Bend the Rules for Me

Professor Uchiha's eyes followed your parading around his domain. Behind his desk. Touching his belongings. Assured in your cocky tone when addressing him; acting like you've done it dozens of times. Because you had.

Tracking your every graceful movement, he spun in his chair to give you the attention you wanted. But not before adjusting his trousers over his lap, deciding to lay an arm over that part of him while he cooled down.

It didn't work.

You wrote sentence after sentence. Long loops of words. Vocalized in a purr to his ear. A delightful rumble in his chest as he hummed along. A growing desire forcing him to sit awkwardly.

He surrendered. Your back was to him. He stuffed his right hand in his pocket and grabbed the thing seconds from embarrassing him and wrangled it flat to his palm.

The smirk twitching at your lips was smothered as you moved on to your next point on the board. Pretend as much as he wanted; act aloof, be a hardass during class. Professor Uchiha was wrapped around your finger.

Absolutely no one dared approach him after red-inked grades were handed back. He never changed them. He never gave extensions. His office hours were spent alone, as was his lunch.

Unless you were there.

As you often were.

If only your classmates got word that all they had to do to improve their grades was wear a short skirt, a blouse missing its top buttons, and thigh high stockings.

Professor Uchiha had his weaknesses. You ruthlessly exploited them. Your speech was punctuated by bending over. Underlined by the flounce of your skirt hem swinging to and fro while gesturing at his bleeding red notes shouting about how your interpretation of the text was wrong. Emphasized by your automatic coyness to lace your hands in front of you when he was defending his ruling; your tits creating ample cleavage he only wished he was strong-willed enough to stop his eyes from darting to when stumbling through his rebuttal.

Poor Professor. He shifted in his chair and admitted defeat at the tilt of your head and batting of your lashes. Fight it as he did, he always acknowledged your argument in good faith and raised your points in the spreadsheet that determined your worthiness as Pass or Fail. They weren't egregious changes. Just enough to score a C.

You beamed and thanked him for his time, clapping the chalk dust from your hands and giving him a sickly sweet smile before ascending the steps and leaving.

In a way, how you charmed the tent in his pants was its own reward. Your vibrator required charging yet again after leaving his class.

~~~

The following week you sat at your table in the front and held one of your usual discussions with your professor. Well, at one point it was a discussion. For months this routine quickly delved into talking about deeper topics, then surface; what you did over the weekend, what his hobbies were, reciting poems or lines from plays you were studying in class. All around laid back conversations. Always with his sleeves rolled up, his hair a disheveled mess like his desk, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, and that goofy grin on his face.

It was criminal how he made you laugh when his personality during class was so opposite. No other student had this rapport with him. Naturally, this trivial fact inflated your ego. Being able to interrupt his lectures by uncrossing your legs and watching his cheeks flush. Such a simple man.

Seducing him to hide his blatant erections behind his desk fueled your lifeblood. Torturing him more by tugging at your shirt collar and testing the limits of your buttons crying out for relief over your lacy bra. He was so obvious, it was cute.