After Class Detention: Teacher's Desk and Shower

The university had emptied the way it always did after seven, hallways gone hollow, the history classroom the last lit room on the floor. Professor Jerome waited by the desk, thirty-two years old and six foot three, brown hair slightly mussed, brown eyes fixed on the door. His white button-up was undone at the collar. Black dress pants sat low on his hips, the fabric already pulling across his thighs. He had kept Lorraine behind, and the excuse of detention had been thin enough for both of them to see through.

She was eighteen. A chemistry student, not one of his majors, though she had signed up for his evening elective and then made a study of distracting him. Five foot ten even before the long boots, she wore a white button-up of her own and a short skirt that had been climbing her thighs all semester on purpose. She shut the door herself. The lock turned under her fingers because she wanted it turned.

For weeks she had teased him and meant every second of it, staying after to ask questions she could have answered herself, bending for a pen, letting her knee find his under the desk, watching his hands go still on the lecture notes. He had not touched her. She had not asked out loud. Tonight the want between them was heavy enough to lean on, crackling in the quiet like a live wire.

"You leave whenever you want," Jerome said, voice low. "No grade attached. No punishment if you walk. If you stay, you follow my instructions exactly, and you do not come until I give you permission. I need to hear you want that."

Lorraine's pulse kicked hard between her legs. Heat had been gathering under her skirt since the front row, where she had caught him looking and held the look. She had wanted this man since the first week after she turned eighteen, when she walked into his lecture and felt her body answer the size of him before she had a name for the ache. "I want it," she said, clear and steady. "I'm not walking. Use me. Tell me what to do."

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "Then earn your release. Sit on my desk."

Jerome dragged his chair back and sat, long legs spread, brown eyes level with the wood. "Skirt up. If you're wearing panties, they come off. I want that pussy bare, and I want you to masturbate it slowly while I watch. You do not rush. You do not finish."

Her hands shook once, then steadied with want. She hopped onto the edge of his desk, long boots dangling, and shoved the short skirt to her waist. Nothing underneath. She had come to his classroom bare on purpose, and the way his breath caught when he saw her, flushed, slick, already open, made her clit throb. She spread her knees because his stare asked for it and because she wanted him to have the view.

"Fingers," he said. "Show me how you touch yourself when you think about this."

She dragged two fingers through the wet and circled her swollen clit, slow, obedient, filthy. Pleasure punched up her spine. A moan broke out of her before she could swallow it. Jerome did not move except to breathe harder. His black dress pants had gone obscene, a massive erection straining the fly, the thick ridge of him shifting when she gasped. She watched that bulge while she stroked herself and got wetter for the watching.

"Inside," he said. "Slow."

She pushed two fingers into her pussy and curled them, fucking herself in short, needy strokes while her thumb stayed cruel on her clit. The desk was cool under her ass. Her white button-up pulled tight across her breasts every time she arched. "Please," she said, voice breaking. "Professor, please, I'm close. Let me come."

"No."

The denial landed harder than a slap. She whimpered and slowed, circling again, dipping back into the tight heat of herself, chasing the edge and dragging herself off it because he had told her she could not have it. Her thighs trembled around her wrist. Juice shone on her fingers. She begged a second time, shameless, and he denied her again, calm as a man giving a lecture, eyes never leaving the mess she was making.

"Again," he said. "Slower. I want to see how badly you need my cock before I let you near it."

She obeyed until the pleasure turned mean. Her hips rolled against her own hand. She panted his name and bit her lip and still did not come, because he had not said the word. Jerome's cock jerked visibly against the black fabric, a wet spot darkening the cloth where the head pressed. His hands stayed locked on the arms of the chair, knuckles pale with the effort of not grabbing her yet. The third time she begged he only shook his head, and the refusal, his commanding gaze, the denied throb between her legs, the size of what he was holding back, shoved both of them past the last of their restraint.

Lorraine slid off the desk because she could not sit still another second. She dropped to her knees between his spread thighs, long boots folded under her, and looked up at him with her mouth already open. "Let me hold it," she said. "I won't make you come. Not yet. I just need it in my hands."

Jerome's jaw flexed. He opened his black dress pants himself, shoved them and his boxers down his hips, and his cock sprang free, extremely large, thick as her wrist and heavy, the head flushed dark and already wet. She made a broken sound at the size of him. Both of her hands wrapped the shaft and still didn't cover it. She cockheld him there on her knees, stroking slow from root to tip, squeezing when he throbbed, keeping him right on the edge the way he had kept her.

"Eyes up," he said.

She looked up, submissive and starving, and took the broad head into her mouth. Salt and heat. She sucked while her hands worked the thick shaft, cheeks hollowing, spit slicking her fists so every stroke sounded wet in the quiet classroom. Jerome's hand settled in her hair, not forcing, just holding, and his hips twitched like he was fighting the urge to fuck her throat. She moaned around him and felt him swell harder. When his thighs started to shake she pulled off with a filthy pop, still gripping him in both hands, denying him the finish the way he had denied her.

"Desk," he growled. "Now. Bend over it."

She scrambled up. He spun her, yanked the short skirt higher, and bent her over the teacher's desk, chest to the wood, ass up, long boots planted wide. One big hand pressed between her shoulder blades. The other guided that extremely large cock to her soaked entrance and held there, the blunt head stretching her open already.

"You want this," he said. Not a question, but he waited.

"Yes," she gasped. "Fuck me. Hard. I want all of it."

He drove in.

The stretch stole her breath. He was too big and exactly what she had been aching for, splitting her open in one long, relentless push until his hips met her ass and she was full to the limit, stuffed so deep she felt him in her stomach. He didn't give her time to adjust. He fucked her hard from behind, pulling almost out and slamming back in, the desk jolting under her. Every thrust punched a cry out of her. Wet sounds filled the room, obscene and perfect, her pussy gripping the thick shaft and losing the fight to stay tight around him.

"Take it," Jerome said, voice wrecked, brown hair falling into his eyes as he pounded her. "This is what you teased me for. This cock. All of it."

"Yes. God, yes, don't stop, don't let me come yet, just fuck me."

He laughed once, dark, and gave her exactly that, deep and fast, huge cock stretching her on every stroke. She was dripping down her thighs, begging and denying herself because he still had not said she could finish. He was close too. She felt it in the swell of him. He pulled out before either of them broke and hauled her upright.

"Shower," he said. "Adjoining room. I'm not done with you."

The private shower off the faculty washroom was small, tile and steam and a lock he threw behind them. They stripped what was left, her button-up and his, the skirt, the pants, boots kicked aside, and he turned the water hot. It hit them in a rush. Jerome pressed her to the tiles, chest to the wall, and she arched her ass back into him without being told.

"Throat," she said, dizzy with it. "Grab it. I want your hand there while you fuck me."

His palm closed around her throat, firm, not crushing, a claiming weight she could breathe around because he let her. She nodded into the spray, and he pushed that extremely large cock back into her dripping pussy from behind. The stretch was worse and better with the water running over them, hot cascades sliding down her spine, over his gripping hand, between their bodies. He pounded her, deep and mean, tiles cold on her breasts, his chest hot against her back, the slap of his hips loud under the shower.

"Look at you," he said against her ear, fingers flexing on her throat in time with his thrusts. "Chemistry girl bent over my desk, now taking my cock in the shower like you were built for it. You still don't come until I say."

"Please," she sobbed, pushing back to meet him, chasing every inch. "Please, Jerome, I can't. I need it."

"Now," he said, and his hand tightened just enough to make the word land in her pulse. "Come on my cock."

She shattered. The orgasm ripped through her, pussy clamping down so hard he swore, a raw cry bouncing off the tile while hot water poured over them. He fucked her through it until his own control tore, buried that huge cock deep, and came with a broken groan, pulsing inside her in thick spurts while his hand stayed on her throat.

Jerome kept his hand loosely around Lorraine's throat and bent to kiss the back of her neck, mouth slow against wet skin. She leaned into him until he eased out, both of them shaking, the heat of him slipping down her thigh into the drain. The shower hissed. Her pulse jumped under his palm.

They rinsed together, his hands on her shoulders, hers on his chest, and when their eyes met they smiled, satisfied, wrecked, knowing exactly what they had done and exactly that they would do it again.

"Next week," Lorraine said, voice hoarse. "Same time. Keep me after."

"Detention," Jerome said, and the word was a promise. "You follow instructions. You don't come until I say."

"I'll tease you worse before then."

"I'm counting on it."

They dressed in the steam, short skirt clinging, black dress pants damp at the cuffs, white button-ups buttoned with clumsy fingers, long boots tugged on. He unlocked the washroom. She unlocked the classroom. The building was still empty, and they left it that way, not touching, the want already climbing back between them.

She had not reached the stairs before the ache to be denied by him started all over again.