Controlled.

“You know this material,” he says. “These aren’t mistakes from ignorance.”

Heat crawls up her neck. She stares at the wood grain of her desk.

“I get nervous during tests.”

“Mm.” A small sound. Thoughtful. Not convinced.

The silence stretches. She can practically feel him examining her the way he examines a text, searching for what’s missing.

She hates that it works. Hates that she wants it to work.

He speaks again, gentler. “What’s going on?”

Her mouth opens.

And she does what she always does when she’s scared of the truth.

She lies.

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “It’s just a lot of classes at once. Maybe I overloaded my schedule.”

His gaze doesn’t move. He doesn’t argue. He simply watches her with the same patience he shows in class when a student makes a weak argument.

“Y/N,” he says softly, and her name in his voice is a problem all by itself.

She grips her pen. “I’m fine.”

He leans back against the desk at the front of the room, still a respectful distance away, and folds his hands. There’s something quietly authoritative about the way he occupies silence.

“You’ve missed questions you’ve answered out loud in this room,” he says. “More than once.”

She looks up before she can stop herself.

His eyes meet hers immediately.

“You’re not fine,” he adds, not harshly. Just fact.

Her pulse stutters.

“If my grade’s going to keep dropping,” she says, voice carefully steady, “it might be better if I transferred to another section. Another professor. That way I can focus.”

The atmosphere shifts.

Professor Creel doesn’t blink.

For a second she thinks she’s offended him. Then she realizes it’s something worse.

He’s still controlled, but there’s tension beneath it now. A quiet edge.

He sets her exam down with careful precision.

“That’s what you want?” he asks.

She nods too fast. “It’s practical.”

“Practical,” he repeats, and the word sounds different in his mouth. Sharper. Almost amused. Almost displeased.

He stands. Not suddenly, but decisively.

Her stomach flips anyway.

He crosses the room, stopping beside her desk at an angle. Not in her space, but closer than before. Close enough for her to catch the subtle scent of his cologne. Close enough for his shadow to fall across her notebook.

He looks down at her paper. Then at her.

His voice stays low. “You’re doing well in here. You’re engaged. You’re capable.”

She swallows, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter if my tests—”

“It does,” he cuts her off quietly, but there’s no softness in the interruption. No room to speak over him.

Her lips part. Her heart thuds like she’s been reprimanded.

Then he softens, just a fraction.

“Don’t run from a course you’re succeeding in because something else is getting in your way.”

Her breath catches. Because he didn’t say what the something is.

Like he already knows.

She forces her shoulders to loosen. “I’m not running.”

He holds her gaze. It’s infuriating how steady he is.

“Then tell me the truth,” he says, his voice dropping a shade lower. “What is distracting you?”

Her face burns. Every answer she could give feels dangerous.

“I told you,” she says, too quickly. “I’m overloaded.”

He watches her for a long moment.

Then, calmly and firmly, he says, “No.”

The word stops her cold.

She goes still.

He doesn’t touch her. He doesn’t need to.

“I’m not going to sign off on you blaming your intelligence for something that isn’t intelligence,” he continues. “And I’m not going to encourage you to abandon the one environment where you consistently excel.”

She blinks, stunned. “You can’t—”

“I can’t stop you from transferring,” he says, and she hears the clipped honesty in it. “The department handles that. If you want to change sections, you can. You don’t need my permission.”

The relief flickers, brief and fast.

Then he adds, voice even, “But if you’re asking me to validate it as the solution, I won’t.”

Her fingers tighten around her pen. “Why?”

His gaze holds hers. Steady. Intent.

“Because it’s avoidance,” he says simply.

Her pulse spikes. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he replies, calm certainty in his voice. “I’ve been teaching long enough to recognize when a student is trying to outrun a problem by changing scenery.”

She swallows hard. “So what, what do you want me to do?”

He exhales slowly, choosing his words with care.

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t know what’s happening,” he says.

She stares at him, panicked, embarrassed, electric with it.

Professor Creel’s expression stays composed, but his eyes flick briefly to her mouth before returning to hers.

It’s so quick she could pretend she imagined it.

She doesn’t.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, as if he hates that his attention strays at all.

Then he speaks again, voice controlled. “We can address your performance without you sabotaging yourself. You’ll come to office hours this week. We’ll review how you’re approaching exams. We’ll fix the pattern.”

The phrasing, you’ll come, should feel too bold.

Instead it makes something in her go hot and weak and furious all at once.

She lifts her chin. “And if I don’t?”

He doesn’t smile. Not exactly.

But there’s something dangerously close to satisfaction in the quiet, unwavering way he looks at her.

“Then you’ll keep slipping,” he says. “And you’ll hate yourself for it.”

His voice softens, sounding once again like the gentle professor the class knows.

But the control doesn’t leave.

“And I don’t believe,” he adds, watching her closely, “that you’re the kind of person who enjoys losing.”

Her throat tightens. She looks down at her exam because if she keeps looking at him, she’ll say something reckless.

“I’m not,” she whispers.

“Good.” That single word again. Quiet. Heavy.

He steps back, giving her space and finally allowing her to breathe.

“Office hours,” he repeats, calmly inevitable. “Thursday.”

She nods because her voice is unreliable.

He picks up his glasses and puts them on, the final click of the frames settling him back into professionalism.

But his eyes still hold hers.

And when he says, “You can go,” it sounds less like dismissal and more like permission.

She stands on legs that feel unreal, gathering her things too slowly. She moves toward the door, heart pounding, brain screaming at her to breathe.

Behind her, his voice, soft, mild, and absolutely not mild at all, adds:

“And Y/N?”

She pauses with her hand on the handle.

“Yes?”

A beat.

“Don’t lie to me again.”

Not a threat.

A boundary.

A line drawn with velvet and steel.

She leaves the room and the hallway feels too bright, too loud, too normal.

And she realizes, with a sick twist of excitement, that he didn’t let her escape.

He didn’t push her away.

He made her stay.

. . .

Office hours are quieter than class. No audience. No chatter. Just the soft hum of the lights and the occasional scratch of his pen.

Her exam lies open between them, an accusation neither of them is willing to name.

Professor Creel sits across the desk, sleeves rolled, glasses low on his nose as he points to the question she missed, calm, patient, infuriatingly composed.

“This one,” he says. “You identified the theme correctly in lecture. Why didn’t you use it here?”

She stares at the page. She knows the answer.

She also knows she isn’t really looking at the page. She’s aware of him instead, his voice, his hands, the steady focus of his attention.

“I… I don’t know,” she lies.

His gaze lifts.

It settles on her, steady and deliberate, and she immediately regrets being human.

“Try again,” he says softly.

Her throat tightens. Heat creeps up her neck. She glances away, pretending to reread the paragraph, but her eyes keep returning to him.

He watches her for a beat longer than necessary.

Then he leans forward, closer, not enough to be improper, just enough to shift the air. Just enough that she can’t pretend he doesn’t affect her.

“Y/N,” he says, quieter now. “I’m speaking to you.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re looking at me,” he corrects, still gentle, still controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes her pulse stutter. “And you’ve been doing it all semester.”

Her stomach drops.

She tries to laugh it off, but it comes out thin. “That’s not—”

His hand lifts, not to touch her, not to stop her physically, just a small, precise motion that ends the sentence anyway.

She goes silent. Her breath goes shallow.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

“Your lecture performance is strong,” he says, eyes steady on hers. “Your exams are declining. And when I ask you what’s wrong, you lie.”

“I’m not lying—”

Her mind raced, thoughts of him flooding her, the way his voice commanded the lecture hall, the subtle flex of his muscles when he gestured, the heat that pooled low in her belly whenever their eyes met. But she couldn't admit that, not to him, not to anyone. It was hard enough, admitting it to herself.

His gaze sharpens. Not angry. Just final.

“You are,” he says. “And you’re not as good at it as you think.”

The heat in her face is instant and humiliating. She pushes her chair back, snatching up her notebook and bag, anything to give her hands a task.

“I should go,” she manages.

She stands.

He stands too, smoothly, controlled, moving around the desk with quiet purpose.

“Thank you, Professor but I should—“

Her sentence cuts off halfway.

One second she’s talking, hands moving, breath steady, then his fingers snap around her throat like a trap, thumb digging under her jaw, the rest of his grip hard enough to steal the sound right out of her mouth. Shock flashes across her face as her words collapse into a strangled, useless inhale.

The pressure of his fingers against her skin was electric, a shock of dominance that made her gasp, her pulse throbbing wildly under his touch.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, and there’s nothing quiet about the way he moves her.

He doesn’t drag her so much as guide her with pressure, an ugly, controlled shove that turns her steps backward.

Her palms fly up to his wrist on instinct but he keeps her upright, keeps her moving.

Her back hits the door with a blunt thud that knocks the air loose from her lungs, pinning her there with his body mere inches away. The frame rattles.

His breath was warm on her face, carrying a faint hint of coffee and something undeniably masculine, as his eyes bored into hers, dark and unyielding.

"Don't lie to me again, Y/N," he growled, his voice laced with a seductive authority that made her knees weaken.

She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his cologne, sandalwood and leather, invading her senses, making her head spin. Her hands instinctively rose to his wrist, not to push him away but to steady herself, her fingers brushing the hairs on his arm. "Tell me the truth. What's really distracting you?"

The words tumbled out before she could stop them, a confession born of the raw intensity in his gaze.

"It's…you," she admitted softly due to his grip, her voice breaking, a flush spreading down her neck as her body betrayed her with a sudden surge of wetness between her thighs. "I can't stop looking at you, thinking about you. It's wrong, I fucking know…but I want you."

He didn't release her throat, but his grip loosened just enough for her to draw a shaky breath, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her pulse point that sent shivers racing down her spine. 

"Tsk, tsk," he murmured, his eyes roaming over her face and down to the swell of her breasts beneath her blouse, devouring her with a look that was pure, unfiltered hunger. 

“Naughty girl. Careful for what you wish for…” The way he eyed her made her feel exposed, desired in a way that ignited every nerve ending, her nipples hardening against the lace of her bra as if responding to his gaze alone. 

Without warning, he pushed her harder against the door, his free hand sliding up her thigh, bunching the fabric of her skirt until it rode high on her hips as he spoke, “You finally have my full attention.” 

Then, with a swift, commanding motion, he spun her around and shoved her onto the desk, papers scattering to the floor in a chaotic whisper.

She landed on her back, the cool wood pressing into her skin through her clothes, her legs dangling over the edge as he wedged himself between them. His hands were everywhere, rough, insistent, hiking her skirt up further to reveal the damp fabric of her panties, the scent of her arousal already filling the air like a forbidden perfume.

He dropped to his knees with a deliberateness that made her breath catch, his eyes locked on hers as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and yanked them down, exposing her fully to the dim light.

The cool air kissed her slick folds, making her shudder, and she could see the raw hunger in his expression, his lips parting slightly as he took in the sight of her, her pussy glistening, swollen with need.

"You're soaked for me already," he said, his voice a husky whisper that sent a jolt through her core, before he leaned in.

His breath hot against her most intimate flesh. The first touch of his tongue was agonizingly slow, a flat, broad stroke from her entrance to her clit that made her arch off the desk, a low moan escaping her lips. 

He gripped her thighs, holding her open as he delved deeper, his tongue delving into her folds with expert precision, lapping at the wetness that coated her. Every flick, every swirl sent waves of pleasure crashing through her body, the wet, sucking sounds of his mouth on her filling the room, mingling with her ragged gasps. 

She could feel the roughness of his tongue against her sensitive nub, circling it relentlessly, building a tension that coiled tighter and tighter in her belly, her hips bucking involuntarily against his face.

As he worked her with unyielding focus, his hands roamed upward, one sliding under her blouse to cup her breast, thumbing her hardened nipple through the fabric until she cried out, the dual sensations overwhelming. 

The taste of her seemed to drive him wild; she could hear his breaths growing heavier.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the pleasure mounted, her body trembling on the edge. "Professor, please," she whimpered, her voice thick with desperation, the words barely coherent amid the symphony of her moans. 

He didn't stop, his tongue plunging into her entrance now, fucking her with it in slow, deep thrusts that mimicked what she craved elsewhere, his nose pressing against her clit with each movement. 

The buildup was exquisite torture, every nerve alight with sensation, the slick warmth of his mouth, the firm pressure of his lips, the way her inner walls clenched around nothing, aching for more. 

When she finally shattered, her orgasm ripping through her like a storm, her body convulsed, thighs clamping around his head as waves of ecstasy pulsed from her core, leaving her breathless and spent, a trail of her essence glistening on his chin.

He pulled back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with a predatory satisfaction that made her heart race anew. 

The room felt charged, the air heavy with the mingled scents of their desire, her musky arousal and his own faint, masculine sweat.

Before she could catch her breath, his hand shot out again, wrapping around her throat with that same commanding grip, pulling her up to face him, sliding off the desk. "I'm not done with you yet," he whispered, his voice a dark promise that sent a fresh shiver down her spine, his other hand already guiding her to her knees in front of him. 

The wooden floor pressed hard against her kneecaps as he pushed the chair under the door handle, the metallic scrape echoing like a seal on their privacy, leaving her trapped in this intimate world with him, her body still humming from the aftershocks of pleasure. 

She looked up at him, her lips parted in anticipation, the bulge in his pants mere inches from her face, and she knew this was only the beginning of the storm they had unleashed.

She knelt there on the hard wooden floor, her knees aching from the unyielding surface, the cool air of the classroom brushing against her flushed skin as she gazed up at him. Professor Creel's eyes locked onto hers, dark and commanding, a silent order that made her fingers tremble slightly as they reached for the waistband of his pants. 

With deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned them, the metal clasp giving way under her touch, the sound of the zipper's descent a soft, intimate whisper in the quiet room.

All the while, his hand rested firmly in her hair, fingers threading through the strands to tilt her head back, ensuring she didn't break that intense eye contact. It was as if he were teaching her another lesson, one far removed from the lectures on Shakespeare and Austen that had filled this very space just hours before, just on the other side of the chair barricaded door, lectures where she'd sat in the second row, her mind wandering, distracted by the way his voice commanded the room, his words painting vivid worlds that mirrored the turmoil in her own heart.

She knelt there on the hard wooden floor, her knees aching from the unyielding surface, the cool air of the classroom brushing against her flushed skin as she gazed up at him. Professor Creel's eyes locked onto hers, dark and commanding, a silent order that made her fingers tremble slightly as they reached for the waistband of his pants.

With deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned them, the metal clasp giving way under her touch, the sound of the zipper's descent a soft, intimate whisper in the quiet room.

As his pants slid down his thighs, revealing the dark fabric of his underwear straining against his arousal, Her breath caught in her throat. 

She paused for a heartbeat, her eyes widening at the sight of his cock as he freed it with a deft pull, the thick shaft springing forward, already hard and pulsing with need. 

It was larger than she'd imagined in her secret, stolen fantasies, the kind that had crept into her thoughts during his classes, when he'd pace the front of the room, his authoritative presence making her pulse quicken. 

The head was flushed a deep crimson, glistening with a bead of precum that caught the dim light filtering through the blinds, and she couldn't help but stare, mesmerized by its girth, the veins tracing along the sides like rivers on a map she was desperate to explore.

A mix of awe and a thrill of apprehension washed over her, her own body still thrumming from the orgasm he'd just given her, as she leaned in closer, the musky scent of him filling her nostrils, a heady blend of soap, sweat, and raw desire that made her mouth water.

His grip in her hair tightened, guiding her forward with a gentle but insistent pressure, and she parted her lips obediently, her tongue darting out to taste him first. 

The initial contact was electric, the saltiness of his skin exploding on her taste buds as she swirled her tongue around the tip, savoring the slick warmth. 

He let out a low groan, his free hand coming to rest on her shoulder, steadying himself as his eyes rolled back while they closed at the feeling.

She took him deeper, her lips stretching around his considerable size. 

"That's it, Y/N," he whispered, his voice a velvety rumble that sent shivers down her spine, words laced with praise and possession. "Look at me while you take me in…show me how much you want this, how you've been thinking about it in my class, your mind drifting from sonnets to something far more sinful." 

His words ignited a fire within her, each syllable stoking the embers of her desire, making her core clench with renewed need. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking gently at first, then with increasing fervor, the wet sounds of her mouth working him filling the air, a rhythmic counterpoint to her own muffled moans.

He began to guide her movements more assertively, his hand in her hair setting the pace, pulling her back just enough to let her breathe before urging her forward again. 

The friction of his cock sliding against her tongue was intoxicating, the velvety smoothness giving way to the rigid heat beneath, every inch filling her mouth until he hit the back of her throat, making her gag softly, a sound that seemed to spur him on. 

Her hands found his thighs, fingers digging into the firm muscle for support as she bobbed her head, the taste of him growing stronger, more potent with each stroke. 

"You're doing so well, my eager student," he murmured, his breath coming in ragged bursts, "just like how you should be devouring those texts I assign, but now it's my turn to see that hunger in your eyes." 

The reference to her slipping grades flashed through her mind unbidden, a fleeting memory of earlier that day even, when he'd handed back her latest test, his gaze lingering on her as she stared at the red-inked failure, a wave of embarrassment crashing over her that had only deepened her intrigue. 

It was that same mix of shame and unspoken attraction that fueled her now, pushing her to take him deeper, her tongue tracing patterns along the underside of his shaft, feeling every twitch and pulse as he grew even harder.

As the intensity built, his whispers grew more explicit, each one a caress that amplified the heat pooling in her belly. 

"Swallow me down, Y/N, every last drop, like you're proving your dedication," he rasped, his hips thrusting slightly to meet her mouth, the controlled rhythm turning urgent. 

She could feel him swelling against her palate, the first hints of his release building, and she redoubled her efforts, her lips sealed tightly around him, sucking with a fervor born of desperation and desire. 

The room seemed to spin around her, the scent of their shared arousal thick in the air, mingling with the faint chalk dust from the blackboard behind them, a reminder of the classroom's dual purpose. 

Her own body responded in kind, nipples hardening against the fabric of her blouse, thighs pressing together to quell the ache between them, as she lost herself in the act, the emotional weight of her crush on him, his intellectual dominance, the way he'd singled her out after class, his eyes stripping away her defenses, making every sensation more profound.

When he finally tensed, his grip in her hair turning almost painful, she felt the hot rush of his cum flooding her mouth, the salty bitterness coating her tongue in thick waves. 

She swallowed instinctively, her throat working to take it all as he had commanded, the act intimate and overwhelming, a final surrender to the storm they'd unleashed. He held her there for a moment longer, his cock pulsing with aftershocks, before gently pulling her away, his chest heaving as he looked down at her with a mix of satisfaction and something deeper, perhaps a glimmer of the forbidden connection that bound them. 

As she wiped her lips, still tasting him, her mind drifted back to the lecture earlier that day, how she'd sat there, distracted by thoughts of him, his passionate words on classic literature echoing in her ears even now, intertwining with the raw physicality of what they'd just shared, leaving her breathless and yearning for whatever came next.

His chest still heaved with the aftershocks of his release, Henry finally released her hair, his fingers lingering for a moment in the soft strands as if reluctant to let go. 

With a deep, steadying breath, he tucked himself back into his pants, adjusting the fabric with precise, almost clinical movements that belied the intensity of what they'd just shared, his gaze never leaving her face. 

Her, still kneeling, smoothed her skirt down over her trembling thighs, the damp fabric clinging to her skin and reminding her of the slick mess between her legs, her body buzzing with unquenched desire. 

The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the sudden silence, pulling him from his haze; he glanced at it, his brow furrowing with a mix of urgency and regret.

"Get dressed properly," he murmured, his voice low and commanding yet laced with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly.

“We can't risk being caught. You're dismissed for now, Y/N, but be back here tomorrow after class. I expect you to make up for those failed tests in ways that go far beyond mere words." His eyes darkened with promise, the intellectual spark in them reigniting.

She rose unsteadily to her feet, the taste of him on her tongue fueling her yearning for the forbidden lessons yet to come.

. . .

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