Page 19 of His to Teach

Another smack, harder than the first. "That's not what you call me when I'm inside you. Try again."

Heat floods my face, shame and desire twisting together into something intoxicating. "Please fuck me, Daddy."

He rewards me by pushing inside in one long, smooth thrust that makes me bite my lip to keep from crying out. The angle is perfect—deep and filling, his body covering mine from behind.

"That's it," he growls, setting a punishing pace that has the podium creaking beneath us. "Take Daddy's cock. Right where I stand and lecture every day."

The thought is filthy and thrilling—this sacred academic space defiled by our bodies. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, controlling my movements as he takes me.

"Every time I stand here," he pants, punctuating each word with a thrust, "I'll remember how your tight little cunt felt gripping my cock. How you begged for it like the desperate little slut you are."

"Yes," I moan, shameless now in my need. "Yes, I'm your slut. Only yours."

One of his hands slides around to find my clit, circling it with practiced precision. "Beg Daddy to knock you up on the stage where I teach," he demands. "Let me hear how bad you want it."

"Please," I beg, the words pouring out unbidden. "Please breed me, Daddy. Fill me up right here where anyone could see. Make me yours forever."

His rhythm falters at my words, becoming more erratic. "Fuck, princess. The things you do to me."

His fingers work my clit faster, bringing me to the edge. "Come for me now," he commands. "Let me feel that sweet little cunt milk my cock."

I shatter at his words, pleasure exploding outward from my core, washing over me in waves so intense I have to bite my hand to muffle my cries. He follows immediately, driving deep and holding there as he pulses inside me, filling me with his release.

For long moments, we stay frozen in that position, his body draped over mine, both of us breathing hard. Then slowly, carefully, he withdraws. I wince slightly at the emptiness, then again as I feel his release trickling down my inner thigh.

He helps me straighten my clothes, uses his handkerchief to clean his release from my thighs. His movements are tender, possessive. When he kisses me afterward, it's almost reverent.

"You're going to be the death of me," he murmurs against my lips. "No more stunts like that during class. I couldn't think straight the entire lecture."

"That was the idea," I admit, a small smile playing at my lips.

He growls playfully, nipping at my lower lip. "Brat."

"Your brat," I correct, wrapping my arms around his neck.

"Mine," he agrees, and the word contains multitudes—possession, protection, promise.

We check to make sure the hallway is clear before slipping out of the lecture hall. As we walk toward the exit, his hand on the small of my back, I feel a strange mix of emotions—the lingering pleasure, the thrill of our risky behavior, but also something deeper. Something that feels dangerously like falling in love.

I know this can't last. Know that sooner or later, reality will intrude on our forbidden paradise. But right now, walking through the quiet hallways with the evidence of his passion still warm inside me, I can't bring myself to care about tomorrow.

For tonight, I am his. His student. His princess. His dirty little secret.

nine

. . .

Gordon

Midterms are over. The frantic energy that infects campus during exam week has settled into the quieter rhythm of regular coursework. I should feel relieved. Instead, I'm wound tighter than ever, thoughts constantly circling back to Flower. We've been careful since the Phillips incident—meeting off campus, scaling back our riskier behavior. But careful feels like another word for cowardly. Like I'm ashamed of what we're doing. And while I should be—while every ethical code in academia condemns our relationship—I can't bring myself to regret a single moment with her. Not her body beneath mine. Not her voice calling me "Daddy." Not the way she looks at me like I hung the moon instead of just parsing literature for jaded undergraduates.

"Professor Davis?" Her voice pulls me from my thoughts. She stands in my office doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, honey-blonde hair falling in waves around her face. "You wanted to see me about my midterm essay?"

"Close the door, Miss Darling." My voice gives nothing away to anyone who might be listening. Professional. Detached.

She obeys, turning the lock with practiced ease. When she turns back, her expression has shifted from respectful student to something more intimate, more knowing.

"Your essay," I say, removing it from my desk drawer, "was exceptional."