Senior Student Fucked By Married Professor

I was twenty-one and stupidly horny the night I walked into Dr. Michael Reeves’s office at 9:17 p.m. The rest of the literature building was dark and empty, just the low hum of the vending machine down the hall and the faint smell of old paper and coffee. I’d spent the entire semester pretending to care about postmodern irony while actually caring about the way his wedding ring looked against the stem of his coffee mug, the way his voice dropped half an octave when he read aloud from Carver or Baldwin.

He was thirty-eight, broad-shouldered, dark stubble already showing even though he’d been clean-shaven that morning. Married for twelve years. Two kids. And tonight he looked at me like I was the only thing left in the world that could still make him feel alive.

The door clicked shut behind me. He didn’t ask me to sit. Instead he leaned back against the edge of his cluttered desk, loosened the navy tie I’d spent far too many lectures staring at, and let it hang open around his neck like an invitation.

“Close the blinds, Alex.”

My pulse hammered. I did what he said. When I turned around again he was watching me with raw, undisguised hunger.

“I’ve been hard since the first week of class,” he said, voice low and rough. “Every time you stretched in that front-row seat, every time you bit your pen while you listened. I go home to my wife and jerk off in the shower thinking about your mouth. That’s how fucked I am.”

The confession hit me like a fist. I could see the thick ridge of his cock straining against his charcoal slacks, the gold band on his left hand catching the lamplight as he palmed himself once, slowly.

“She hasn’t touched me in six months,” he continued, almost like he was confessing a sin. “And I can’t stop thinking about you sucking me. I need it, Alex. Right now.”