Professors' Forbidden Faculty Lounge Strap-On Lecture

I never meant for any of this to happen. I’m Dr. Elena Voss—forty-two, tenured, feared by half the English department and respected by the rest. My lectures are precise, my office hours merciless, and my personal life is exactly that: personal. So when Dr. Maya Reynolds transferred in at the start of the fall semester, I told myself her lingering stares across the conference table were none of my business. She was thirty-eight, brilliant in psychology, and far too bold for her own good. Every time our eyes met she gave me that slow, knowing half-smile that made heat crawl up the back of my neck. I shut it down every single time with a crisp nod or a clipped remark about curriculum. Until last Thursday.

The department meeting had dragged on for two and a half hours. By the time the last adjunct shuffled out, the faculty lounge was empty except for the two of us. Late-afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, turning the dark wood and leather furniture golden. I was stacking my notes when I heard the soft click of the lock.

I looked up. Maya stood at the door, fingers still on the deadbolt, that dangerous smile curving her full lips. Her charcoal pencil skirt hugged every curve, and the deep burgundy silk blouse she wore was unbuttoned one button lower than professional. My pulse kicked.

“Dr. Reynolds,” I said, keeping my voice ice-cold, “unlock the door.”

She didn’t. Instead she leaned back against it, arms crossed under her breasts so the silk pulled tight. “I know what you keep in the bottom right drawer of your desk, Elena.”

My stomach dropped. The strap-on. Eight inches of thick, veined silicone, harnessed and ready. I’d bought it years ago on a reckless night in the city and had never used it on campus. Never. The fact that she had seen it—had opened my drawer—should have enraged me. Instead, a dark, liquid heat pooled low in my belly.

“You went through my things?” My voice was lower than I intended.

“I needed a stapler,” she said, unrepentant. “What I found was far more interesting. I’ve been wet for weeks thinking about it. About you bending me over that ugly brown couch right there and fucking me until I can’t remember my own research questions.”

The confession hit me like a physical blow. My nipples tightened against the lace of my bra. I could feel myself getting slick, thighs pressing together under my severe black skirt.