He Asked Me to Pretend to Be His Submissive Teacher

We’d been like that for almost a month when the message arrived.

Four weeks of encounters that had started in the building’s community pool and hadn’t stopped since. Dante was twenty and had that look of someone who knows exactly what he wants without needing to say it out loud. I was thirty-four, my husband had been away for work for weeks, and I had too many free nights not to get myself into trouble.

The first time was improvised, clumsy, electric. We’d slipped into the pool’s towel room, still dripping chlorine, and I fucked a boy I barely knew against the wooden shelves, his hand clamped over my mouth so I wouldn’t scream and his cock driving into me from behind like he’d been waiting months for that moment. The second time was deliberate: he came up to my apartment, ripped my dress off in the entryway, and shoved it in all the way on the kitchen counter, with my feet dangling and his cum sliding down my thighs when he finished. After the third, I stopped pretending it was just a passing thing.

What Dante discovered very quickly was that I responded better to orders than to suggestions. I didn’t consciously seek it out: he was the one who noticed, the one who adjusted his tone with every meeting, the one who turned something that should have been a no-strings affair into a dynamic that lived in my head all day long. When he gave me an instruction, I obeyed without questioning it too much. When he raised the stakes, my body answered before my mind had time to analyze anything. He told me to “spread your legs” and I spread them. He told me to “take it all” and I knelt before he’d finished the sentence. And every time he left my place, I was left with a drenched cunt and the humiliating feeling of wishing he’d come back.

That January afternoon, while I was folding laundry in the living room with the TV on in the background, the message arrived.

“Tomorrow at 10. I want you to be my teacher. Blouse, skirt, bun. No panties. Don’t be late.”

I froze with the phone in my hand. My heart was beating faster than it had any right to beat over a text message. I read it three times. Then I put the phone away and finished folding the clothes as if nothing had happened, even though I wasn’t paying attention to a single thing I was doing anymore. I slid my hand inside my pants without thinking and discovered I was already wet, that I’d been wet since the first time I read the message.

That night I took a long time to fall asleep. I lay there staring at the ceiling with my eyes open, replaying the sentence over and over. It wasn’t the first time Dante had asked me for something specific. It was the first time the idea made me this nervous. I ended up with my fingers between my legs, imagining the whole scene, and came twice against the pillow trying not to make a sound, as if someone could hear me in an empty house.

***

I woke before the alarm with that mix of anticipation and nerves that never quite felt comfortable. I showered calmly, did the waxing I’d been putting off for days, and went to the closet to see what could serve as a uniform.

I found a white button-down blouse, fitted enough that I no longer wore it for work because the fabric was too sheer to be fully professional. A black pencil skirt that reached halfway down my thigh. Fishnet stockings that had been sleeping in the back of a drawer since a party two years earlier. Black stiletto heels that gave me an extra four centimeters and changed the way I walked.

I put it all on. Without underwear, just as he’d asked.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror: dark red lipstick, sharp eyeliner, a severe bun with my hair pulled tightly back. The blouse held what it had to hold with a certain tension across the front buttons, my nipples pressing against the fabric because I hadn’t put on a bra. The skirt shaped the rest. I looked like a woman dressed up as authority, about to hand herself over completely.

Exactly what I was.

The doorbell rang at ten on the dot.

I opened the door and Dante looked me over from head to toe for a few seconds without saying anything. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder, a gray sweatshirt, low-slung jeans. The same boy who crossed the building entrance every morning looking like he hadn’t slept enough. And at the same time, not.

“Good morning, professor,” he said. And he walked in without waiting for an invitation.

He shut the door behind him with his foot. He cornered me against the hallway wall with one hand on each side of my head, still not touching me. Just looking.

“Ready for class?”

“Dante,” I answered, slipping into character. “This isn’t right. I’m your professor, there are boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed...”

He put a hand on my chest, right over the first button, and opened it slowly. He slipped his fingers inside the blouse and pinched a nipple hard enough to draw a gasp from me. Then he slid the other hand beneath my skirt, felt between my thighs, and smiled when he found me soaked.

“I make the rules today,” he said, pulling his shiny fingers out of me and wiping them on my lower lip. “Understood? Suck.”

I nodded and licked his fingers with my tongue, looking him in the eyes.

***

I’d set up the living room as best I could: the coffee table in the center of the space, two chairs facing each other, a few books on top to serve as an improvised desk. Dante saw it when he came in and gave a brief smile, the smile of someone receiving exactly what he expected.

“Sit on the edge of the table. Face me.”

I climbed onto the table and settled with my ankles crossed, back straight, hands in my lap. He sat in the chair across from me, took a notebook from his backpack with utterly comic seriousness, and opened it to the first blank page.

“Lesson begins.”

“What do you want to talk about today, student?”

“Anatomy.” He rested his elbow on his knee and looked straight at me. “Start at the top and work your way down.”

I held his gaze and opened the first button on my blouse.

“The torso,” I said, keeping my tone as neutral as I could. “The rib cage. The lungs. The diaphragm.”

“Lower.”

I opened the second. The fabric parted enough for him to see I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. I opened the third and fourth and let the blouse fall open completely, my tits bare, my hard nipples pointing at him.

“The abdomen. The oblique muscles. The hips. The tits,” I added, cupping them in both hands and offering them to him. “Does the student want to take notes?”

“Lower still,” he repeated, not changing position, not moving from the chair, though I could see the outline of his cock straining against his jeans.

I got down from the table. I stood in front of him and, very slowly, used both hands to hike up my skirt. First the edge of the stockings, then the dark lace over my thighs, then the place where it all ended.

“The pelvis,” I said. “The mound of Venus. The labia majora. The clitoris.”

I spread my cunt with two fingers so he could see it up close.

“And the professor is soaked, student. Write that down.”

It took him exactly three seconds to stand up.

He turned me around and bent me over the table with one firm hand at the nape of my neck. I heard his zipper, the dull sound of his belt being loosened, and then the hot weight of his cock against the crack of my ass. He dragged it up and down, soaking it with my juices, and found my entrance with the tip. I felt the pressure and then the abrupt entry that cut my breath off all at once. He shoved all the way in with a single thrust, not giving me any room, and I let out a muffled moan against the wood. I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white, trying to hold on to something.

“Practical lesson,” he murmured against the nape of my neck.

Every thrust was deliberate, deep, leaving no time for me to recover before the next. He had one hand holding mine against the wood and the other on my hip, controlling the angle with precision. His cock came in and out of me with a wet, obscene sound, and I felt my juices soaking his shaft and running down the inside of my thighs, wetting my stockings.

“I’m not letting you move,” he said, giving my ass a sharp slap that made me jerk. “You stay still. I’m going to fuck you however I want.”

“Yes,” I panted.

“Say I’m your best student.”

“You’re my best student,” I answered, my cheek pressed against the tabletop.

“Say you’ll fail the others.”

“I fail them all,” I gasped. “Only you pass.”

“Say you’re a whore,” he murmured.

“I’m a whore,” I repeated, almost voiceless. “I’m your whore.”

He grabbed my bun and yanked it loose, winding my hair around his fist. He pulled me backward, arching my spine, and kept fucking me from that angle, even deeper. My hair fell forward over the table when he let go. With his other hand he began undoing the rest of the buttons on my blouse, one by one, without hurrying. He left it hanging open while he kept moving inside me and I clenched my teeth, eyes shut, clinging to the wood. He slipped a hand underneath, found my clit, and started rubbing it in circles while he thrust.

“Come on my cock,” he ordered. “Now.”

I came like that, barely moving, held against the table, my mouth open against the wood and my whole body trembling in waves around his cock. The spasms squeezed my cunt so hard he let out a low groan behind me. But he didn’t stop. He pulled out, turned me around, and shoved back in from the front, now with my tits bare and my legs dangling off the table while he held me under the knees and spread me wide open.

“Look at me,” he said. “Don’t close your eyes.”

I looked at him. He watched between my legs, how his cock came in and out of me gleaming, and then he looked at my face, enjoying the little expressions that kept slipping out of me.

***

We ended up in the bedroom at some indistinct point in the morning.

I lay back on the bed. Dante knelt at my feet and carefully took off my heels, set them on the floor to the side, and then slowly began rolling my stockings down, taking his time. He had this habit of slowing things down precisely when I wanted them to go faster, and it was infuriating in a way that was absolutely not unpleasant.

“There’s a part of the lesson we didn’t finish,” he said, not looking up.

I spread my legs without being asked.

He lowered his head and started with the same methodical deliberation as always. First a long kiss on the inside of my thigh, nibbling, moving upward slowly. Then his tongue flat against my whole cunt, bottom to top, gathering up everything his cum and mine had left there. He licked his lips while looking at me.

“You taste like both of us,” he murmured, and buried his face between my legs again.

Mouth, tongue, fingers, shifting rhythm without my being able to anticipate what would come next. He sucked my clit with his lips wrapped around it, tapped it with the tip of his tongue, slid two fingers inside and curved them, searching for my spot deep within. When he sensed I was close, he stopped. He lifted his head for a second to make sure I was looking, gave me the faintest smile, and then continued as if nothing had interrupted anything at all. It was calculated torture and he knew it perfectly. The third time he left me on the edge and stopped, I drove my heel into his shoulder.

“Please,” I moaned, barely recognizing my own voice.

“Please what.”

“Please, let me come.”

“Ask properly.”

“Please, feed me, lick my cunt until I come in your mouth.”

I buried my fingers in his hair. I held his head with both hands and didn’t give him the option to stop. He didn’t protest. He licked me with real hunger, his tongue battering my clit without rest, two fingers coming in and out with a wet sound that filled the room.

When I came, I clutched the pillow and made no effort to be quiet. I shouted his name with a broken voice, my hips bucking against his face, and he kept sucking even as I convulsed, stretching the orgasm out until it became almost unbearable. He lifted his head, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up at me with that expression of calm satisfaction that appeared when he’d gotten what he wanted. His chin was shining.

“Good girl,” he said.

“Shut up,” I answered, still breathless.

He laughed. A short, genuine laugh that contrasted with everything else.

“Come here,” he said, climbing up the bed. “Now you suck.”

I slid down and took his cock fully into my mouth without preliminaries. I felt it thick against my tongue, still tasting of me, and went down until the tip hit the back of my throat. I grabbed his balls with one hand while I bobbed up and down, looking up at him from below, letting him see how fully I took him between my lips. He grabbed my hair and set the pace, pushing my head without roughness but without leaving me any option to stop.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Take it all. Show me how it’s done.”

I sucked him with eagerness, letting strings of saliva run down my chin, breathing through my nose when he was buried to the hilt. He let out a low moan when I squeezed the base with my hand and licked the tip with a flat tongue.

“Get on top,” he said then, tugging me upward. “Ride me.”

***

I got on him after a while.

He crossed his arms behind his head and let me do it. He had that ability to look completely relaxed at the moments when I lost all control, and it was infuriating and attractive in equal measure. I lined myself up, took his cock in one hand, and lowered myself onto it slowly, centimeter by centimeter, feeling myself opening around him. I moved on him slowly at first, setting the pace myself, hands braced on his chest, and he looked up at me without interfering. As if he were waiting for the right moment. My tits bounced against his face and he didn’t even lift his hands to touch them.

“The professor is handling class well,” he commented.

“Stop,” I said, and I went faster.

I leaned back, bracing my hands on his thighs, and rode him without pause, bouncing on his cock until the sound of my ass hitting his hips was the only thing left in the room. I slipped two fingers into my mouth and brought them to my clit, rubbing myself while I rode, and he finally uncrossed his arms to grab my tits and squeeze them with both hands.

He let it go a little longer. He let me keep the rhythm until he decided it was enough. He grabbed my hips with both hands, reversed our positions with an ease that always surprised me, and took control from above. He put my legs on his shoulders, bending me almost in two, and rammed into me again from that new angle. His hips struck mine with precision, without urgency, as if he could keep going like that for all eternity. His cock went in so deep I let out a broken moan with every thrust. I wrapped my legs around his back when he lowered them from his shoulders and he growled softly against my throat, biting my neck.

“Say you like it better this way,” he murmured.

“I like it better this way,” I said.

“Slower. Say it again.”

“I like it better this way,” I repeated, more slowly, and I stopped caring whether I sounded too sincere for it to still be part of the game.

“Where do you want me to come?” he asked, voice tight, thrusting harder. “Say it.”

“Inside,” I gasped. “Come inside.”

“Ask better.”

“Please, fill me. Come inside your professor, student.”

He finished inside me with three final brutal thrusts, driving all the way to the base. I felt the hot spurts filling me from within and the tremor of his hips against mine. He stayed still for a moment, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard. When he pulled out, I felt it leaking down between my thighs, and he lowered a hand, collected some of it with two fingers, and brought them to my mouth. I sucked them clean without looking away.

Then he moved aside and lay on his back next to me with one arm under his head, staring at the ceiling.

***

We stayed silent for a good while.

I stared at the ceiling and thought about how my husband would be back in five weeks from Munich. I thought about the elevator, about how Dante and he sometimes crossed paths in the lobby without knowing anything about each other. I thought about how easy it would be to end this and how I had no real intention of doing it. The problem wasn’t only guilt, though that existed too. The problem was that I’d been sleeping better for weeks than I had in the last two years, and I didn’t want to analyze too much what that meant.

“Thursday?” he asked.

“Depends what you bring in your backpack.”

He laughed again. He dressed without rushing, picked up the blank notebook from the living room, and before stepping out into the hallway he paused for a moment in the bedroom doorway.

“Good class, professor.”

I closed the front door and leaned against it for a moment. Bare feet on the cold floor, hair loose and tangled, blouse open, his cum still running down my thigh.

I thought about Thursday.

There was nothing else to think about.