I never planned to fuck my old college professor. Professor Elias Kane, mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, wire-rimmed glasses, the kind of quiet authority that used to make twenty-year-old me clench my thighs during his late afternoon lectures on modern literature (an iconic setup for adult romance and erotic fiction).
Back then, I sat in the third row, short skirt, no bra, crossing and uncrossing my legs just to see if he’d notice. He always did. His eyes would flick up, hold mine for one dangerous second, then drop back to his notes like nothing happened (a classic scene that lives in erotic fiction).
Six years later, I’m twenty-six, bartending at a dimly lit speakeasy downtown, and he walks in on a slow Tuesday night wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like sin. No wedding ring. No date. Just him, sliding onto the stool directly in front of me like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Still pour a decent old-fashioned?” he asked, voice low, familiar.
My pulse kicked hard. Still like them strong? A slow smile curved his mouth. You remember? I remembered everything.
The way he’d lean over my desk to point out a line in a poem, close enough I could smell his cedar and leather cologne. The way he’d say my name, Lila, like it tasted good on his tongue. The way I’d go home after class and finger myself imagining him bending me over that same desk.
I made his drink, extra bitters. When I slid it across the bar, our fingers brushed. Electricity crackled between us.
He didn’t pull away. Shift ends soon? He asked. Midnight. He checked his watch. I’ll wait.
My cunt throbbed at the casual certainty in his voice. He stayed the whole three hours, nursing the same drink, reading something on his phone, occasionally glancing up to watch me move behind the bar. Every time I bent to grab a bottle from the lower shelf, I felt his eyes on my ass. Every time I stretched to reach the top row, my nipples scraped the inside of my thin black tank top. He noticed? Of course he did.
When I finally flipped the closed sign and locked the door, the place was empty except for us. The low jazz playlist still hummed through the speakers. Dim Edison bulbs cast long shadows. He stood, walked around the bar without hurry, stopped right behind me. Turn around. I did. He tipped my chin up with one finger, studied my face like I was a text he wanted to annotate. You used to sit in my class and fuck me with your eyes, he said quietly. Thought I didn’t notice? Heat flooded my cheeks. I thought you did notice. That’s why I did it.
His thumb brushed my lower lip. And now? Now I want you to do something about it. He kissed me then, slow at first, testing, then deeper, hungrier. His tongue slid against mine like he’d been starving for it. One hand fisted my hair, the other gripped my hip and yanked me flush against him. I felt how hard he was through his slacks, thick, insistent. I moaned into his mouth. He broke the kiss just long enough to growl. Up on the bar. I hopped up, thighs spreading automatically. My skirt rode high. No panties? Of course no fucking panties. I’d been wet since the second he walked in. He stepped between my legs, pushed my skirt higher, and looked down at my bare, glistening pussy like it was a gift.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re soaked. Been soaked since you sat down.” He dragged two fingers through my folds, slow, deliberate. I whimpered when he circled my clit, light, teasing. Then he pushed both fingers inside me without warning, deep, crooked them. Found that spot that made my hips jerk. “Still so tight,” he said against my throat. “All these years and this little cunt still remembers who it wanted?” I clutched his shoulders. “Please, professor.”
Then a dark chuckle vibrated against my skin. “Say it again.” “Professor,” I gasped. “Please fuck me. I’ve wanted it since I was your student.” He groaned, low, wrecked, and yanked his belt open. His cock sprang free, long, thick, veined, the head already slick. He fisted it once, twice, then notched it at my entrance. “Look at me.” I did. His eyes were black with lust. “When I slide inside you, you’re going to say my name, not professor. Elias. Understand?” “Yes, Elias.”
He thrust in hard, one brutal stroke that buried him balls deep. I cried out, back arched, nails digging into his neck. He was so thick he stretched me to the edge of pain, but the pleasure drowned it out instantly. He didn’t let me adjust. He fucked me like he’d been holding back for years, hard, relentless, the bar creaking under us. My tits bounced under my tank top. He shoved the fabric up, sucked one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to sting. “Fuck. Yes. Harder.”
He obliged, slamming into me so deep I felt him in my cervix. The wet slap of our bodies echoed in the empty bar. My thighs trembled around his hips. “You used to write those essays,” he panted against my ear. “All that pretty prose about desire and surrender.” I knew, I fucking knew, you were writing about me. I was, I sobbed. Every word. I wanted you to read it and know how wet you made me.
He reached between us, rubbed tight circles on my clit. “Come for me, Lila. Come on the cock you’ve been fantasizing about since you were barely legal.” The command snapped something inside me. I came screaming, walls clamping down, fluttering, gushing around him. My vision whited out. He fucked me through it, growling my name like a prayer, hips losing rhythm. “Gonna fill you up,” he rasped. “Gonna mark this greedy little pussy so every time you touch yourself from now on, you remember who owns it.”
“Yes, please, inside.” He slammed deep one last time and erupted, hot, thick pulses flooding me, spilling out around his cock as he kept grinding, forcing every drop deeper. I felt claimed, ruined, perfect. When he finally stilled, we were both shaking. He stayed inside me, softening slowly, plugging his cum where it belonged. His forehead rested against mine. “I’ve wanted this since the first time you raised your hand in my class,” he whispered. I smiled, lazy and sated, still clenching around him. Then we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for, professor. He laughed, low, dangerous, and kissed me again, slow this time. Lock up properly, he murmured, then come home with me. I have a desk in my study that’s exactly the right height. I shivered at the promise. We still had the rest of the night, and I plan to spend every filthy second of it reminding him exactly whose student I used to be, and whose slut I was now.
