Chapter 168 On My Knees For Professor
I couldn’t stop touching myself all week. Every night I’d sprawl on my dorm bed, legs wide, fingers circling my clit while I replayed that moment in his office over and over. The way his hand had closed around my throat, not hurting, just owning. The heat of his cock twitching under my palm when I squeezed it on my way out. The promise in his voice—low, rough, dripping with control—when he said he’d make me swallow every drop. I came so hard the first night I soaked the sheets, biting my pillow to keep from moaning his name loud enough for my roommate to hear. By Wednesday I was edging myself three, four times a day, stopping right before the crest, whispering “Daddy, please” into the dark like a prayer. I wanted to be wrecked when I walked back into that office. I wanted him to smell how desperate I was.
I didn’t fix the paper. Of course I didn’t.
Instead I wore the shortest skirt I owned—black pleated, barely grazing the tops of my thighs—and a cropped white button-up tied just under my tits, no bra, no panties again. Nipples already stiff from the AC and the anticipation. I painted my lips cherry red, the kind that smears everywhere. Mascara that would run if I cried. I wanted proof on my face when I left.
His office hours were from four to six. I showed up at 5:45, heart hammering so loud I swore the hallway could hear it. The building was mostly empty—late Friday, most professors gone, students already weekend-drunk somewhere else. Perfect. Riskier. I knocked once, then pushed the door open without waiting.
He was at his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, glasses perched on his nose, marking papers under the warm desk lamp. The sight of him—focused, authoritative, completely in control—made my pussy clench so hard I almost whimpered out loud.
He looked up slowly. Took in the outfit. The tied shirt. The bare thighs. The red lips. His jaw ticked.
“Door,” he said, voice flat.
I turned, locked it, then leaned back against the wood, hands behind me, chest thrust forward. “Hi, Professor. Missed me?”
He set his pen down with deliberate care. “You didn’t bring the revised paper.”
I pouted, stepping closer, hips swaying. “I tried. Really. But every time I sat down to write, I just kept thinking about your cock. How thick it felt in my hand. How it jumped when I squeezed it.” I licked my bottom lip. “Kinda hard to concentrate when you’re this wet, Daddy.”
The word hung in the air like smoke. His eyes flared. He pushed his chair back an inch.
“On your knees,” he said quietly.
My breath caught. I dropped immediately, knees hitting the carpet with a soft thud. The rough weave bit into my skin, but I didn’t care. I crawled the last few feet—slow, deliberate—until I was between his spread thighs. His slacks were already tented, the outline obscene.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rougher now. “Crawling like a needy little slut. You really are desperate, aren’t you?”
I nodded, eyes locked on the bulge. “So desperate, Daddy. Been edging all week thinking about you. My fingers aren’t enough. I need your cock in my mouth. Need to taste you.”
He reached down, thumb brushing my lower lip, smearing the red. “Open.”
I parted my lips wide, tongue flat. He unbuckled his belt—slow, the metallic clink echoing in the quiet room. Zipper down. He pulled himself out, thick and heavy, already leaking at the tip. The head was flushed dark, veins standing out like ropes. Pre-cum beaded at the slit, glistening under the lamp. The musky, salty scent hit me hard. My mouth watered so much I had to swallow.
“Hands behind your back,” he ordered.
I clasped them at the small of my back, tits pushing forward even more, nipples scraping the open edges of my shirt.
“Good girl.” He fisted the base, tapped the head against my tongue—once, twice, smearing pre-cum across it. Salty. Warm. Addictive. “Now suck.”