Work Text:
“You’re falling behind, I don’t know why,” the strict voice tells you, large hands shuffling through the plethora of papers on his desk. “At the beginning of the semester, every essay you handed in was well-written, and now…” he pauses, eyes glancing at the sheets. “You didn’t even hand the final in. Why?”
His office is dark, the small lamp on his desk casting a glow across the sheets, and he’s looking at you, eyes narrowed, dainty glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He never wore those when he taught his lectures, and you can tell why.
There’s a pause, your brain trying to conjure up an excuse. He’s waiting, his hand rubbing the side of his clenched jaw, an impatient gesture.
“I’m not sure,” you confess, the leather chair squeaking when you shift your weight. “Chem is kind of… taking over my life,” you say, laughing nervously as you push a strand of fallen hair behind your ear.
“Am I your chemistry teacher?” he asks, his tone flat and unforgiving. “Your other courses do not have anything to do with me,” he shakes his head, sighing quietly, long fingers sliding the papers back into the folder.
“I’m sorry… I-I… I’ll get the final in, I promise,” you plead, shifting forward to the edge of the seat, and he’s currently writing something on a slip of paper.
“These are my office hours,” he says plainly, pressing the small sticky note onto the desk before you. “You can talk to me during these time slots; other than that, you should be off during your own thing,” he dismisses, leaning back into his chair.
He’s staring at you, his expression blank, his eyes showing little emotion. You can’t read him like you can read most men; he’s reserved, strictly professional, and the little nod towards the door hints that he doesn’t want this to go beyond a professor-student dynamic. It’s not like you thought about him that way, anyway.
“Thank you, sir,” you say quietly, retrieving your backpack and swinging it over your shoulder, keeping your head low as you walk out and shut the door with a soft click.
The commute back to your apartment is a quiet one. The pavement is glistening from the storm that just passed, the streetlamps reflecting off the stray puddles you keep stepping into with a soft, displeased grunt. Your school shoes are getting dirty, and you only find relief as you step into the complex, smiling at Mrs. Esther, an older woman who usually sat by the front door, observing, watching.
“How did that date go, sweetheart?” she asks you, a shaky hand holding a cigarette, and you let go of the door slightly, gazing at her wrinkled face and soft smile. She always sat there, on that bench outside the doors.
“Date?” you ask with a small laugh, eyes glancing up at the night sky as you awkwardly hold the door open.
“Mhm.. last Thursday, that handsome man with the long hair,” she says, taking a long drag of her cigarette, a complete juxtaposition to the hospital band wrapped around her wrist – she had been there just a week ago, something about ‘breathing problems’. You were the only one to bring her flowers, she remembers.
“Oh,” you chirp, laughing a bit harder as you shake your head. “Uhm.. yeah, it went fine,” you nod, stepping aside as an older man passes through, and you’re still holding the door, feeling your arm and shoulders going numb.
“When I was your age… oh, dear God, every man I spoke to… wanted nothing but trouble,” she hums, tapping her cigarette on the overflowing ashtray. “Don’t let them, darling, listen to me,” she grins, and you’re shaking your head.
“Okay… thank you, Mrs. Esther,” you mumble, sighing in relief as you shut the door behind you and groan at the heaviness of your backpack.
You quickly type in the code, and the main doors open, finally allowing you to enter the apartment lobby. You make a beeline for the elevators. It’s a relief, standing quietly as it bypasses each level, and your head is leaning against the metal wall.
“Bitch, where the hell have you been?” your roommate practically yells as she springs off the couch and walks towards you. She notices the exhaustion on your face: under-eye bags and mascara smeared down your lower lids.
“My prof’s office,” you mumble, slipping off the Mary Jane shoes you’re pretty sure are bleeding through your white socks. “I think he hates me, and wouldn’t mind if I died.”
“It’s… eight o’clock at night, and you’re hanging around with your professor?” she grimaces, her eyebrows furrowing, and she wanders off towards the kitchen. “If anyone saw that… they’re gonna think you’re fucking, or worse, dating him.”
“Oh, my god,” you roll your eyes as you throw your backpack onto the ground. “If anyone knows that man, they know he’s not… sleeping with a student, definitely not dating one either,” you sigh, taking a seat on one of the stools near the island.
“Well, is he hot?” she asks, standing by the fridge, scanning through the shelves that scream, “I am a broke college student who can't afford anything.”
You pause and gaze down at the counter, shrugging. She notices the silence and turns around, barking out a laugh that has you tilting your head to the side.
“He’s someone’s father, I hope you know that,” you relent, and she’s cracking open a Diet Coke, shaking her head.
“Okay?” she jokes, taking a long sip of the drink. “It’s just attraction, like, it doesn’t matter,” she explains with a shrug, resting her elbows against the granite counter. “Besides, you don’t even know if he actually has kids.”
You sigh again, slumping in the stool as you reach into your pocket, pulling out the crumpled piece of paper, and she instantly snatches it, unravelling it.
“Is this like… a planned hookup?” she teases, and you groan in distaste, grabbing the sticky note and reading it over; his office hours, and a little phone number at the bottom.
“Do you have to be a pervert?” you ask, blinking slowly. “It’s just his office hours and office number,” you explain, tossing it back down.
“My profs have never done anything like that,” she says, shaking her head and clicking her tongue. “I think he wants you to call him,” she smirks, tilting her head to the side.
“Yeah… I’m really sure,” you give her a fake smile, and nod, and she’s lifting her hands in the air like she’s pleading guilty, laughing loudly as you stomp down the hallway and into your bedroom.
Your bedroom is already a mess when you walk in; papers and textbooks are scattered across your desk, piles of clothing are on the floor, and your bed is still unmade from this morning. You cringe at the sight, moaning at the idea of tidying up any of your own mess.
The chair squeaks as you sit, your eyes gazing down at your desk. You open up the folded sticky note again, glossing over the numbers–his handwriting is neat. Perfect numbers curled with intent, the word ‘phone’ practically a blob. You toss it into the pile of other papers, but you’re still looking at it out of the corner of your eye.
Your phone glows as you lift it. Nope, he hasn’t texted you, that stupid boy you went on a date with.
You’re not sure what possesses you; fingers suddenly finding the phone icon, eyes looking at the sticky note, your fingertips dialling it in, typing each number in until there’s a ringtone. You cross one arm over your chest, lightly chewing on the nail of your thumb, and you wait until it stops—a voice.
“Hello?” a deep voice drawls across the line, and it’s like somebody has smacked you across the face. You called your professor at almost nine o’clock at night on your cellphone.
“Uhm–hello,” you awkwardly stutter out, covering your own mouth with your hand as you close your eyes. You’re humiliating yourself in ways you didn’t know you possessed, and you can feel the warmth in your pink cheeks.
“Is there something you need?” he asks, his tone flat and monotone, but deep and heavy, like you can feel his gaze despite him being God knows where, and you’re in your apartment.
“No…” You say quietly, and you’re shaking your head, looking at the ceiling. “I’m… uhm, I’m just making sure this is your number,” you excuse yourself, and you have to stop yourself from bursting into a fit of laughter.
“Staff directory,” he tells you, and you can hear the faintest hint of annoyance. “Google it. You’ll see it, beside my name, confirming this is, in fact, my phone number,” he adds on, and there’s a beat of silence following the pure disinterest in his voice.
“Right… yeah,” you mumble, pulling the phone away from your face as if that would make the situation any better.
“Have a nice evening,” he says politely, but hangs up almost immediately, not even letting you respond to the mess you just made.
You sit there, listening to the dial tone humming in the background of your quiet bedroom. It seems merely impossible to face the man again, especially since you have to see him tomorrow, right in front of you, as he teaches you about Gothic literature and a variety of other things you won't remember.
The ceiling is a hazy mess as you lie back on your bed, feeling the weight of the world ease off your shoulders. You close your eyes, and suddenly you’re there again, sitting before him, his gaze on you from across his large desk.
You sigh, your mind playing tricks on you, skewing the interaction into a jumbled mess you know isn’t reality; his lips quirking into a smile as he looks at you, until he’s walking over to you, making the effort to walk around his desk, settling right between your legs, large, careful hands gripping at your thighs.
The vision is too clear, and it feels like you’re reaching for it as you lie on your bed, but instead, you reach down, your nimble fingers bypassing the waistband of your skirt and slipping right into your underwear without hesitation. And it’s all to the thought of him: his body clad in a suit, glasses discarded on the table, his tie loosely hanging around his neck after spending all day teaching, an exhausted yet hungry look on his face, finding you.
The feeling has your back arching, mouth opening to gasp his name but you hold back, drowning in the erotic scenario that’s filling your thoughts; his nose dragging along your thighs, and he’s praising you in that low voice, reminding you of the good student you are, how well-displcined you are, giving you that validation you found yourself seeking elsewhere, like lousy dates on Thursday nights to fill the gaps.
Your fingers work lightly against yourself, just moving in circles, your eyes closed, head tipping back. And you find yourself embarrassed by how quickly you finish. You wish it were that easy with other people, instead of helplessly guiding your ex-boyfriend for an hour and a half. Now, just the thought of your professor kissing your thighs and admiring your effort is enough to get you off. God help you.
You pant heavily, head turning to look at your desk, and you can see it, waiting, unravelled and a stupid mess; his phone number, his room number, the hours, his writing, him. It’s there, waiting for you.
Your alarm breaks the silence, and you immediately sit up, eyes darting around your bedroom, then down at yourself: your skirt and tights still on, your blouse loosely unbuttoned, and your hair a mess you do not want to clean up right now. You must’ve fallen asleep.
Scrambling around your room, you find another skirt and tights, swiftly changing into them, discarding the shameful, dirty underwear that takes you back to last night; yeah, masturbating to your professor just because you heard his voice over the phone. You want to slap yourself across the face.
You fix your hair in the elevator mirror, dragging your fingers through the strands, your backpack unzipped, your entire face a mess of old mascara and smeared lip gloss.
You’re not sure whether it’s the guilt from last night or the fact that your final isn’t done, but you quickly realize you’re about to be late for class.
The lecture is already in session when you walk in, a disoriented mess fumbling with your backpack, and he turns his head, looking over his shoulder, noticing the slight disturbance of your arrival. That’s when you suddenly remember the phone call, and he resumes, presumably ignoring your entrance.
Your hands fumble with your notebook as you fish it out of your backpack, quickly pull out a pen, and try to catch up on the material you missed, but your eyes drift from the board, and you’re looking at him instead.
Tall and strong, biceps straining against the white dress shirt. He must’ve already taken his jacket off – it’s hanging loosely on the back of his chair, and he pauses, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his toned forearms and the watch tightly around his wrist. It’s only his behind, but you’re staring at it, head tilted to the side as his hair stays stiff, gel-kept in place.
“That clear?” he says aloud, the chalk hitting the shelf as he turns around, crossing his arms against his broad chest, leaning back against the board. “The test will be on Thursday, no absences, clear your schedule,” he says without concern, already dismissing a student who immediately raised their hand in protest.
You glance down at the notes you didn’t write, clearly realizing you were far more distracted than you wanted to be. You look to your left, the girl beside you having it neatly written out, glitter pen and all, and yours is a mix of words, things you mindlessly jotted down as you drooled over the damn slope of his nose whenever he turned, and the faint amount of stubble on his jaw.
The lecture is over before you can think. You look around as the students immediately leave the room, laughing loudly, and you’re stuck fumbling with your backpack, books, notebook, pen, and your thoughts.
“Excuse me,” the low voice said suddenly, and you freeze, every hair on your body standing up. You brace for impact, turning on your heel to face your professor.
“Late,” he says dryly, still leaning against the chalkboard. “And, your final… where is it?” he asks, eyebrows raising slightly.
You weren’t used to this, attention. High school was a fucking breeze; teachers barely noticed you, and they were shocked when they suddenly realized you were in their class. It was easy to get out of things, lie, and misplace work you just didn't want to do. Now here he was, a professor with a class of 250, noticing you, of all people.
“I know,” you nod, eyes gazing down at your feet.
You hear the chalkboard settle as he lifts his weight off it, and he wanders towards his desk, his eyes glossing over it before looking back at you.
“It’s rude not to look at somebody when they’re speaking to you,” he comments, reaching for his folder full of papers, slowly putting on his jacket. “Don’t make that a habit.”
Your lips part to say something, but he’s not looking at you; he’s much too focused on filling his satchel with his work, large hands placing folders neatly. You notice it; there’s not a ring on that finger, though, that’s quite irrelevant to you.
“I’ll get it in tonight,” you reassure, though you know it’s a lie, and you’re pretty sure he does too.
“Punctuality is key in this course,” he starts, long arms adjusting the bag, sliding it across his chest as he turns to look at you. “If you’re falling behind, then you’re behind. That’s that. It’s going to catch up to you,” he explains, beginning to walk towards you.
He politely gestures for you to walk with him, and your heart stutters, but you follow suit, walking alongside him as he heads out of the corridors. He holds the door for you and begins walking down the hallway, keeping you by his side.
“Sir, I understand,” you explain to him, watching his large hands push open another set of doors until you’re outside again. “It’s chemistry, I swear, it’s not… It’s not like I’m a bad student,” you plead to him, your shoes moving along the pavement.
“You’re right, you are a good student,” he agrees with a nod, and when you look at him, he’s looking at you. You remember last night, suddenly, the stupid thoughts that filled your head, and the way you fantasized about this.
“But, you’re falling behind,” he states, stopping in his tracks, and you stop too, facing him on the sidewalk. The gloomy air is still, a cold breeze wrapping itself around you.
“Listen,” he starts, looking around, before his eyes land on you. “Come by my office, okay? We can talk about… adjusting the due date, yeah?” he relents, leaning his head forward, his eyebrows raised.
You stand there, almost in shock. He seems oddly… nice, a sweet gesture rather than a harsh one, a stark contrast to the man who was in his office yesterday.
You hesitantly nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you… thank you so much,” you shake your head, smiling nervously, and he’s politely smiling, too.
He gives you a soft nod before wandering off in the opposite direction, his gaze averting from other students, and you stand there, as if time has stalled.
He’s just as guilty, though, and that thought doesn’t cross your mind as you head to the library. What would he be guilty of? Virtually nothing. The most professional man, he would not let his guard down for a student, especially you, of all people. That’s what you think, assume.
You weren’t there when he answered the phone last night, hearing your soft, awkward voice whispering something over the line. You didn’t see the smile curling at his lips as he paid close attention to the quiet breaths between your stumbling sentences, each syllable sending a gentle wave through his body.
When he hung up the phone, almost urgently, you didn’t see him tip his head back in frustration, mad at himself for giving in to every urge.
It was simultaneous; you were sliding your hand into your skirt, all while he was at his house, sitting on the recliner in his living room, a glass of bourbon on the coffee table, his own hand fumbling with the clasp of his belt, disappointed in the bulge he noticed in his jeans, all because of your innocent voice.
As your head tilts back, moaning his last name quietly, he’s moaning your first name, a bitter taste on his tongue at the realization that he’s already cum into his hand four strokes in, all because of you. And maybe he feels guilty about it, and that’s why the sudden idea of an extension seems like the best possible make-up.
You know none of this, though.
The library is warm compared to the rest of the campus, and you nestle into a small booth, right against the window. You pull out your notebook, open it, and slump back when you truly realize how few notes you took. Your distraction is evident as you look over the pages; mindless doodles, blobs of words you couldn’t decipher.
“Didn’t even say bye to me this morning,” a soft voice says, watching as your roommate slides into the booth before you, grinning, a coffee in hand. “What’cha doing?” she asks, adjusting her backpack, sliding her jacket off.
“Going over… my notes,” you mumble, cringing at the sight of them. She snickers behind the paper cup, looking down.
“The lack of them, you mean,” she teases, the cup hitting the wooden table. “What the hell were you doing all class?” she asks, laughing as he tilts her head, trying to make out the name of the course at the type – yeah, she was right.
“Oh! It was he who had you distracted,” she laughs obnoxiously with a nod, and you’re leaning over the table, shaking your head, a look of panic etched across your face.
“Can you shut up?” you say through gritted teeth, sighing loudly as you rest back against the booth, and she has that classic shit-eating grin etched into her face.
“Relax, relax, he’s probably… in a lecture, I don’t know,” she lifts her hands like she’s guilty again, staring down at the table.
“Yeah, but what if someone else is listening, and then they tell him, and then he hates me, and then he gives me a bad grade, and then I fail–”
“Okay, what the hell has gotten into you?” your roommate abruptly cuts in, leaning in closer, her mouth agape. “Yesterday… he was just some asshole who was pissed at you, rightfully so, for not handing in your final, and now his validation matters?”
She calls you out in a way that has you just staring at her, and she nods, permitting you to speak, but you don’t, because all you’re thinking about is how good the thought of him feels.
“I don’t know, I feel bad for being a bad student,” you dismiss with a shrug, flipping over the page of your notebook. “He’s just doing his job, and I’m being… disobedient,” you mumble.
“Disobedient?” She takes a sip of her coffee, looking up at you from the lid. “You sound like you’re his pet,” she teases, a smirk drawn on her glossy lips, dirty innuendo in her tone. Of course, you pick up on it.
“I’m going to his office later,” you casually add to the conversation, and you swear she almost spits out her drink. “He told me to–he says he’ll adjust the due date,” you explain, tilting your head to the side.
“Did you do witchcraft in your bedroom last night?” she prys, a look of disbelief on her face. “My friend is in that class, and she’d probably shoot me, and then you, and then the professor, if she knew you were getting an extension,” she laughs, leaning back into the booth with an exasperated sigh.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s just being kind,” you dismiss, adjusting the sleeves of your blouse, then the buttons at the front.
“Undo the top two,” your friend nods to the top of the shirt, and you grimace at her perverted suggestion. You look at her, and she’s smiling, like she just came up with the most life-changing idea on earth.
“How low do you think of me?” you ask, trying your best to suppress a laugh. “I just want the extension, and then I can go back to… dating apps, and focusing on chemistry instead of…” You pause, waving at the unfinished notes. “...this mess.”
“Right… how was that date? With the guy with the long hair, brown hair, kind of looked like some type of animal, a cute one,” she rambles on, and you’re furrowing your eyebrows at her explanation–she’s right, he did look like a cute animal; big eyes, a charming smile.
“Fine,” you reply plainly, sighing as you flip yet another page of half-written notes. “Hasn’t called me back, though,” you admit, and your friend rolls her eyes.
“Okay, so revenge sex with your hot professor is the perfect idea,” she instantly says, and you’re about to lean over the desk and cover her mouth with your own hand, but you resist, and instead give her no reaction.
“I think you’ve lost your mind,” you say, a short nod following, lips pursed. She analyzes your facial expression and pauses, then agrees.
“I’m just saying, like, imagine… You do this, and then… I don't know, I’m just bored and living through you,” she groans, dramatically resting her head on the table, arms flailing in front of her.
You laugh at the expression and stare at her blonde hair, a golden mess across the desk, and your eyes almost bulge out of your head when you turn to look out of the window; there he is, walking towards his car.
“Holy shit,” you say under your breath, and your roommate quickly lifts her head, her hands messing with her hair as she follows the direction of your eyes; there he is, now leaning against it, large hands cupped around a cigarette as he lights in.
The two of you watch in silence, admiring the man through the window. You feel guilty, like a sick pervert, for creeping on him while he casually smokes on his break. He doesn’t see you; he can’t see you from where you are. You bite your lip gently, laughing to yourself at the memory from last night, and your roommate looks towards you, joining in on the laughing. If only she knew.
“Okay, whatever happens,” she starts, leaning forward like she’s your lawyer. “Just… tell me everything, please? Nothing good happens, I’m stuck talking to Mrs. Esther about what she did in college, and she’s beating us… by miles, by fucking miles,” she practically explains, leaning back into the booth. “Threesome.. Two German exchange students, back in–”
“Okay, okay,” you flinch in disgust, beginning to pack up your belongings, hoping to God she gets the hint to shut up. “You need new friends, or… a boyfriend, I don’t know,” you shake your head, standing up from the booth, packing away your belongings.
“Text me–no, call me, immediately if anything—” You cut her off with a look: a tilt of your head and furrowed eyebrows, and she instantly understands. “Sorry,” she says, giving you an awkward wave as you walk away from the table.
The next lectures blend, a fluid mess of words and equations, pure nonsense swarming your brain, and you’re trying your best to write it all out without getting distracted by the impending doom, seeing him in his office, alone, again.
You turn your wrist, glancing at the watch, and you bite your lip. Ten minutes until your last lecture ends, and then it’s straight to his office, where you can figure out your extension and maybe a few other things. You bite your tongue next, feeling disappointed in your own thoughts.
Four o’clock, you glance at your watch again, shoes padding along the tile floor, a long hallway, a series of other offices and vacant classrooms. The overhead lights flicker, and you swallow hard, suddenly feeling like this is the worst idea imaginable.
Room 226, his office.
You’re standing in front of the door, adjusting the collar of your white blouse, and your hands drift down. Two buttons loosen slightly, and you shake your head, immediately regretting the idea, but the door is already opening, and you pause. You look up at him, hands mid-buttoning, and he’s smiling–well, it’s not a smile, it’s amusement.
“How’d I know it was you?” he asks, widening the crack in the door, and you nervously laugh, flattening the rest of your shirt, and he’s watching.
“Well… I don't know,” you laugh nervously again, and he’s opening it even more, his hand waving you in. You give him a small nod as you walk past him, and there’s definitely a reason God didn’t let you notice the way his eyes slid down to the backs of your thighs.
“So,” he starts lowly, the door softly shutting, the leather seat creaking as you sit down. “This is about… the extension, yeah?” he hums, walking around his desk, standing in front of it.
You don’t respond, you’re too busy being enamoured by the man before you; all muscles and rough edges, his tie hanging around his neck loosely, oddly resembling the fantasy. You shift slightly, and he looks up, acknowledging the leather's groan.
“The extension,” he says again, his eyes gazing up at you through the dim lighting.
“Yes–yes, the extension, yes, that’s what I wanted to talk about,” you shyly mumble, nodding quickly, and he’s still standing, looking down at the mess of papers on his desk.
“Do you have any sort of copy of the final? Rough draft, ideas?” he asks, licking the rough callous of his thumb, using it to flip through the folder that he had just lifted.
“Uhm.. yeah, just… a short rough draft, it’s not much, it’s kind of bad actually,” you ramble on again, the words coming out of you like word vomit, and he seems unaffected by all of it.
“Do you have that with you?” he asks, eyes flicking up to you again, his large hand resting on his hip.
“Yes… yes, it’s in my bag,” you nod quickly, eyes glancing at the way his thumb fiddles with the leather strap of his belt, and you’re frozen. He notices.
“I’d like you to get that for me, sweetheart,” he drawls, the tone so casual and flat, but the pet name has your eyes widening as a rush of heat courses through every inch of your body.
You’re thanking your body for autopilot right now, because your hands are completely disconnected as they reach for your bag, shuffling through the many papers hidden deep inside of it. Your mind is elsewhere, adding that to your fantasy list: a professor calling me sweetheart.
“Perfect, thank you,” he says, taking it from you and giving you a polite nod.
He grunts as he finally sits down, his hips lifting as he adjusts himself in the chair, and he sighs; one hand holds the paper, and the other rubs at his jawline again. You wait impatiently, your thigh bouncing up and down, an anxious tremor as he reads over the mess you made, an urgent piece of writing you aren't exactly proud of.
“Is this your best work?” he suddenly asks, looking up from the paper with a displeased expression. “Doesn’t seem like your best work,” he follows up, tossing it onto the desk, his arms folding across his chest.
“No… no, it’s not my best work, not at all,” you admit, your knees rubbing together awkwardly, and you’re staring at him, you’re not sure if you can stop.
“It’s poorly written,” he says plainly, his jaw ticking in distaste. “This is not college-level work, and you don’t have a college-level work ethic,” he adds on, his tone scolding rather than neutral, slight frustration alcing his words.
“I–” you start, in disbelief of the words you’re hearing. You’ve never had a professor pick apart your work like this, not even your chemistry professor after a failed lab.
“No, come here,” he says, setting the paper down and waving you over to his desk.
Thank God for autopilot again because you’re somehow slowly standing up, slow, heavy footsteps leading you towards his desk, and suddenly you’re in his space, standing beside his desk as he sits down.
It’s so incredibly him, the scent you’re getting for the first time; thick, expensive cologne, not the silly, cheap cologne most guys your age wear, and a hint of cigarettes still lingering from his smoke break. You know he tries to hide the habit; your eyes are drifting over his desk, noticing the knick-knacks, like the gum wrapper from the piece he chewed to get rid of the gross taste.
“I want you to read this sentence for me, and tell me a student like yourself wrote this,” he orders, his finger slowly gliding over the paper, underlining a sentence, and you swallow hard, leaning down to get a better view.
It’s silent in the office, just the quiet sound of some students walking by, and the analogue clock ticking behind both of you. You’re reading the mess of words, warmth filling your cheeks out of nervousness.
“Are you reading it?” he asks, turning his head slightly, and you realize he’s far too close to you now, his face just a breath away.
“Yes, sir,” you whisper, and you realize how stupidly erotic that sounded, and he does too; he does not like it, the way his slacks suddenly protest against the growing bulge in them.
“Then why aren't you reading it aloud?” he whispers, following your actions, and he taps the sentence again.
“You… you didn’t tell me to,” you defend lightly, leaning a bit more forward, awkwardly hunched over his desk.
“Do I need to tell you everything to do everything? You’re a big girl,” he tells you with a nod. “Read for me, please,” he tells you, and you heasitently nod, taking in a deep breath.
You begin to speak softly, following his fingertip as it glides along the page, reading each word, watching it as it splinters into a mess that does not make sense. That does not deserve a grade, or even a glance, from a professor in his field. You’re ashamed.
You feel it, and your heart stops; a warm hand finds your lower back, gently rubbing while you read, a comforting gesture, although it’s not comforting at all–your knees are basically buckling, and you lean forward.
“Keep going, didn’t tell you to stop,” he mumbles, rubbing gently through your shirt, lightly dipping onto the fabric of your skirt, too.
You continue to read, stumbling over the words now, taking little pauses where you try to breathe, and he’s basking in it; the stupid hiccups you make when he lightly squeezes, and you’re gripping the edge of the desk. Dear God.
“Reread it for me, slower,” he tells you–he’s not asking you, it’s an order, and you’re instantly giving in.
You start again, and you hear his chair groan. You pause to look, and you notice him standing up, his hand roving across your back and finding the side of your hip; meanwhile, the other one does too; he now has you bent over his desk, standing behind you, gripping your body.
“Good girl,” he breathes out slowly, his eyes tracing down your body: your poorly arched back from a lack of experience, followed by the rip in your tights and the loose, flimsy skirt around your waist.
You grip the desk tighter, knuckles turning white, and you’re still stumbling over the words, trying to get them out in a rush. He’s merely observing from behind, large hands rubbing at your hips, moving lower, almost roving over your clothed ass.
“Again,” he commands quietly, and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying your best to muster the courage even to have a voice in something like this.
This time, though, he’s shuffling forward, and you feel it; he’s hard, and he’s pressing it against you from behind. You gasp, and he bites his lip, testing his own restraint, his own ability to resist groaning at the sound you’re making.
You whimper quietly, head bowed forward, and he squeezes your hip gently. He watches you practically collapse over his desk, and it’s better than what his sick imagination had gathered that night alone.
“Your work is terrible,” he mumbles, and you’re whimpering a bit louder at the harsh words. “But… god, you’re something else,” he groans out, shaking his head as he gives into his urges, and one of his hands finds the hem of your skirt, lifting it, bunching it around your hips in a swift movement.
You look over your shoulder, watching the way he easily maneuvers your body; strong hands gripping and pulling, long fingers tugging and grabbing, and you feel your underwear sliding down your thighs.
“Keep reading,” he hums, and you turn your head back, mouth agape, eyes widened.
You grip the desk harder, groaning to yourself, hearing the clasp of his belt slowly unbuckling, a soft noise in the room. You swallow hard, hesitantly reading again; stuttering, stammering, breathing between sentences, all nervous and embarrassed, and he’s soaking up the mess you’re already turning into.
His one hand holds your hip, the other one sliding down into the front of his pants, and he’s ashamed of himself; hard, and regretful, but he’s pulling himself out, groaning at just the sight in front of him. It’s his fantasy, too, what he was thinking about that one night.
Bracing yourself, you close your eyes, softly gasping as he pushes himself against your entrance, warm and meaningful, and it makes you whimper once again.
One smooth rock forward, and you have stars in your eyes, a slow burst behind your closed eyes, and you let out a loud yelp. A hand instantly comes forward, strong and large, covering your mouth in an urgent movement–other students are still walking around, finishing up some of the last lectures.
“C’mon, don’t disobey me now,” he practically groans, his hand still braced around your hip as he mercilessly moves back and forth, your back curving in a way you didn’t know was possible; he’s mainly forcing you into the position, a hungry motion, contorting you into the vision he saw last night.
You moan into his hand, eyes rolling back, standing on the tips of your toes. His head is tipped back, focused on keeping you quiet while sumtamtemly focused on his pleasure, and your own; it’s a whirl of emotions, guilt and devotion clashing at once, and you’re feeling it all for the first time.
“Good girl, just like that,” he praises quietly, grunting through clenched teeth, and you’re embarrassed by the way you’re basically collapsing onto his papers. It’s even worse, recognizing student names neatly written on essays. Jesus Christ.
Despite his palm helplessly pressing against your lips, the sound of his hips meeting the back of your thighs is louder than you’d like–he’s much too lost in the feeling, the thought, to even notice. You’re whining louder and louder, wails of pleasure in the place where you’ve never found an ounce of pleasure in your fucking life.
“God, look at you,” he groans, his hand sliding up your hip, lightly pressing against your body, forcing your back into an arch. “Stay… stay like that, for me, baby, come on,” he breathes out, his own breath growing heavier and shallower.
Your fingers nails scratch into the edges of the desk, a plead for something, anything, but you’re just as lost as he is in the moment; eyes rolling back, the scent of him wrapping around you, the feeling of his warm skin against yours, the famialirlty of the office, the rush of knowing you’re five seconds away from another student knocking on the door. It’s exhilarating in a way that has your heart sinking into your stomach, almost daring you to cry.
A string of curses leaves his mouth, his hips never stalling, a fluid motion. It almost feels slow, even though he’s persistent, keeping you whining for more and more, begging for something more, and it’s all he can do. All he can do is give you even more.
“Perfect girl, God,” he grunts, his teeth still clenched, his head tipping back, a louder noise he instantly regrets leaving his mouth, and he’s suddenly hunched over you, heavily breathing against the back of your neck.
You feel it, dripping down your thighs, the sticky mess leaving a trail along your legs, and you’re shaking, sprawled across the wooden desk. Your forehead is damp with sweat, a glistening sheen coating your face, and he’s rubbing both of your hips now, his body leaning over yours, but it’s not like he’s finished.
He groans quietly, admiring the work before him; your body limp and exhausted, your knees buckled, and your hand still gripping his desk. He pauses.
“On the desk,” he murmurs, and you don’t listen, not right now at least. You’re limp, your mind and body physically spent from whatever the fuck just happened.
“Not gonna ask you again,” he practically groans, an urgent plea, and you’re peeling yourself off of the desk, breathing heavily as you turn around, and he’s doing the work for you; his hands finding the front of your hips, hosting you up onto the desk, and he’s dipping down, suddenly on his knees.
Your eyes widen in surprise, watching his built frame nudge between your legs, and he’s gripping your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders like it’s a thing in the god damn world.
He’s grabbing at the side of your thighs now, one hand loosely messing around with the hem of your skirt, pushing up the pleats, letting it bunch up, giving him the room he needs.
There is zero hesitation; his mouth is against you, lips hot and warm, using his own cum to make the entire thing easier–it’s slick and sticky, and he’s poking and prodding with his tongue, and you’re pretty sure you’re on another planet, your mind mush and your head tipped back.
He works over you, and you’re looking down, breathing heavier than ever, watching the way he nods, his head working with his mouth; frantic, hungry swipes of his tongue, accompanied by the light suction–he knows your body somehow, like he’s done this time and time again, maybe he has. You’re not sure if that’s with students.
“You taste… unreal,” he groans into you, the vibrations sending a hand into his hair, where you instantly grip it, tugging him closer, and he’s burying his face up against; his firm nose nudging into you, his lips following suit, his mouth engulfing you. It’s something you’ve never felt.
“God,” he murmurs, like he’s praising God more than anything right now, thanking Him for letting this happen; your body unfolding, legs opening in a way that’s just for him, and he’s basking in it.
One hand is rubbing the side of your upper thigh, and the other is finding yours that’s gripping the edge of the desk, white-knuckled and urgent, and he’s taking it in his own. In the midst of the impatient heat, the gentle gesture has you whining out loud, and he’s shaking his head, pinching the side of your leg.
“No… no, baby, shhh,” he pulls away for just a second, his eyes finally finding yours from the low angle, and it’s suddenly like you’re on your bed again, hand in your skirt, imagining this exact scenario.
You hesitantly nod and swallow hard, biting your lip, your head lolling back once more. You tug on his hair lightly, and his thumb taps your hand, a reassuring touch, calming you down, keeping you grounded while your head feels like it’s floating, and there’s a buzz from your neck down.
Your thighs clench and squeeze, the muscles tense while his tongue is too, delving inside of you, only to flatten out once he slides out. It’s practiced, calculated, like he's unlocking a part of you, and you hate it–almost–being so vulnerable and spread out on your professor’s desk.
“I’m–” you pant out, regretting the warning because he lightly hits your thigh in the middle of your broken words, and he narrows his eyes.
“Be... a good student, and ask me,” he hums lowly against you, and you squeeze your eyes shut at the thought of forming any coherent sentence.
“May–may… may I… please, please cum,” you whimper, and his eyes soften, like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard–it’s that voice, the whisper he heard across the phone when his hand was in his pants, his ice melting in his drink.
“Mhm,” he grants permission with a nod, just as eager to see you finish.
He’s not sure what it is about you, why suddenly his guard is down, and he’s letting you cum into his mouth, but he is, and the way he’s looking at you is like he’s been waiting for this.
You’re pretty sure that’s the hardest you’ve ever finished in your life; toes curling in your dumb shoes, your thighs squeezing around his head, tightly gripping his hand, while the other one forces his head deeper between your legs, and there’s zero resistance on his end. He’s just as guilty, giving into your pleasure, letting you feel.
He pulls back and stares up at you in the dimly lit room of his office. His mouth and chin are glistening, dripping in his own cum and yours, and his eyes are a hazy mess, chest heaving. He’s still rubbing the side of your thigh, leaning sideways, resting his cheek against the bare inner skin, lightly kissing.
Your friend won't hear about this.
The campus is quiet, your eyes glued to the trail beneath you. Each step is heavier than the last, and you’re trying your best to ignore it–the feeling in your underwear that you pulled up in a hurry, his own hands helping you with it, all while he focuses on adjusting his tie, making it look like he didn’t just have sex with his student against his desk.
Walking into the apartment was more shameful than you wanted it to be. There’s a part of you nagging, convincing yourself that those waiting in the elevator with you know what just happened, that you’re shamefully pressing your thighs together. He didn’t bother cleaning up your thighs–some ramble about liking the thought of you having to walk back with it still on your legs.
You could’ve stopped at the student washroom, could’ve cleaned it up, but you hated that you didn’t want to.
You slip into your complex and glance down. Your roommate's shoes are missing, a clear sign she’s gone for the evening, and it’s a relief. No explaining why you took longer than you should’ve, or why your cheeks are flushed, and why you’re walking to your bedroom so awkwardly.
You jiggle the nob of your bedroom door, confirming that it’s locked before you begin taking off your skirt, letting it pool at your ankles, and then your underwear. You grimace at the sight, biting your lip; it’s a mess, and you’ve never felt more ashamed for being turned on.
It’s significantly worse the next day: bypassing your roommate, who is overly concerned about why you’re ignoring her, not even bothering to say hello to Mrs. Esther, who is holding a cigarette outside the apartment. You’re much too focused on that stupid lecture, and seeing him, facing him after his head was buried between your legs, his hands gripping your hips like it’s the first time he’s ever done it.
A deep breath, and you’re pushing open the corridors, the lecture room still half-empty. You are far too early, and he’s sitting there at the front of the room, talking to a few students, and you join the short line; a few girls ahead of you, all ogling him, and it’s hard to believe you’re the first student to have this filthy attraction to him.
“Can I help you?” he asks quietly when it’s your turn, and he’s not even bothering to look up at you, his eyes fixed on the course material he’s going to go over that class.
“Uhm..” you hum softly, hoping he looks up at the familiar softness in your voice, but he doesn’t; he remains flipping through the pages, like it’s nothing.
“If you remember, ask me at the end of the lecture,” he responds dryly, shaking his head slightly. “Other students need help,” he dismisses, nodding for you to go to your seat.
It feels like the air from your lungs has been swept out of you, leaving you a ghost, and you float to your usual spot, the top left, alone.
He does look up when you walk away; the only girl in the whole lecture hall wearing a skirt at eight in the morning, and he shifts in his chair, a strong hand gripping the arm of it in an attempt to relieve the unfortunate tension that’s building again.
You’re not sure if either of you can make it through this lecture, or the rest of the school year, for that matter.