"Class dismissed."
Behind you, students clamored out of their seats and crammed their assignments marked with red X's into their backpacks, or glanced over the scribble in the margins spotlighting all the reasons their paper was lackluster and crumpled it into the trash can beside the door as they stomped up the stairs and grumbled to their friends about how bullshit the grading was.
Everyone left. Except you.
You uncrossed your legs. Slowly. Reveling in the feel of the fabric of your skirt skimming your upper thighs; lingering in the position with your knees pointed outward while you gathered your things and stood up at the same time your professor turned his back to you and busied himself anywhere else.
Clouds of chalk dust fell from the green board, sprinkling his crisp dark blue dress shirt. Professor Uchiha brushed it off, then unbuttoned the sleeve cuffs, rolling them up his forearms until they fit snug under his elbows.
"I know you're there," he said, erasing the last of his sloppy handwriting detailing next week's exam. "I imagine you've prepared an hour long speech about how unjust your grade was and how I should persuade my fingers to enter one a smidge higher when I log it in online?"
You didn't reply; opting instead to simply shake your pages and pages of research stapled together on the whims of late nights stressing red veins into your eyes and the accompanying bags under them.
He dropped his head back and sighed. The eraser was tossed on the metal tray and he shoved his hands in his pockets before turning around to acquiesce your face: slackened in disapproval.
"I'm here to discuss why you think I've earned this when I understood the assignment just fine and wrote a, quite frankly, wonderful and well versed and well researched paper detailing the similarities in the plays down to the themes in how the women treat each other, the direction beats on stage, and use of Germanic language in the seconds acts."
There was no use in sending you away.
Stiffly, he shuffled to his chair and fell into it, scooting it up to his desk and sitting so snug the wood edge dug into his solar plexus. Only then did he remove his hands from his pockets and clasp them under his chin, resting his elbows on the manila folders littering his desk next to the upturned mug of spilled pens crowding his mouse pad.
He regarded you with his blank stare--if not tinted pink across his nose--and goaded you with all the boredom in his tired voice after his lecture, "Well, let's hear it."
Professor Uchiha may have looked you in the eye, but it seemed difficult to do so. Like when someone averted their gaze to hide their true thoughts inside their brain from being seen, heard.
Or similar to when you've spotted someone you didn't like from across the room and strove to ignore them at all costs, despite taking quick glances to ensure they were looking at you too.
Or when you both thought you were innocent gazelles, but you are the lion stalking the thin reeds of swaying yellow grass.
His presence dominated when class was in session. After? When it was just you two? You always got what you wanted.
"Well, considering I can't read your wise remark under the very first sentence, let's start there," you posed, eyebrows raised.
A childish groan emitted from his throat. Ceased abruptly when you turned on the ball of your foot and strutted around his desk to the chalkboard. You picked up the stub of chalk he used that afternoon and wrote your comparisons in an easy to read bullet point list.
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.
Professor Uchiha unbound his fingers from behind his head to read his watch. "Shouldn't you be on your way?"
You tapped a manicured nail on your phone to check the time. "Seems so." Stashing away the worn paperback you were conferring on him about for your dissertation, you walked up the stairs, passing rows and rows of tables and hard plastic chairs. "Have a nice evening, Professor." You paused at the door attempting to read his expression from across the room.
He raised a hand and waved goodbye. "Lock the door on your way out." You obliged, depressing the lock on the handle and closing the door behind you.
Professor Uchiha waited for the click, the jiggle of the handle. He had requested you to perform the task many times in the past. So many, in fact, you no longer tossed him a questionable brow before leaving.
Penetrating the silence of the empty classroom was the heels of your shoes clicking down the hallway for a few steps until they faded away altogether.
The top drawer of his desk ripped open--banging on its metal slides--and he grabbed his phone and bottle of lotion laid sideways. Smacked the drawer closed. Ignored the rustling of his things jumbling into one amalgamation inside. Lotion, box of tissues, phone. Mouse pad shoved aside.
He lured in the mug of pens closer to use it to prop up his phone and proceeded to go through his gallery.
"I thought I saved them.." he grumbled to himself. At this point the ache sending a dull pain to his stomach should've told him it wasn't that important, but he opened Instagram on his second account and navigated his way to yours with one finger. Hunched over and trying to unbuckle his belt.
On your profile he scrolled down to find his favorite post of yours. A photoshoot from your summer vacation. Many pictures. Many angles. Many pouty looks at the camera wearing a layer of sand and a trendy micro bikini. The sand provided more coverage.
He swiped to a photo he hadn't masturbated to in a while and finally! His hands were free.
His leather belt was threaded through the buckle. Button steered through the loop. Zipper cascaded over his rock hard cock warming his palm, wrestled from the confines of his boxer briefs.
After holding back for an hour, he needed it. Wanted it more than anything.
Two pumps of lotion smeared over his fingers. Tissues waved in the wind of his grunting. His skin was hot all over, uncomfortably so. Simmering blood wound rivers through his tense muscles. Boiling lust compelled his eyes to ravage the image, not deciding on which aspects the hormones in his brain liked best: the side of your tits, voluptuous ass, or plump pussy peeking out due to your writhing on your stomach on the beach towel. Arching everything so perfectly for him it was as if you were made to please him.
The rest of his concentration was spent fucking his hands.
Long inhale, shuddering exhale.
The rhythmic beat of sins pulsed in his ears. Taboo quickened his pace. Thrill seeking adrenaline coasted his twitching fingers over his reddened tip. The groan stirring in his chest unearthed all the restrained affection he had for you; it was demanding to be released. To moan your name where no one could hear him.
But he had to keep it stamped down. Try as he might to not show favoritism in class, his gaze wandered to you far too often. He chose you to stand and declare your snarky answer to his question while he hid himself behind his desk. The times you showed up early to see him and he made you write out the day's lecture on the chalkboard--since your handwriting was legible compared to his.
All benign excuses to reel you in.
Mornings spent hanging out. Evenings spent arguing over your grades. Not like you were a bad student; your exams were what almost secured your position for passing his class, it was your papers that needed work. Riddled with disjointed thoughts, meandering points, and leaps in logic so incredible it could win gold at the Olympics.
None of it detracted from his allure to you. Quite the opposite. It gave you a reason to hang on to his every word, stay around after class, talk to him like a peer, and the familiarity of knowing each other on this level gave you the boldness to squabble with him during class.
To set his face aflame when you had the gall to wear those short skirts, legs opening and closing when speaking to him. Make him slip his hand in his pocket under his desk when you challenged him.
No one could hold his interest like you did.
No one.
Professor Uchiha pumped faster. Used a knuckle to swipe to the next photo. One with your tits on display for the camera. It was cruel how the strip of fabric over your hard nipples caused his jaw to tense and his nostrils to flare. Your tits in photos, your tits bouncing under the thin fabric of your shirt when you sauntered around his desk, your tits slick with his eager kisses, your tits covered in his cum.
Damn you for tempting him. And damn him for encouraging it against his better judgement.
He was in too deep.
The thick vein along the underside of his cock throbbed. His body went taut.
Release. Relax.
Professor Uchiha gathered the tissues. One, two strokes.
"Mm!" he stifled the moan, eyes flitting from working his cock to the photo of you. Devouring the contours, curves, dips, and swells of your body. Picturing you naked under him. Twisted in pleasure. Shouting his first name.
He circled his fingers, guiding them in smooth sprints over his cockhead, each graze of his digits sending him to the precipice of the cliff.
Fuck.
He emptied himself into the tissues. Milking his cock dry in long, slow strokes while staring at his phone.
The cleanup was made in haste. Tissues disposed of, a wet wipe on his hands as if it would wash away his delinquency, briefcase packed, and spent cock tucked away for another time. He checked his watch; he should still be home in time for an unloving, resentful, cold dinner left for him on the kitchen counter and moving boxes strewn about the living room couch where he slept.
Walking alone in the dark parking lot gave him time to think. And thinking allowed the insidious venom of self loathing to replace the endorphins tingling his nerves.
He developed feelings for one of his students. And he yearned for more than inappropriate hours he scheduled to be with you. More than the hours he expended in pondering your interactions, and the exhaustive state it left him in after he dumped his energy into idyllic scenarios with you.
Oh, how he reveled in it.
You were his escape, and he wasn't about to change that.
~~~
You drummed your nails on the underside of Professor Uchiha's desk; supporting your weight on it, ergo, bringing your tits together bracketed by your elbows to help persuade him to bump your grade up two points. That's all. Two measly points.
"Oh no, looks like the program's not responding," he replied with a lopsided grin, running his mouse in circles and chucking at your frustration.
"Professor," you whined.
He unglued his eyes from your cleavage after imagining his cock leaking between your breasts and redirected his attention to his computer screen. He furrowed his brows. Clicked around. Shook his mouse vigorously. Frowned some more.
"What is it?"
"It's frozen." He tapped keys on his keyboard.
"C'mon."
"No, really," he said, angling the screen at you and demonstrating the program he used to log your grades was static and the cursor was sitting in the same spot, unmoving.
You leaned over and spammed random keys as if by some miracle his computer would respond to your fingers and not his.
Professor Uchiha was entranced. Cleavage was nice, but his cup of pens.. One stuck out further than the others and its pointed cap was tracing your nipple. Coaxing it erect.
The sheer power of his fixation scorched you like the sun on a cloudless day. What a simple man. Tease yourself on one of his belongings and he'd cherish it forever.
You pouted your luscious bottom lip. Arched your back. Nudged the pen around your nipple until you were satisfied he couldn't take it anymore. Your breath was light and tone airy, "Want me to take a look, Professor?"
"Great idea."
Fuck.
His husky voice, heavy with arousal, imbued those two little words with a spell that bound you to them.
He pushed himself away from his desk with his foot, crossed his ankles, and shifted one hand to his pocket, the other on his armrest supporting his head. His expression was that of expectation. Yours was blank-faced trepidation, the sort of foreboding ingrained in your very bones telling you to comply, obey.
It wasn't like him to be this serious when it was just you two. And it was equally unlike him to return even an ounce of your flirting. Not to this degree. When it was you and him, he dropped all pretenses of having authority over you, but now, the fierce lust in his eyes warned you that if you didn't respect his commands, he'd punish you. The thought of which sent a zing of excitement straight to the apex of your thighs.
You walked around his desk--any other day this would include you tracing sleek a finger along the edge and a little swish in your step, however, at this moment your brain was in a tizzy under his watchful gaze. Giddy at the tendons flexing in his neck. Fascinated by his cutthroat stare appraising your body like you were for sale.
Bending at the waist, you mashed the control, alt, and delete keys. Harrumphing when nothing happened on screen.
Awareness prickled the hair on your nape at the sound of his chair creaking and an object disappearing from your peripheral. Whatever it was, it was forgotten when you gandered at the cables leading from his keyboard and mouse down the hole with the rest of the wires connecting from his computer to underneath his desk. They bulged oddly. You groped them, tugged.
Your suspicions proved correct as they dangled in your hand. "Sir, they're not plugged in."
"Oh, that's too bad," he cooed behind you. "Care to rectify that for me?"
"Y-Yes, sir." Submissive. Quivering. Anticipating. Wishing. Hoping. You crouched under his desk and peered into the dark. The wood panel on the front blocked all light from entering. Kneeling, you ran your hand up the back of his tower, prodding fingertips through dust, hunting the empty USB slots in pitch black.
Professor Uchiha couldn't be happier.
On your hands and knees in front of him.
He opened the camera app on his phone--snatched from his desk when you weren't looking--and started recording a video.
The phone was tilted down to his lap. He had threaded his cock through a hole cut out in his pocket and bunched the fabric of his trousers so that his engorged tip was visible outside. Swollen and in search of a reason to create new scenes in his memory bank. This time by his own accord.
On his phone screen played a close up of his cock encircled in his thick fingers. He stroked for a few seconds, a fistful of himself before panning to you. Face down, ass up. A strip of white cotton wedged between your cheeks like a blaze leading him to the parts begging for him to lick, to suck. Adorning a wet spot where it stretched tight over your cunt. You couldn't have known this particular pair was his weakness. They were most visible in his dimmed classroom; the black lace pair became obscured in the shadows of your thighs. The crisp, stark white? He bathed himself in their radiance when you gave him a peek.
His heart pounded in the wide expanse of the room. He had his excuse prepared since the moment he concocted this plan over the weekend: if you turned around, he would hide his cock and click on the flashlight on his phone, like he was helping you see all along.
But you didn't turn. You didn't look. You weren't curious if he was up to anything. You were too busy gagging at the dust under your nails as you tried to line up the cables with the ports.
The chair creaked again. He shifted to the edge of the seat. Knees angled out on either side of your ass. Stroking his tip faster. Your heat inches from him. Heavy breaths linking the space from his cock, to his phone, to your panties.
Metal dinged metal. Cables knocked cables. You must've thought he was an idiot. He probably was. Swimming in the murky waters of student-teacher relationships. Antagonizing you to bicker with him, asking you to help file papers in his cabinet. Becoming too bold, too stupid in pushing his boundaries.
But if he were drowning, so were you.
You found the USB ports minutes ago. Actually, it was already plugged in, but teasing your professor like this.. Hearing the rustling of fabric the more you wagged your hips back and forth. The pure debauchery of the air cooling your soaked panties should've sentenced you to a lifetime of shame. It didn't. It felt fucking good knowing he was looking. Captivating him.
Seconds passed.
You arched your back to an agonizing degree.
Presented yourself in all your glory.
The shame did come.
When he didn't act upon his cravings.
He never did. Something held him back. It always did. But it felt like this time was different.. Despite your efforts week after week, Professor Uchiha was a lost cause.
Enough playing around; you crawled backwards from under his desk and stood, tapping away at the miraculously working program to change your score and hit enter.
Wheels squeaked. His knees bumped into the back of yours, causing yours to buckle, bend. "Oh!" You faltered and caught yourself on his desk, spinning to face him at the same time he decided to rise from his chair.
He used his body to box you in.
Surprised in the tangle of shoes knocking shoes, knees gone weak, and hips grinding on hips as you both lost your balance, you clutched onto his tie--earning a strangled cough from his cinched air pipe--and his arms fell to either side of your body, pinning you between him and the solid piece of wood that was his desk. The edge of which dug into your plush ass.
The silkiness of his tie rivaled only by the softness of his pink lips hovering over yours. The hardness of his charcoal black eyes boring into yours rivaled only by what was pressing into your stomach.
"Sorry." Your whisper was so shushed your voice cut out as you let go of his tie and smoothed your hand down his chest, his stomach. "The computer's working now." Radiating body heat sweltered in the mingle of your two bodies united as one. Words were stolen. Excuses were lost in the passage of time. Impure thoughts raced. Ones saved for empty classrooms and toys that didn't come with baggage and consequences if caught.
The coarse fabric of his trousers grazed your upper thighs as he advanced forward. Laying his chest on yours to better reach his mouse snug against your ass and close the program on screen.
Months of seducing this man led to his unresolved desire brushing over your mound. If you just tipped your hips it would apply pressure to your needy-
His half-closed gaze perceived your ruse. Strong forearms enclosed to your waist. No longer shy about expressing what he wanted. You weren't the lion in the reeds. You were the sheep and he donned the wool over your eyes.
Professor Uchiha's wolfish grin tweaked at your innocent mouth agape at his forwardness. His mischievous lips graces words, "I dismissed class over an hour ago. Why are you still here prancing around in front of me?"
His pride curled over the shell of your ear, swept the length of your neck, snaked down the collar of your shirt. Smugness coiled his tongue. Innocuous words worked like a spark to dry leaves, inciting an inferno to the areas of you insisting to be touched, ruined.
The longer his lips deemed you worthy, the more you knew this is what you wanted.
Gaining some autonomy, you shifted your hand from admiring his abs up the planes of his chest to his round shoulder and down his arm, skirting over his rolled up sleeve to the forest of coarse hair standing at attention under your guidance. You reached his wrist and settle your hand on top of his.
His left hand.
Lips at your throat. Breath down your dewy cleavage. Two lips resting on your fragile skin; just resting, not kissing. They were privy to your drumming pulse, certain it was caused by him. The twist of his mouth stopped short of the smirk it was forming.
A sense of dread overcame your embrace.
The low moan in the back of his throat stopped.
His body went rigid in places it wasn't before.
He reeled back. Panic in his eyes. Vocal cords poised. Suspended in time. Preparing to create words of warning. Or maybe an explanation.
Your fingers explored. Roamed over his knuckles, mountains and valleys of protruding veins. You slipped down the slope of his left ring finger.
Nothing.
No bump of metal.
When did he stop wearing his wedding ring?
"Class was dismissed over an hour ago," he repeated in a haunting whisper, an octave lower and devoid of emotion. The self-loathing at his impulses was evident in each shaky inhale. He used his imposing height as its own threat, bending your frame to his will, fingers gripping the desk with white knuckles of restrain, claiming the slice of air separating you as his own. The firm length prodding you surged against the pleats of your skirt with a cowardly roll of his hips. Testing the feel of you. Introducing his urges to yours, and hating that he had to stop there. "You should leave."
He wound his fingers in your skirt above your thigh, refusing to let go of the fabric. Let go of you. The stubble on his cheek stabbed the sensitive skin of your face as he bowed his head to speak directly into your ear, "Go." Heavy as the burdens he endured, he let your skirt slip free of his grasp. His arm hung limp at his side.
You were being dismissed from him.
Though he vocalized as much, he left you little room to do so. Your body was overtaken by his. Trapped due to his inability to surrender to his vices, nor give them up completely.
You wiggled out from under his looming presence, flourishing in the flattery of his sharp inhale and groan when you lurched your hips to drag along him, savoring the unmistakable sensation of your professor's cock following your lead.
How insulting. Nothing would break this man. And it was another knife to your inflated ego.
You climbed the stairs in a rush, laid your hand on the handle. The cold metal seared into your hot palm, dissipating rapidly from his warmth. The chill seeped through your skin, mocking your affinity for him, erasing the weight of his chest pressed against yours from your memory.
Maybe it was better that way.
Surely ripe for punishment, you glanced over your shoulder. One last look before the winter break. A last impression of what you meant to him. Would he wave? Tell you to lock the door? Wish you a happy holiday?
Professor Uchiha was at his desk. Standing in the same position as before, slightly altered. His lush black hair hid his face from observation. Hands curled into fists, arms like pillars keeping him from collapsing completely as his shoulders hunched further.
Utterly destitute.
Good.
You twisted the handle.
He didn't move. Didn't address you. Didn't explain, apologize, nor act in the ways you hoped.
He denied you.
You clicked the lock and left.
~~~
The grandiose holiday gave way to the lukewarm reception of classes resuming to an all out stomach churning response to his lectures. You stopped arriving early, Professor Uchiha stopped asking for you to stay late. You stopped speaking up in class, Professor Uchiha repressed any compulsion to interact with you. You ignored him, he ignored you.
A wonderful arrangement that lasted all of two weeks before one of you broke. He allowed his eyes to wander over your frame as you entered his room on the day he handed back graded papers and you found yourself packing away your things slowly after everyone had left.
In your time apart, he graduated from grumpy teacher to full on curmudgeon--scaring off students in record time with a single glare from behind his disorganized desk--but the giant red F bleeding into the crevices of your paper just wouldn't do.
"..So, in conclusion," you ranted, circling two points on the board until the poor stick of chalk in your tight grip chipped to a stub, "I believe my interpretation is perfectly logical and that you, my astute Professor, could make an exception and bend the rules just the tiniest amount and raise my grade to a C, at the very least, as I deserve."
You faced him for the first time since you sauntered up to his chalkboard. It was a good sign he didn't immediately ask you to leave, but his only contributions to your conversation were in the forms of hums of disapproval or one word rejections. So, when you turned to him and he beamed his usual impish grin, legs straight out and crossed at the ankle, sleeves rolled up and arms tucked behind his head as he swiveled in his chair; you were unnerved, but grateful.
Silence fell thick between you. His eyes went unfocused, considering something in his head. You dawdled at the board, scrutinizing your points, seeking counter arguments for anything he may throw at you. Anything to get your mind off the way his gaze rendered you to the very nerves that summoned the gumption to wear your shortest skirt this morning after two weeks of jeans.
Professor Uchiha cocked his head. The silence broke. "I'll bend the rules if you bend over my desk."
Boldfaced shock slackened your jaw. "What?"
"It's what I deserve," he asserted, using your choice of words. "It's only fair." He jerked his chin twice at his desk, smirk pulling taut at his lips. "Bend over it and I'll consider changing your grade."
You hesitated. Face lashed with visible uncertainty. Tension as palpable as morning fog sticking to your skin. A gulp in your throat booming loud in the two feet that kept you from falling into his lap.
"Bend over your desk," you repeated in a monotone voice. Somewhat composed on the outside, but head swimming in amusement, proving difficult to keep a shimmy out of your shoulders when you clinked the chalk on the metal tray.
You didn't believe this man for a second.
Your shoes clacked on the wood paneled floor leading to his oak desk, rapping your knuckles on it. Knocking on it the same way you should be on your skull to check where your brain cells had gone off to. Professor Uchiha never made advances. Never followed through with yours. What could have changed?
You slid your pupils to him. He remained statuesque. Watching you, rapt. You tilted your head, pitched your voice in light innocence, "Going to give me a D, sir?"
"Stop talking and find out," he said, invoking your compliance in his deep rasp.
His threats were all bark, no bite. Not until he made certain of them. Wastes of air on paltry promises. But surely, once you obeyed him, he would not be able to resist. Please, God, don't resist. You needed to be fucked by him.
You pivoted. Spread your feet. Lined your hips with the edge of his desk and leaned until your fingertips made contact and your clammy palms arched like suction cups on the surface of his well made, durable desk.
Scratches and divots in the wood grain tickled your fingertips as you dropped your chest. Hard nipples excited by the cool veneer gliding along your thin blouse and unpadded bra. Your hamstrings woke up, stretching gaily from their long nap. At the end, you crossed your arms and rested your chin on your forearms. Getting comfortable. A sharp right angle bent over his desk.
"Going to spank me with a ruler?" Shuffling alerted you to Professor Uchiha sitting up in his chair; the menacing rubbing of his calloused palms together drew nearer and nearer. His warm sigh blew on the back of your legs.
"After you've teased my cock for months on end?" He ran his knuckles over the goosebumps on your thigh with one hand, unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly with the other. "Not a chance in hell I'd stop there."
Professor Uchiha dove his hand into his pants. Grasped his swollen lust determined to be released over his boxer briefs. Not now. Not yet. He had to ravish your first.
His hands cascaded up, groping your ass. One cheek in each. Giving them a hard squeeze and laughing at your pitiful whine. "Sweetheart," he said hoarsely, "you'll have to stay quiet if you want to have fun." He reared his left hand back and smacked. You muffled your cry. His right slapped ripples in your soft flesh.
"Mmph!" At least he had the decency to hush the tears sparkling the corner of your eyes by following them up with a gentle caress.
Rolling his chair up to you, his knees inserted themselves between yours and your need was about even with his face. His breath graced your stinging skin. A shy touch of his lips on the sore spots as an apology. And yet, he raised his hand and spanked you again. Harder. Echoing in the empty room along with your cry.
"Professor!" The motion flung you forward, dragging your nipples over the rough texture of his askance mousepad. Knocking over his mug of pens. Arching your hips. Exhilarating sensations tingling from the top of your head to your curled toes.
"Shh." His useless shushing lasted all but seconds until his puckered lips relaxed, then curled wickedly. He clamped down. Teeth, nails. Fingers digging for purchase. Canines bruising.
His hands roamed where they wanted. The front of your thighs up to the point of the desk impeding him, massaging the tight muscles responding to his dire affection. Climbing your legs to cup your cheeks and bring them to his mouth for more lovebites. Tasting. All the while running his thumb along the length of your white cotton panties. Prying your thighs apart, smashing them together. Coaxing your pussy to swallow the fabric in response to his kneading.
You had grappled the edge of the desk to anchor yourself there nice and steady while he had his way. His excruciating, aggravating slow way.
"You want my lips somewhere else, babe?" he asked after you huffed a wordless complaint and swayed your hips, not at all subtle in your longing to have his mouth on your wet heat. "Need your professor's tongue to treat you well after failing your assignment?"
What a cruel man to fan flames of embarrassment to your already burning, panting state; bent over his desk and begging him to finally fuck you after he had the audacity to roll up his sleeves and taunt you with his obvious massive erection casting a mouth-watering shadow across his lap.
"Please."
Your shaky utterance of that single word evoked something within him.
Quivering lips pressed to the arousal soaked cotton. Tender. Grazing but a moderate kiss over the fabric that riled his cock. Concealing what he coveted most.
Professor Uchiha's teeming excitement exhibited itself in the way he kissed your cunt. Controlled kisses waning sloppy with the use of his tongue. Short flicks at first. Darting over his lips. Then full licks up your slit, tracing the outline and nudging the fabric stiffer over your bundle of nerves the more he opened his mouth and introduced you to his skill. His nose to your entrance and his tongue exploring down, down, down the slope, over the curve in pursuit of the reason you moaned his title so sultry and feebly it sent a throb from his balls to leak from his cock.
"Professor," you sighed, fingernails denting semicircles in the underside of the polished edge of his desk. Rising to your tippy toes in order to elevated your hips and grant him access to feast where he desired.
And hungry he was. Starving. Weeks, months, years without a good meal to satisfy his cravings.
The tip of his tongue traced the bump of your clit held prisoner by your panties. Caged, locked away from him. He sealed his plush, full lips to it, gathered you in his mouth full of thick saliva, and suckled. The gratification was immediate. Your thighs clenched around his face. You shoved backwards in desperation. Stomped your foot. Your too-loud moan traveled down your spine to the deep hum vibrating from his throat to your clit.
When he spoke, he carefully enunciated each word, projected the plosive P's. "Poor girl," he jested, words muttered on your swollen need. "Can't handle a few minutes of teasing after you've done the same to me? Pleading for my cock. Prancing around here begging for me to fuck you."
A single finger slipped under your twisted panties. You went pliant.
"Bad girl," he moaned, shoving them to the side.
"Bad girl," he lauded, wheezing at your beautiful display of wanton lust glistening for him.
"Bad girl," he praised with conviction, spanking your ass so hard your vision went cross and vestiges of stars danced in the foreground of the rows of tables and chairs.
"Fuck!" you groaned to the back of your hand, quieting yourself.
He performed a full body roll from his jutting cock to his supple tongue fawning over your clit up to savor your arousal, planting harsh kisses where he saw fit. Ragged breaths sending chills to the warmest intimacies of your body, gone vulnerable in his craze.
Your pussy was free from its cage.
He let himself go.
His arms weighed heavily on the dip of your back, hands rubbing soothing circles while he flexed his biceps; capturing you in his vise, hiking you hips, tilting them further. Ensuring your quaking thighs could no longer jerk you away from his benevolent mouth. He waited too long for this. Agonized as the seasons morphed and you reaped the benefits of his undivided attention. Took advantage of his fondness, only to deprive him of it when, at last, he almost gave in to his sins. He was so close. So close to taking you then. But he didn't. And you made him pay dearly for it.
Now you had to endure his consequences.
The precious resource of his erudite tongue honed in on your undressed clit. Twitching the tip over it. Smoothing the whole muscle to cherish it. Pausing to swoon at what you spilled for him, lapping it up, and returning at once to adore you in kisses and sucking until you were gasping, writhing, squirming from his talent. Legs shaking past the point of holding your weight. Humid huffs panting over the wood desk where your cheek stuck to it.
You mustered what little voice you had left to stutter out a sigh of, "Sir."
At your brink, he stopped.
Professor Uchiha commended you with an everlasting blissful lick before tormenting you in suspense, stopping just short of your peak, and instead offering you a lazy kiss as he adjusted his chair and pushed himself away--then crashed his knees into the hinge of yours, forcing you to flounder and fall into his lap.
His sudden switch in activities foretold his plan. You had a very long night ahead.
Orgasm delayed, you tried to tense your thighs to give yourself some scant amount of pleasure, enough to build the waves of impending release again, but his legs between yours was not an accident. His dark chuckle in your ear told you as much. He designed this from the start.
He nipped at your neck, heartbeat pounding pulses to your clit. "Does your professor's cock feel good?"
You forced your focus from his overbearing hands ripping the buttons from your blouse and the palm curving over your mound to pull you along his robust length situated between your ass; the heel of his palm shaping just over where you wanted it most. His briefs stole your fluids that belonged to him, acting as a barrier from entry as he grinded you up and down, pussy lips straddling his cock.
"So good." You dropped your head to his shoulder and kissed his strong jaw, both of you battling for control in moving hips and greedy lips. "I love my professor's cock. It feels so fucking good." You ground on his length, tipping your hips at the end to send his palm over your clit, arching to his fingers prodding under your bra. It spurred you on. You picked up speed. Delivered sultry gasps and moans to his neck. "It's so big, Professor, please fill me. I need it." You pouted your bottom lip and kissed the side of his sly mouth. "I've been bad. Punish me."
"Oh, I'll punish you-"
knock
Knock
KNOCK
"Under the desk." He ushered you with a slap on your thigh like an unruly animal he had to herd, and damn you for liking it.
Like a leaf caught in a raging stream, you slid from his bouncing legs and landed on your knees. Crawling into the darkness obscured by the wood panel on his desk and spinning around to look up at his approving smile, provoking a matching one to carve your lips as you shared a bubbling chortle escalating into a smothered roguish laugh.
"Shh!" He held his finger to his lips, shoulders jerking, suppressing the child-like devilry taking over his body seeing you down there. In the pause between another thump on his door he rolled his chair in and you backed up, giving him room to open his legs around your body. Before he averted his eyes to the door, they beheld you in a promise: this interruption would be short lived. A brief respite. Then he'd make it up to you.
"Come in."
The words reverberated off the enclosure of your hiding spot. Rang in your ears. The door knob squeaked. Turned downward. He sat flush with the desk, securing himself to the edge and blocking his lap from view in a large shadow.
How often did he sit like this while in class, hardly able to contain his erection from witnesses? You couldn't keep the noise from escaping; you pressed your lips together and exhaled faintly through your nose, but he heard your moan.
He heard your disobedience and reprimanded you.
Professor Uchiha ordered you to be quiet once more by pinching your bottom lip between his thumb and index; his thick fingers sparking the most sensuous harm to your mouth--the same as he did to your hurting ass. Pleased by your mute respect, he let go after turning your fiery blood to ice in your numb lip and settled his large palm on his thigh. Trousers struggling to bear constricting muscles and briefs tenting a cock featured most prominently in your eyeline.
The door clicked open. Swung.
His body slumped. Though you couldn't see why, his sudden change in mood resulted in his frame curling in, and his wonderful, painful hand with fingers you were seconds from sucking on abandoned his thigh to lean on his forearms and stare down the one who invaded his privacy.
Leisure footsteps descended this stairs.
He grabbed a pen from his top-heavy mug that spilled at the slightest bump and expelled energy by removing, replacing the cap. Clicking the end again and again.
Whoever it was, whatever they were here for; it affected your professor. Going from energetic and lively--if not unabashedly horny--to exhausted and hosting a quiet growl of misery when the trespasser ruined his self-indulgence one step at a time.
He needed to be consoled, and you knew the best way how.
You settled into position, knees spread, and you wrapped your hands around his ankles. He shifted at first, wondering what you were up to, but relaxed when you started massaging up his legs. Hard caresses of your thumb into his calves. Squeezing your fingers. Watching the tension seep from his body; the weight pulling his chest concave lifting as time went on and you tended to him.
"You left your copy of the paperwork on my kitchen table."
Deflated.
Stomach dropped.
Professor Uchiha clicked the pen. My table, he sneered.
The voice belonged to a woman.
Her table.
He left something at a woman's house?
You cupped his calf and brought his knee in, favoring it in many kisses. Quick pecks turned to gradual open mouthed hushed touches of your lips on his trousers. Claiming him. He responded to your affections. He filled his chest with fortitude and plunged his hand under the desk, blanketing yours which was rubbing along his firm thigh.
"It's important," she chastised. "Might want to keep track of it?" She landed in front of his desk. Feet from the sweat rolling down your back.
You kissed your professor's inner thigh, using teeth when necessary to divert more of his focus to you; accumulate all of his attention and hoard it like a shiny treasure. This woman didn't deserve it. When you spoke to him that way it was in jest and he reacted in a lighthearted way. When this woman berated him in her nasally voice, it was to put him down.
His fingers swept over yours. His thumb slotted itself to your palm, infusing an otherworldly calmness into your temperament. Holding your hand when he was facing a point of contention in his life.
"Why're you even here?" Disgust erupted from the pit of his diaphragm. "I gave you your keys weeks ago."
Something was tossed onto the desk above your head.
Professor Uchiha's hand left yours. Cold and lonely. Then scalding hot with desire when he pried your loving strokes from his thigh and guided your deft fingers to his lap. To the opening of his trousers, folded over and peeled away to reveal his greatest gift.
He enclosed your fingers over it. Tapped once. You understood.
"And you should've taken it with you then. I found it in the mess you left behind under a stack of schoolwork dated from last year. I shouldn't be surprised you're so disorganized after all this time, but you still manage to amaze me. I mean, just look at your desk."
Eavesdropping shouldn't excite you like this, but the sheer magnitude of pressing a gentle kiss to his tip over his briefs and watching his stomach jump, and draining the insecurity from his meek voice was its own unique reward. Especially when you just started and already, those strong hands of his were grasping his thighs in effort to stay collected under the woman's narrowed eye scrutiny.
Stuffing your mouth, gorging, a total glutton for his covered length, you stretched your lips over his girth and sucked on his tip. Cradling the underside and praising it in delicate rolls from the back of your tongue, drawing back to drench his head in you and him--tasting his precum and swallowing to hoard it as well with his focus and attention.
"Rin," he exhaled; a grand undertaking to make it sound bored and not at all like he was seconds from moaning his student's name, "unless you have something important to say, leave."
You wound your hand around the opening of his briefs and unveiled your present.
He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet to cover the jangle of his belt buckle falling to the side.
His cock. His glorious cock with its leaking reddened tip and impressive size tempted you as much as it daunted you. Warming him up to your humble tongue, you lapped the precum cultivated just for you to enjoy and honored him with a silent kiss before delving in. Wetting your lips. Stretching them over him. Slowly. In no rush to have your hollowed cheeks break suction and bring the wrong kind of attention upon yourself.
It was difficult enough as is swallowing more than the first three inches. You wanted it all. To slather him in appreciation. Not to admit defeat and pump your hand the rest of what your mouth couldn't handle without risking a moan of pure euphoria when he twitched, filling you whole.
"Are you ever going to explain yourself? Apologize to me?"
"You were the one who decided this in the first place. I have nothing else to volunteer, nor disclose."
She shifted her weight. Bounced her heel. Clack, clack, clack on the floor.
Professor Uchiha scooted to the edge of his seat, shoving his hips forward. It was a true miracle you didn't gag on him and blow your cover then and there, but by the glory of his thumb sweeping over your sunken cheek you unhinged your jaw and accepted his tip at the back of your throat with all the patience of a Saint.
"You should leave," he said, scribbling nonsensical shapes on the important document in front of him. "I'm a busy man, as you know."
"Oh, I'm sure. Always here. Never home." She tutted, whirling around to the direction she entered from, briskly crossing a few steps before stopping at the stairs. "Bye." A tremor of hope laced her voice. He eviscerated it.
"Bye." He flapped his hand in a childish wave, doing his best to keep the smugness from coming through, and failing. If she heard it, she ignored it and climbed the stairs for the door.
Professor Uchiha's thumb dug into your cheek, his index on the otherwise prodded into your gums. Cupping your jaw. Cranking your mouth open to his whims. Using it as leverage to abide by his wish. Gaping, welcoming his untamed urge to relieve him of the stress this woman caused.
Her footsteps faded.
He became brave. Overcome in the moment to challenge her in an unknown race. Your mouth versus her stride.
Rutting like an animal, micro-thrusts of his pelvis at the edge of his chair. Quickening the pace the further she walked away from him and his life. He released his iron grip on your mouth and combed his fingers through your hair, ensnaring the sensitive strands above your nape.
His heaving chest should've been a warning.
"Mm!"
He shoved you down his cock. Driving you to the point where your hand stroking him in tandem was useless, instead using it to fist his trousers in your frightful clutches. You couldn't hold back anymore.
You moaned. Cried, even. Tears building at the dam of your eyelashes.
"Lock the door on your way out," he called to the woman.
She did as she was told. Depressed the lock. Clicked it shut behind her without a follow up question as to what caused the masturbatory gestures of his arm under his desk, what the sounds were of you choking on his cock, nor the high flush on his cheeks.
Professor Uchiha rolled his chair back and you followed his lead, stumbling forward on aching knees. Forever attached to his perfect cock.
He slouched, lulled his head to the side. Observing your face buried in his lap, your wet eyes meeting his. His kind hands brushing your hair out of your way with a sympathetic graze of his thumb on your temple while his other hand wiped away your tears. Guiding your head up and down, bobbing on his grand length, tongue pacifying his haughty nature after his spat with the woman. She was gone and you worked your charm on him.
"Such a naughty girl." You locked gazes; his prideful and yours agreeingly submissive. "That was fun."
Eager and vicious, you sucked from base to tip, swirled your tongue over his throbbing head and placed a kiss on the very tip, smearing his precum on your lips. Something that spoke to the primal best within him judging by the way he squirmed in his seat and his pupils bloomed black. Breathing heavy but silent.
"I love your cock so much, Professor, I've wanted you to fuck me with it for so long." You laid his cock on your face so you could kiss the thick vein buzzing against your lips while begging, eyebrows pinched and overstating your pout by clasping your hands to your lap to prop up your cleavage. "Please fuck me with it."
He pulled you up by your chin, doubling over at his waist to close the rest of the distance between you. He lifted your skirt, groped your ass, slid his palm over it, fingers exploring further to your sopping wet cunt, earnest in its need to be punished.
Two fingers slipped in. He tasted the sweat on your neck. Stretched you with a third. "You sure you're ready for more, sweetheart?" he asked once he met resistance.
"I've been ready."
His gruff voice, steeped in want, ordered you, "Then, bend over my desk."
"Yes, sir."
Returning to the position you were in before you were so rudely interrupted, you flattened your chest to his desk, wiggling your tantalizing ass at him. He wrested his cock from his briefs and shoved all fabric away from hampering him and threw his tie over his shoulder. Skirt flipped to expose you, his rough hands ran over your curves, eyes drifted in their stead, admiring how you offered yourself up so willingly. And how you crumbled under the tease of his thumb gliding the length of your needy cunt. He placated you in slippery circles over your clit craving the friction you deserved after servicing his cock.
Tempting each other to the edge of relief, but never letting them fall.
"I'll be taking these." He gave you no pause to guess what he was referring to. Your panties tugged over your round ass and fell to your ankles where you stepped out of them and they were safely tucked away in the top drawer of his desk.
"Fuck, babe," Professor Uchiha groaned the compliment. His raging hot cock nestled along your entrance. Clapping your cheeks to enclose it there. Dragging your hips, rolling his. Slow, sensual. Relishing the connection, the bond of his cock and your enthusiasm; no longer settling for his hands with a bit of lotion.
Your mouth, your hands, your pussy. All crafted for his pleasure.
He should be commended for his ability to not bust with you giving him a blow job under his desk earlier. He should be exalted for not cumming on your back like he was near to do with just a few more unruly thrusts-
Whilst he was busy dwelling on the topic of Edging versus Self-Imposed Torture, you couldn't help but notice the manila folder stuck under your boobs. White papers fanning out over the top. Racing your heart. Shouting at you to peep, take a gander. Who was that woman and what was she here for? You peeled back the edge of the folder.
Professor Uchiha panted out a string of tangled cherry picked syllables to arrange between the jumbled consonants spilling out and punctuated them with a moan of your name. "So fucking- So fucking good. You feel so fucking good."
Cock lubed so slick it slipped down your cheeks, his tip prodded your entrance. A silent plea to allow him to fuck you. To come. Finally. Please let him come.
"You're fucking me on your divorce papers?" you snorted. "That was your ex-wife?"
Scalp tingling. Hair snatched in his mighty grip. Cunt throbbing. Receiving but only half of him. Muscles frozen. Carved to accommodate him.
He pressed his chest to your back and shoved the file, flinging it to the floor. Raining white sheets of paper, scattered. Pens, clattered. Metal paper clips, pattered. His carnal heat warming your chilled skin was all that mattered.
Again, your jaw belonged to him. Your mouth? His. The drool pooling over the edge of your bottom lip? Also his. Your moan when he pitched his hips, slapping them to your ass, mouth gaped in surprise? Most definitely his.
His smirk blurred before your half-lidded eyes--stinging from the initial thrust of his cock. "Knew you couldn't handle me; I'm not even in all the way," he rasped in your ear, grazing his teeth over your pulse. Kissed you gently from ear to chin. Removed his hand-muzzle to place his lips at the junction of yours, forehead pressed to temple, eyes soft, but intense. "You've been a naughty girl, going through your professor's belongings," he murmured. "You need to be taught a lesson."
The world spun on its axis.
Empty between the thighs. Back on something solid. Legs stuck up in the air and being manipulated not of your own accord. Disoriented, you willed the yourself to zero in on his face: wild, erotic, and so blatantly aroused at your captivated self, legs wide open, and addicted to his touch.
He loomed between your legs encircling his waist. A tower of suspense reached the end of its rope, snapped. His cock a pillar of pent up urges leading to the end of his marriage.
And you and your soft body. Laying under him. Yearning for him to use it, ruin it, and have you coming back for more. Someone who wanted him as he was. Who returned his passion. Returned the new-relationship lust he so missed; starting something new and preserving the flames, not letting them snuff out, leaving him bereft, alone in the dark.
Your eyes were shining, longing, staring up at him. Subdued, he watched you want him more.
One by one, you unbuttoned the rest of your blouse. Finishing the job meticulously and pointlessly, considering the rest of the buttons were ripped off and lost to the shadows on the floor. The shirt fell away in stark halves. Shameless naked skin. Chest rising, stomach falling. Rolling onto your elbows to unclasp your bra.
Shirt and bra thrown to the litter of paper, pens, and metal paper clips, and your face heated under his adoring gaze, flattered.
Professor Uchiha's thumb worked itself in consoling swipes on the curvature of your thigh to ass. Perhaps as an apology for pulling your hair. Perhaps communicating that this moment meant more to him than he let you believe. Perhaps to stall for time so this wasn't over in a matter of seconds.
You waited.
His unwavering gaze took you in piece by piece. Observing features previously hidden, though he felt like he knew them by heart from your promiscuous photos. Now he could study his favorite subject in all its glory. Memorize the dip above your clavicle until he could stand it no longer and switch to fathoming the contours flowing from your breasts, down your stomach, over your bunched skirt, and to his hand lurking near the sharp peak of your sex kissing his.
He etched you in his mind palace for the future.
Goosebumps skittered in the wake of his docile trail over your pelvis. Eventually, he woke from his reverie and became aware of your thinning patience, and the ever present Siren's song of your tits calling to him. A striking downfall.
"Going to stand there and drool over me, or are you going to fuck me?" You grinned, an eyebrow raised in a challenge. "I thought you were hellbent on punishing me, Sir."
Fuck your tits. He could have you contorting under the pleasure of his tongue any other day. Tonight was about him. And about you paying him back for all the favors you owed him.
Vengeful hands guided their way up your writhing body, fitting sensitive areas to his palms. Chasing the heady high he evoked in the simplest brushes of skin on skin contact. Your body opened up, greeted his, arms embracing him. Hands grasping. Fingernails tracing his spine to cradle the back of his head to your neck.
He drew his hips back. Cock sliding over your clit to rest the lipped edge of his tip perfectly where you requested. Thighs squeezing around his middle. Back arched. Hard nipples on his wrinkled work shirt.
"Sweetheart." He petted your hair away from your face with a trembling hand, licking his lips, a rush of recklessness overcoming him. "I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll get straight A's for the rest of the year."
He kissed your cheek. Maybe an apology. Maybe something more. Maybe to give you a dose of wide-eyed preparation before reality split you in half.
"Fuck!" you cursed him, all muscles seizing onto the man who wrecked you like a spiteful God. Expelling expletives, you gasped at his evil, smitten laugh shaking your core so violently. "Professor," you whined.
He bottomed out. One powerful pound of his hips to your pillowy ass. The desk drawer rattled. The computer monitor swayed ominously. His tie swung from his shoulder in the sudden exertion. He threw it back flippantly.
This was his everything. His shaft hugged you. His tip leaked to your very depths. Sore cunt stretched to its limits.
"Call me by my first name when you're under me."
There it was; that dangerous edge of gleaming tenderness in his gaze beholding you in the threat of his command. How dare he press a kiss to your temple like a lover when you were wrought with pain.
"Obito." The feral moan after you whispered his name transferred from his chest to yours, mingled in the knot of nerves in your belly.
"Obito," you repeated, more confident. "I've been craving your cock. Show me why that's a bad thing. Show me why I'm a bad student for seducing her teacher for gain."
He used his strained muscles to push himself off you. Laggard, prolonging the magnificent sensation of your fingers latching themselves in his hair, tugging it. But they fell away. Dropped your hold on him, your arms to the desk, like fine silk amongst trash he should've tossed ages ago. You surrendered to him. He rolled from his forearms to his hands on either side of you, flexing under the duress of not moving his lower half. Steeling the primal voice in his head that shouted at him to take it all. Take it now. Fast. Hard!
Soon, he would, soon. But he had more foreplay in store.
Insatiable fingers skimmed the peach fuzz standing erect on your ribs, up to your breasts. Walking each digit to the spot you hypnotized him with on days he forgot to turn on the heater during the winter, or on Fridays when you forgot to wear a bra and knew you bombed your exam.
He traced your nipple. One finger, two. Pinched it lightly. Pinched in harder. Fluttered his eyelids closed at the way you struggled to clench around his cock.
His other immoral hand sought lower. One finger, two. Rubbed down your clit, up. Side to side. Circles. Whatever the fuck made you squirm. Tense your thighs painfully tight. Clutch the air straight from his lungs. Open his eyes. Massage your inner muscles along his swollen cockhead.
Both of you too far, not far enough. On the precipice. Toes hanging off the cliff side. Not jumping.
"You're enjoying this?" His hoarse voice cut through your moans. Breaths twisted in the space between you in their own heated tango.
"Yes, God, yes!"
He watched you. Head tilted to the side. Face neutral. Flushed pink from his cheeks to under his collar. "Hm."
He retreated his hips, unsheathed his glistening tip, admired how wet it was with your want, and rammed it in; shivering in the near-orgasmic haze of your gasp of his name. Once, twice. Unyielding to the water in your eyes. Finding it adorable how your fingers hooked around his like a tourniquet, not used to accommodating his size.
Water leaked from your eyes, his tip. It slicked your palm, a sheen on your forehead.
Obito cranked his head back one pant at a time; the ceiling being the last thing he saw through the black curls of his lashes. Relentless thrusts burned the smouldering coals in his core. Long has it been since he experienced this fire with another person. One who lusted for him so obviously. Each smack of skin on skin and slip of his cock welcomed by your warm cunt reminded him of what he so thoroughly missed: Contact. A bond. Fulfillment.
When you opened your palm he inserted his fingers, lacing them with yours. Easy. Automatic.
Intimate.
He opened his eyes. Looked down.
His rhythm skipped a beat.
Attentive eyes beamed up at him; bright with passion, yet half-closed in ecstasy. Plump lips spouted encouragement to go faster, go slower, whatever the bundle of nerves stuck under his fingers ordered in between moans of his name and cries of pain-mixed-pleasure. Only now did it occur to him that he stopped rubbing your clit altogether--the drastic diminish of blood supply to his brain was affecting him.
It was hard to admit, but as much as he wanted this to be about him enacting a fantasy you wove for him since the start of school, to use you like an object to get off to before returning to your roles of student and teacher, the arching of your back and tightening on his hand holding yours swept him up into a whole host of confusing emotions he didn't have time to comprehend.
It was all so appealing. And unattainable. Inappropriate.
His eyelids fell to slits, sure that your bouncing tits at his punishing pace would be enough to come while drowning out those pesky feelings. He increased his speed. Pressed his fingertips to your clit. Let the vigor of his pounding send them coasting over it.
Every buck of his hips sent the desk moving. Rocking items in the wake of his eagerness. Each one a witness to a teacher fucking his student because she owed him.
Black landscape. Eyes screwed shut. Only the sound of his guttural panting and your high-pitched moan-whines.
And his tie choking him.
And his shirt going tight.
And his torso being hurled forward.
He faced his reality inches from your nose.
His tie was snatched in your grasp. Your calves clamped over his hunk of ass, shoving his length to your pussy. Grinding on his cock. Rolling your hips in time with his now that you shocked him to a slower tempo. Much slower.. Physically close, mentally vulnerable. Your chest was curled to his, using his weight as a counterbalance to ride him though he was the one in the dominant position.
Names held power. You moaned his so freely and he uttered yours in full-body shudders.
His fingers said it in how they massaged your clit. His hand said it in how significant yours fit to it. His cock said it in a twitch against the place he wished to revisist over and over again. His muscles said it in how they held his orgasm ransom, not letting loose until he fell victim to the darkest reaches of his heart.
And he said it especially loud when his lips landed on yours.
Shouted it, even, when your back collided with the desk and he followed suit, possessive over your mouth; absolutely enthralled with the knowledge of what your lips felt like parting for his cock and, more recently, his tongue.
Your joined hands crashed to the solid oak, slid them up to your wild spread of hair. Jutting elbows set off a chaotic series of toppling folders, knocking the mouse over the edge, shoving the keyboard, leveling a stack of index cards, tumbling the mug of pens to an early grave, shattered.
Excruciating sprints of thrusts turned short and sloppy. And sweet. Your swollen clit was caressed in quick strokes. His thumb swept the glimmering trail where a tear journeyed from the corner of your eye to your hairline in a jagged line. Kisses became too burdensome on your lungs. Alternating between open mouth pants and held breath reserved for when you made eye contact.
You had let go of his tie. You had let go of his tie to cup his cheek slashed with scars from an accident in his youth. You held him there and slipped out a moan of his name while staring lovingly at him.
"Obito," you sighed. "I'm almost-" You were interrupted by a jerk of his hips to change the angle, allowing him more room to swirl his fingers. "Ah! Oh, fuck, Prof- Obito!" He tried harder. He tried faster. Your head lulled to the side and he nuzzled. No teeth. No marking. No punishment. Just a simple rub of the bridge of his nose along your jaw.
You tensed around his fingers. Inner thighs quivered against his waist.
"Come for me," he pleaded. He was at your mercy. Everything in your vicinity was up for grabs. You clung to him, his hair, the mousepad. Curved your body to his. Captured him. Consumed him. Stuffed his knuckles in your mouth, ran your tongue over them, drying the trail of spit with huffs of breath praising him.
"Haa- Mmm!" You shook. Unfurled. Unraveled.
"Good girl," he mumbled into the crook of your neck.
He guided you through the convulsions. Brought his hand from between your legs and cradled your head, rocked you back and forth as your limbs regained consciousness and the pulses in your cunt milked the last of his anticipation.
"Hold onto me, babe." You followed his instructions; clasping his shoulder with the hand previously yanking at his scalp. Your other hand was still taken by his, his thumb ever vigilant in its conquest to stroke any part he could reach beside your face. He placed a firm hand on your hip, planting it there to keep you still.
You kissed his temple. All you could muster seeing as his face was confined to its hiding spot where it could escape the raw defenselessness of his gaze that showed all.
He picked his head up.
Looked you in the eye.
You gave a curt nod signaling you were ready for the horizontal dance he had in store. He offered a lopsided grin telling you he couldn't last for another song.
It began in quick steps; brisk slaps of his hips, short strides to the finish line. Your ebbing orgasm squeezed him in sporadic pulses. Cheering him on. Smiling at him. From under him.
Steps developed to loping leaps, bounding canters of his cock dragging along your walls, base to throbbing head. He leaned on you for support. His forehead on yours. Nose nudging yours. Lips a hairsbreadth apart.
You endured the mad dash to his climax. Gushing on his cock. His name on your lips. His lips hovering above yours. His eyes invoking more than lust.
Sweat dampened his shirt. The desk scraped the floor. Something clanged in the drawer. The monitor tipped.
Obito caught it from crashing to the floor without taking his eyes off you. To do so, he let go of the hand he was using to hold yours. The monitor was placed safely on the desk. His hand was free. So was yours. Your wide eyes flashed in non-verbal communication, agreeing on the same thing.
Desperately, you confined the other's face. Tracing, stroking, outlining scars, petting messy hair away, rubbing, caressing, and kissing. Oh God, so much kissing. Frenzied, unrestrained kisses. Disorderly, imperfect kisses where your mouths hardly aligned. Passionate, caring kisses fueled by moans.
A hard thrust. Another kiss. A short pump. He took your bottom lip in between his. Rutted his cockhead deep. Ran his tongue over the bruised flesh. Rolled his hips upward. Bit your lip as the sweet spot hugging his cock clenched.
"Ow."
"Sorry-" he panted.
One last plunge. Buried there to pour his soul. Spill his secrets.
Spasming muscles weakened his knees. Tightness relieved itself from his core. The thick vein throbbed as it filled you with cum. His cock had never been happier.
"Babe," he whined. He closed the gap of inappropriate yearning keeping your lips from one another. You hummed an affirmation, gripping him in all the right places.
For not the first time, he could truly convince himself this was an act between two people without unfair implications. Not a favor done unto him. Not him failing to upkeep his morals as a teacher. Just two people having sex and being able to kiss during the height of it without emotional strings attached.
Laying there for some time, his kisses drifted to your chin, your neck. His hands crafted intricate patterns kneading themselves on your thighs, cupping your legs and stripping their warmth away. You remained draped over his desk like his tie of your naked chest. Lower bodies joined. Nothing wanting to part your faces further than your lips could reach. Still, you had studying to do. Sleep to catch. And he had an apartment that was in need of unpacking.
Regretfully, he pulled back his hips knowing he wasn't going to use the momentum to push his spent cock back in.
He grasped your hands to lift you up and you grimaced. "As soon as I sit up everything will come out of me. Where's my underwear?"
"Hm," he drew out the sound and feigned a search. "Who knows."
Your glare seared the side of his face very obviously not looking at you. "Sure, right. I guess I'll just freakin' waddle."
"I'll walk you to your dorm."
You returned to your role of sassy student who got on his nerves. Obito, however, had trouble submitting to his. The kiss you shared at the end felt so right. So perfect. Validating how he felt when you spent time together, manifesting from an emotional to a physical connection. And all the harm it would cause the both of you if someone found out.
Difficult as it were, you put on a mask for him and denied your feelings before he could sense them.
"Oh, thanks. What a gentleman." You made the effort to roll your eyes and hop off the desk using his help. A profound groan exhaled your nose in a mighty gust at the inevitable slicking your thighs.
Yet his hands remained holding yours, a playful smile ticking at the corner of his lips. And you tried so hard not to read into it.
"I should, uh.." He gestured to his pants and briefs around his ankles, but his words died out in a horrified survey of his desk and the floor in front of it. He let go of you to simultaneously pull his trousers up and reel in his keyboard and mouse you so expertly plugged in for him the other month. "This place is a mess."
"Yup," you agreed. You waddled around the desk at the sound of his zipper and jangle of his belt buckle going secure around his waist. He grumbled, checked his watch and you couldn't stop the offer before it left your tongue, tumbling out like your heap of discarded clothing on the floor, "I can come in early tomorrow and help you clean up. If you want to go home now, I mean. Or I can help you now. Uh-"
"You don't have to do favors like that for me anymore. We don't.. We don't have to do this again. I'll just fix your grades, and-"
It was your turn to cut him off, avoiding his nervous stare and wringing of his hand on the back of his neck. You distracted yourself by putting your bra on. "You don't have to give me A's. I know it'll look suspicious. I'll just.. write better papers."
You both sighed at the ceiling. This whole arrangement was a bad idea.
Obito hated himself, as he should have. It had been years since his ex-wife gave him the time of day for sex. Much less the allowance to please her, give her an orgasm. She found excuses to reject him. He found excuses to stay late at work. She found reasons to text other men. He found reasons to leave the house early.
Done with admonishing your recent awkwardness around your professor, you went to pick up your blouse, but there he was holding it out for you. In silence, you thanked him and dressed yourself. Feet shuffling. Fingers twisting around arms. Wincing.
"So.." you started.
"So.." he finished.
You ducked away and grabbed your bag from your chair in the front row. Patted around. Checked underneath the table. Turned around. There he was. Holding your coat open for you to slide your arms into. You did, and thanked him without words.
The absence of words and eye contact grew as stale as the sweat drying on your back. Obito rocked on his heels, glancing at his desk. Imagining what happened on top of it. You fiddled with the edge of your skirt and then just fucking went for it.
You reached out. Two hands snug around his tie. Wiggling it back and forth. Squeezing, cinching it up. You fixed it for him, smoothed it flat against his chest. Brushed invisible dust off his shoulder.
His shaky inhale was your only warning. Not that you required one.
Eyes locked onto yours, hand embracing your tilted head, arms crushing you to his chest; you jerked him by the tie and your lips joined in a blaze. Bodies lunging, snapping tight. Cozied together in one bundle of limbs threaded through entangled limbs. Secure. Content.
Giggling, kissing, wet smooches on his forehead, you climbed the stairs backwards to the door, never taking your eyes off each other. Exchanging flirtatious smiles.
Behind you, you grabbed the knob. Cold metal in place of his warm back you were clawing at moments ago. The knob swiveled down, clicked. The door was left in purgatory. Neither open, nor shut.
"Can we do this again?"
He asked, or maybe you asked. Air, breath, words, thoughts, ideas, wants, needs, desires, futures, hopes, and dreams were all muddled in one.
"Yes."
He answered, or maybe you answered.
~~~
Wintry ice melted. Spring petals stuck to the bottom of shoes carried by mud to dirty the floors of Professor Uchiha's classroom.
Class was dismissed hours ago.
Your fingers ached from devoting exhaustive energy into your dissertation. So many hours spent staring at your laptop's screen, brain stimulated by the copious amounts of disposable coffee cups flung around your dorm. Abhorrent, really, to put a student through this grueling work.
So why, oh why, did your Professor insist on you typing up his emails when you could be at your dorm shoving a pencil through your eye?
"Spread," he commanded after your thighs encroached too far for his liking. His fingers started circling again once he was satisfied by the amount of prying open you did for him; making your complaints known at the top of your husky voice as he sucked on the flesh of your throat, eyeing the white box on screen to confirm you were still responding to a student about his question on the lecture he missed yesterday.
"Obi-to," you whined some more. You stabbed the backspace button, typed, retyped the same line again. The bruises he left on your neck would be more obvious this time. You started wearing jeans and collared shirts to help hide them because the absolute terror on your face when a woman standing in line behind you pointed out the teeth-shaped marks on the back of your thighs mortified you to an early grave. "Can you please give me a second to finish this?"
He rolled your nipple between his fingers. Rubbed calloused fingers over your soft, needy clit. Bounced his leg. Clenched his ass to rock you up and down his lap. His rising chest pressing to your shuddering back.
Too late. You pressed enter.
"Now?" your tone turned insolent.
"Fine, hop off my cock, sweetheart." He slapped your thigh as punishment.
He widened his legs. You slid yours between them and stood slowly, missing the way he filled you, but knowing he wouldn't let you orgasm like this anyway.
Obito shivered at the sensation of his cock leaving you. Glistening in the light. A prelude to the evening. Warmed and waiting. "We'll finish at my place," he said, grabbing his keys from the top drawer of his desk. "I'll make you dinner afterwards."
You smoothed down your skirt and pulled on your opaque black tights, toeing on your shoes with a disapproving slant of your mouth. "You're only saying that so I'll answer the rest of your emails later."
He laughed. A hearty chuckle at your demise.
Sauntering up to you, his smug grin taunted you. The outline protruding from behind his trouser's zipper even more so. He cradled your aching hand. Pulled you to him. Depressed his thumb in your palm to open it. Curled your fingers to his throbbing cock, running them down its length as he moaned.
"Keep your hands and mouth busy and I won't make you."
"Fine." You bent at the waist, forcing him to drop his hand from grabbing your ass to run through your hair, tugging it when you pressed hard kisses to his twitching cock, jolting you away and his hips back lest he finish prematurely after hours of teasing. "But you make the bed in the morning."
"Fine," he croaked, agreeing to anything you said. Wrapped around your finger. And you around his when he suggested you start staying the night. Accommodated by the deal, you stood and threw your arms around his neck, demanding kiss after kiss. "Let's go before we have another incident like last time."
You turned to the cracked monitor sitting beside his desk. Screen black and barren.
"Yeah, let's go." You walked, hand in hand to the door. Grinning. Taking sneaky glances at each other. Whispering dirty things you were going to do tonight all the way to his car. All the way to his front door. Using your key to get in. Sharing a kiss in the doorway. Shutting it behind you. Turning the lock.
Falling into the other's arms. Completing the circle. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.
Bending the rules of student and teacher relationships.