A Slút For The Professor!
1309 Words
Fûcked By The Professor (2)
“Bend over and grip the other side of the desk.”
His voice was sharp and commanding, leaving no room for negotiation. I obeyed instantly, my heart racing. I braced myself, fingers digging into the edge of the desk.
“Now, you’re going to be punished for acting like a needy little slût during class.” he said.
My breath caught in my throat. That word: Slut. It shouldn’t have turned me on the way it did. But coming from him?
It was everything. Heat spread through me and I stayed silent. My face burned, but not from shame.
“Isabelle!”
“Y-yes, professor.” My breath hitched when I heard him step closer, and felt his presence just behind me.
“Do you know how many times I’ve walked into this office after a lecture,” he said, voice almost too low to hear, “and jerked off to the thought of this exact moment?”
I swallowed hard, knuckles white against the desk and I bit hard on my lower lips.
“You,” he continued, lifting the back of my skirt with a slow, deliberate hand, “bent over like this. Exposed. Desperate. Mine.”
I could feel the air on my exposed skin. My panties were already soaked and clinging to my pûssy. I knew my àss and pûssy were completely on display.
“I’ve always wanted to do…this,” he murmured.
Then—crack—his palm landed across my àss.
I jerked forward with a squeal, breath punched from my lungs.
“Professor—!”
“You’ve been tempting me for weeks,” he muttered, delivering another sharp slap that made me gasp. “Sitting in my front row, legs open, títs bouncing in those tight little tops.”
His fingers brushed along the edge of my panties, slow and taunting. “And you think I didn’t notice?”
He moved in closer. I could feel the hard press of his cóck through his pants.
Without a word, he unfastened his tie and rolled it tight in his hand. Then he brought it around to my mouth.
“Open your mouth, Slút.” he said.
I hesitated for a half-second, then parted my lips. He pushed it between my teeth and pulled it tight behind my head.
“Good girl,” he growled. “Now stay quiet unless I ask you a question. If I hear one more whimper, I’ll spank you harder.”
I nodded, gagged and wide-eyed, every nerve alive.
I couldn't believe what was happening! I’d dreamed of this: being bent over this exact desk, punished by him, turned into his plaything. It didn’t feel real. It felt wayyy better.
The next spank was sharper. The one after made my knees buckle. He didn’t stop. Each strike was precise and rhythmic.
I tried to stay quiet, but some of my moans slipped past the gag. I whimpered into the tie, fighting to hold still.
“I heard that,” he said darkly. “You like this, don’t you, Ms. Isabelle? You like being punished.”
I nodded again, too far gone to lie. My panties were soaked and my pússy clenched at nothing.
He slid his fingers down, pressing between my thighs.
“Fúck,” he groaned. “You’re dripping through your panties. Filthy little thing. And all because I put you in your place.”
He tugged the gag loose and let it fall. “Tell me, are you sorry for being such a goddamn distraction in class?”
“Yes, Professor Roman,” I breathed. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
He leaned down, voice brushing my ear. “You’re going to show me. You’re going to take every inch of this cóck, and you’re going to thank me for it. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes…professor”
“ I’m going to fûck you hard and fast until you come all over my desk.”
“Oh God,” I moaned, twisting around, needing to see his face. “Please. I need it. Please fúck me, Professor Roman.”
He gripped my hips and shoved them back into place. “Face forward. Don’t test me again.”
I froze. The command in his voice? I fûcking loved it.
One finger slid between my pússy lips, dragging up my soaked panties. He brought it to his mouth, licking it clean.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “You taste like sin. It really has been a while, hasn’t it? That must be torture for a slút like you.”
I nodded, breathless. “It’s torture. I need you. I need to feel you. Please, use me. F-fuccckk me.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he murmured.
He pulled my thong to the side and pressed the head of his cóck to my entrance, dragging it up and down my slít. I whimpered when he passed over my clít, over and over, teasing me.
I was soaked, aching, and desperate to get fúcked.
Then, he thrust into me.
I cried out as the head slid in, stretching me. It burned, just a little. His cóck was big. My walls clenched around him as he pushed deeper, slowly.
“Fúck, you’re tight,” he hissed. “Tighter than I expected. You really haven’t been fúcked in a while.”
I gasped as he pulled back slowly and drove in deeper. Again and again. It took several slow, deliberate thrusts before he was fully inside me.
I let out a soft moan as I realised that every inch of his cóck was now buried deep inside me. My legs shook, and my breath came in shallow bursts.
He stilled for a second. “So wet,” he muttered,“You were made for this. For me.”
I whimpered when he started moving again. His thrusts were deliberate, and punishing in a way that dragged out every sensation like he wanted to make me beg. Each stroke of his cóck lit up my nerves, the veins scraping deliciously against my walls, the thick head nudging my cervix with ruthless precision. I couldn’t breathe.
“Professor Roman,” I gasped, my voice shaky. “Please. I need the tie back. I can’t stay quiet. Not with the way you’re fúcking me. Please.”
“No.”
His pace picked up, harder and deeper now. "You’ll stay quiet, or I’ll stop. And I’m just getting started, Ms. Isabelle.”
I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood. But I didn’t dare speak again. His cóck pounded into me while his balls slapped against my clît, sending shocks through me that made my knees buckle.
“Fúck,” he groaned. His hips stuttered just slightly, then recovered.
“Please,” I whimpered. “Please, Professor Roman. Cûm on my àss. I want it.”
My orgasm hit like a lightning bolt. It was sharp, sudden, and uncontrollable as it crashed through me. I clenched around him, soaking his cóck, my whole body tensing. I bit down on my wrist, muffling the scream that wanted to rip out of me.
He pulled out fast, groaning as hot, thick streams of cúm splattered across my asys and the back of my skirt. Strand after strand, he marked me. And he claimed me.
He stayed there for a moment. His breathing was hard, one hand gripping my hip like he wasn’t ready to let go.
Then, quietly, he spoke.
“You can stand now.”
I did, barely. My legs wobbled, and my skirt clung to my slick, sticky skin.
He looked me over, with eyes that were still dark with lust.
“Well,” he murmured, as his lips curved in a wicked smirk. “Aren’t you a good little slût, Ms. Isabelle.”
- Writer
