My Favorite Professor

Her seat was second row, middle column. Not in the front—because that would be obvious. But not far back either.

She needed a clear view of him.

Professor Ash Vale.

Late thirties. Six foot something. Voice like smoke dipped in bourbon.

He wore slacks that fit too well and dress shirts always a little too tight in the sleeves—rolled up just enough to expose those veined, muscled forearms. His top two buttons? Never done. His chest? Lightly dusted with hair, barely hidden. And his jawline?

Fucking lethal.

She didn't know how he expected anyone to concentrate when he looked like that.

Her thighs stayed pressed tight the entire lecture. Every time he turned to the board, she stared at the way his back flexed beneath his shirt.

Every girl in class did.

Every girl wanted him.

But he never looked at any of them.

Not until today.

"Oh, the things I want this man to do to me."

She had to bite her pen to shut herself up.

Because he looked up mid-sentence.

Right at her.

And kept speaking.

It was like he knew.

She watched his hands when he spoke. The way he gripped the book. His thumb running over the pages like a slow caress.

What those hands could do.

What that mouth could do.

What was beneath those slacks.

Was he big? He had to be.

Did he fuck his girlfriend like that? Did he even have one? Or did he just walk around breaking hearts and grading essays?

Class ended.

She waited until everyone filtered out.

He was gathering papers when she approached his desk, heart slamming in her chest but lips curled in a quiet, confident smirk.

"Professor Vale," she said. "Do you need a TA this semester?"

He didn't even look up.

"I don't take TAs."

"You should," she said. "I'm top of the class. Organized. Precise. Quiet."

Now he looked up.

And God, that stare.

It ran over her like a current. Eyes dark, bored—but sharp. Calculating.

He said nothing for a beat too long.

Then—

"Come to my office. After class. We'll talk."

She smiled. Sweet. Deadly.

Like bait that knew it was irresistible.

Tomorrow, she'd show him just how badly he needed a TA.

And she wouldn't come in jeans.

-------

It was nearly 7 p.m. when she knocked.

The halls were quiet. Campus nearly empty. The kind of silence that dared secrets to happen.

She didn't wear anything academic.

A short, fitted pink skirt hugged her hips—tight enough to slide up with a single tug.

Her top was barely a top at all—white, sweetheart neckline, no bra, the fabric clinging to her breasts, framing the exposed skin like a gift.

Her lip gloss shimmered. Her thighs were bare.

She knocked once more.

"Come in," came the voice. Low. Indifferent.

Like he hadn't been waiting.

Like he didn't already know she'd show up like this.

She opened the door and stepped inside.

His eyes lifted.

And then they dragged over her body—slow, calculated, unblinking.

From legs, to waist, to her nipples pressing against the soft fabric of her top.

His jaw ticked. He didn't hide it.

"You dressed like that to take notes?" he asked.

Voice cool. But lower now. Rougher.

She smiled and shut the door behind her. "Just wanted to look… professional."

He leaned back in his chair. Hands steepled. Legs spread beneath the desk like he owned every inch of space between them.

"You said you're the best," he said. "Prove it."

She walked slowly, hips swaying just enough. Sat in the chair across from him. Crossed her legs deliberately—high. Exposing too much thigh to be accidental.

"I'm organized. Efficient. I follow instruction."

He smirked. Just barely.

"You follow instruction?"

She nodded.

He stood. Slowly.

Walked around the desk. Stopped directly in front of her.

She had to tilt her head back to look up at him.

His belt was inches from her lips.

"Then listen closely."

He didn't touch her yet. But he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"If I put you on your knees, you'd thank me for it, wouldn't you?"

"You'd take my cock in that pretty mouth and make it your new religion."

Her lips parted. She was already panting.

"I watched you in class. Fidgeting. Rubbing your thighs. Thinking you were subtle."

She trembled.

"You think I didn't know you've been fantasizing about me bending you over that desk?"

And then—he gripped her chin. Hard. Forced her eyes to his.

"Get up."

She did.

He spun her. Bent her over his desk, palms flat on the cold wood.

"You wore that skirt for me?"

"No panties?" he growled, yanking the hem up over her ass.

"Fuck, you're dripping. I haven't even touched you and you're already ruined."

She gasped when he slid two fingers between her folds—slow, taunting, slick.

"Beg for it."

"Please…" she whispered, voice wrecked.

He unzipped. Pulled his cock out—thick, long, heavy in his hand.

"This is what you want?" he asked, rubbing the head along her slit.

"You want your professor to fuck you like you're nothing but a filthy little academic slut?"

"Yes—God, yes—"

And he gave it to her.

One hard thrust—deep, unforgiving.

She cried out as he slammed into her again, faster, rougher, each stroke deeper than the last.

"So tight," he hissed. "You think I haven't imagined this? Ruining you during my office hours?"

Her nails clawed at the desk. He gripped her hips, pulled her harder against him, punishing her with every movement.

"Scream," he said. "Let the whole damn floor know who you belong to."

She did. She couldn't stop. Her orgasm hit like thunder—shaking, blinding, body clenching around him.

"I'm not done with you yet."

His voice cracked the silence like a whip.

Before she could catch her breath, he spun her around, lifted her top with one swift motion, and took her breast fully into his mouth.

Hot. Hungry. Ruthless.

He sucked hard, tongue circling her nipple while his other hand kneaded the other breast—possessive, greedy, like he'd waited too long for this and was going to devour every inch.

She cried out, back arching into him.

"You want to be used?" he growled into her skin.

"Then give it all to me. All of it."

He sucked harder. Bit down. Left a bruise. And she loved it.

His hand gripped her jaw, tilted her face up.

His cock was hard again—thick, heavy, throbbing between them.

"Get on your knees," he ordered.

"Take me in your mouth. Taste how wet you are on my cock. Taste what I did to you."

She dropped. No hesitation.

Her lips parted.

She took him deep. Slowly.

One hand wrapped around his base, the other resting on his thigh as she sucked him in—tongue swirling, throat stretching, eyes locked on his.

"Fuck, you look pretty like this," he groaned, fingers tightening in her hair.

"So eager to be my little fucking toy."

She gagged. He didn't stop. He held her there a second longer—just enough to make her eyes water.

Then he pulled her up by the hair, turned, and slammed her against the tall bookshelf.

Books shook. Papers fluttered. Her body was pinned between hard wood and harder muscle.

"You wanted this," he growled against her throat.

"You wanted me to fuck you where anyone could walk in. Where they'd hear you begging for more."

He spread her legs with his knee. Lined up.

Thrust in deep.

She screamed into his shoulder, nails raking down his back as he pounded into her—brutal, relentless, perfect.

"So fucking tight," he snarled, hand gripping her ass, slamming her against him again and again.

"You like being fucked like a dirty little student? Huh?"

"You like getting ruined in your professor's office?"

She moaned. Shook. Took every inch of him like her body was made for it.

"Say it," he demanded.

"Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," she sobbed. "Fuck—I'm yours."

He fucked her harder. Deeper. Pinned her wrists above her head, slammed into her one final time—

And they shattered together.

Her scream echoed through the office.

His growl buried in her throat as he came, deep and claiming, every muscle locked in pleasure and possession.