My Professor Asked Me to Meet Him in the Library After Class

My name is Camila, I’m twenty-two years old, and I study Literature. I’m five-foot-three, I have big breasts and a round ass that moves on its own when I walk. Ever since I left high school, I’ve been obsessed with pretty lingerie and with pleated skirts that hit just above the knee, the kind that look formal until you cross your legs and the fabric slides to one side. I never considered myself a conscious tease. I like feeling desirable; the rest usually comes on its own.

What I’m about to tell happened this last semester, in the class I had with Professor Andrés. He had to be about thirty-seven, definitely married, with that polished-man look. Always in a light-blue shirt, thin glasses, a way of resting his thigh against the desk when he explained things that made the line of his leg show beneath his pants. Before that Monday, I hadn’t noticed him any more than any student notices any professor. Until suddenly I noticed the way he noticed me.

I was sitting in the second row. I was wearing a new black thong and the gray skirt that gives me an impossible waist. The class was halfway through when I realized Andrés kept his eyes on me every time I changed legs. I did it three times, at first without malice. The fourth time was on purpose.

—Camila —he said, in a neutral voice—. Come up here a moment, please.

I stood up, feeling half the classroom looking at my back. When I reached his desk, he lowered his voice.

—You’re distracting your classmates and, above all, you’re distracting me.

I should have felt embarrassed. Instead, I felt an electric current from my navel to my knees, and I noticed my cunt clenching on its own under my thong. I went back to my seat without answering him and, when I sat down, I uncrossed my legs much more slowly than necessary. Andrés kept talking about the syllabus, but he didn’t get up from his chair for the rest of the hour. When I looked at him, I understood why: one hand was resting on his lap and he was adjusting his cock with a slow movement now and then, trying not to let the bulge showing against his thigh be too obvious. The fabric outlined it completely, the tip pointing toward his hip.

That night, in my room, I masturbated thinking about him. I took all my clothes off, lay on my back, and spread my legs while staring at the ceiling. I imagined him at his desk, pulling down his zipper, taking out his hard cock and looking me in the eye while he gripped himself in a closed fist. I licked two fingers and ran them over my clit in slow circles, imagining it was his tongue. Then I shoved them inside me, first one and then two, all the way in, and started fucking myself while with my other hand I squeezed one breast and pinched my nipple. I thought of him coming over my skirt, watching him tremble behind the desk. I came twice, one right after the other, biting the pillow so my roommate wouldn’t hear me; the second time I arched my back so hard a warm gush escaped me and soaked my thighs and the sheet.

***

On Wednesday, before his class, I changed my underwear twice. I finally chose a very thin red thong, almost a string, and the same gray skirt. This time I sat in the front row, right in front of him. When he lifted his eyes from the notebook and let them settle on my legs, I parted my thighs enough for him to see the red fabric stuck to my already wet cunt. It wasn’t for a second: I held his gaze while I did it, and I slipped a finger inside my inner thigh as if I were removing a lint speck, grazing the edge of the thong with my nail.

Five minutes later he called me up again. This time he leaned in when I approached.

—Don’t play with that, Camila. I’m not going to hold out much longer.

—Can I go to the bathroom?

He nodded, jaw tight. In the bathroom I took off the thong, tucked it into the pocket of my cardigan, and hiked my skirt up two fingers before going back. Before leaving the stall, I slipped two fingers into my soaked cunt, pulled them out shining wet, and rubbed them behind my ears like perfume. When I got back, I sat the same way as before and, when Andrés looked again, I opened my legs for an instant, just enough for him to see my shaved naked cunt, and closed them with a smile. I watched him swallow, watched his Adam’s apple move, watched him press his pants against the desk to hide himself.

At the end of class, while the others were packing up, he came over as he passed by.

—If you’re not wearing it, give it to me.

—It was a gift —I said, pretending to have dignity.

—Lend it to me until Friday. I’ll give it back with a surprise.

I thought about it for three seconds. I took it out of my pocket, still a little warm and with the damp stain in the crotch clearly visible, and slid it into his closed hand. Andrés slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket as if it were a collected exam, but before that he brought it up to his face for a second and breathed in deeply, never taking his eyes off me. I walked out of that classroom with weak knees and my cunt dripping down my thigh.

***

On Friday I got ready like it was a first date. I showered slowly, shaved everything until my cunt was smooth and pink, put lotion on my tits and ass, dabbed perfume behind my knees and a drop between my breasts. Another skirt, another white blouse —this one with my bra barely slipping at the neckline— and, this time, no thong from the moment I left home. The idea of crossing the city with nothing under my skirt had me wet before I even reached the building; on the bus I had to squeeze my thighs together so it wouldn’t show.

Andrés walked in on time. He took attendance, leaned against the desk, opened his folder. In a move that seemed casual, he left a small envelope on my desk while he explained an author from the syllabus. I opened it with my heart racing. Inside was my red thong, a little more wrinkled than when I had handed it over, and a note in pencil: «Go to the bathroom, put it on, and come back. Stay until the end of class».

In the bathroom I smelled it before putting it on. It had the unmistakable scent of dried semen in the crotch, the fabric stiffened in the center with a whitish crust. He had come on it thinking of me, with my thong in his hand, and he had given me back the evidence. I brought the fabric to my mouth and slowly ran my tongue over the stain; the salty taste made me close my eyes and clench my thighs. I pulled it up as tightly as I could, until the fabric was marked between the lips of my cunt, the warm crust stuck to my clit. I went back to the classroom with that wetness mixed with mine and, when I sat down, I crossed and uncrossed my legs again, rubbing myself barely against the chair. Andrés interrupted his explanation for a moment when he looked at me. I had to bite my lip not to laugh, or moan.

Before leaving, he leaned over my desk to gather some sheets that weren’t his.

—I’ll be waiting for you in the library after the last hour. Let your other professor know I’m going to need you.

***

The last class on Friday was with an older lecturer who was already thinking about the weekend. When I told him Andrés had asked for me for a consultation, he didn’t even ask why. “Take your things, Camila, just in case.” I picked up my backpack and went down to the basement where the faculty library is: a long hallway, two reading rooms, and, in the back, the tall shelves where nobody goes on Friday afternoons.

Andrés was waiting there. He locked the door from the inside as soon as I walked in. He leaned his back against the wood and looked me up and down, without hiding it, as if he could finally do it.

—Come here.

I went to him. He put his hands on my shoulders, then on my waist, then on my hips. He lifted my blouse just enough to slip a hand underneath, pinched one nipple through my bra and drew a gasp out of me. He pressed against me enough for me to feel how hard he was through his pants, his cock outlined against my stomach.

—I want to touch everything I’ve been looking at for a week. I want to eat your cunt until you beg me to stop.

—And what do I get out of it? —I shot back, with more nerve than I actually had.

—Better grades.

—My grades are already good.

He laughed softly, took his wallet from his back pocket, and put some bills in my hand. I looked at him with one eyebrow raised and tucked them into the front pocket of my backpack, without counting them. That part was clear to me: if I was going to do this, I was going to do it all the way. I was going to be his whore that afternoon.

He led me to the aisle between two tall shelves, where the direct light didn’t reach. He pulled out a rolled-up mat hidden behind some old manuals. He spread it against the wall and motioned for me to sit. The moment I did, he knelt between my knees and started lifting my skirt with a calm that made me worse than any rush would have. He pulled it up to my waist, looked at my cunt barely covered by the red thong, and breathed in deeply.

—Look at you. All wet, the fabric soaked through.

—Stay still —he said when I tried to touch his face—. Open your legs. More. Like that.

He moved the thong aside with one finger and came closer. The first lick was slow, almost timid, a long stroke from the opening of my cunt to my clit. The second wasn’t. He buried his face in my thighs and opened me with two fingers, exposing me fully, and started sucking my clit with his lips pressed tight like he wanted to rip it off me. He pushed his stiff tongue inside me, pulled it out, went back up to suck me, down to lick my asshole and made me jolt. Then he shoved two fingers into me at once, all the way to the knuckles, curling them upward while he kept eating me out. I grabbed the back of his neck and pushed his face even deeper; the mat scratched against my blouse, my tits spilling out of my bra. I started moving my hips over his face, grinding my cunt against his mouth without any shame, while he moaned against me and the sound vibrated inside me. I came in his mouth sooner than I expected, squeezing his head between my thighs, biting the back of my hand so I wouldn’t scream. I felt his tongue swallowing what I gave him.

When he lifted his head, his chin was shining and strands of saliva and me hung from him down to his chest.

—Now you.

I knelt. I opened his belt, pulled his zipper down, and took out his cock carefully. It wasn’t huge, but it was beautiful: straight, veins standing out, slightly curved at the end, the head shiny and purple from being held back so long. I ran my tongue from his balls to the tip, slowly, tasting the salty flavor of the liquid already seeping out. I licked his balls one by one, put them in my mouth one at a time, while with my hand I gave him a slow blowjob. Then I took the whole thing in at once. Andrés groaned loudly and braced one hand against the shelf so he wouldn’t lose his balance. I gripped the base while I went up and down, squeezing him with my lips, pulling back to spit a thread of saliva over the head and then taking him back in. A few seconds later he put a hand on the back of my neck and started setting the pace himself, driving me down his throat until my eyes filled with tears and my mascara started running. I arched once, drooled all over him, and he pulled out for a moment to plant himself against my face, tapping my cheek and my tongue softly with the tip. I loved that lack of control of his, that lost-professor look on his face, fucking my mouth like it was a cunt.

—Turn around —he asked, pulling me out of his mouth with a pop.

He set me with my back against the shelf, palms resting on the spines of the books, skirt hiked up to my waist, ass in the air. He moved my thong aside again with his thumb, ran the head of his cock over the lips of my cunt to coat it, and entered in one single motion, slow but all the way, until I felt his balls against my clit. My breath caught.

—Tell me you wanted this.

—I wanted it —I panted—. Since Monday. I wanted your cock inside me.

He started moving against the shelf. The books trembled with every thrust and some fell to the floor without either of us caring. He covered my mouth with one hand while he pushed into me all the way with the other, gripping my hip. He pulled out completely and shoved back in with a hard stroke, making my ass smack against his pelvis. He licked my neck, tugged my blouse down off one shoulder, pulled one breast out of my bra and squeezed it hard while he fucked me, twisting my nipple between thumb and forefinger until a moan escaped against his palm. At some point someone could be heard passing through the library’s main hallway and I went still, with him inside me, listening to the footsteps fade away; he took advantage of the pause to make slow circles with his hips, moving inside me without pulling out, feeling how my cunt clenched around him with each pulse. When he started moving again, I knew I would remember that pause forever.

He took me back to the mat, this time on all fours. He pulled my thong off completely and left it crumpled near my hand. He took my hair, not hard, just enough for me to arch my back and offer him my ass. He drove into me again with a sudden thrust and started fucking me harder, more brutally, gripping my hips with both hands and slamming me against him. I felt his cock reach a place no one had ever touched me before, and the sound of his balls hitting my clit had me on the verge of coming again.

When I started telling him, in a low voice, that I was a bad student, that he should punish me, he slapped one ass cheek so hard I felt it in my bones and left the red imprint of his hand. I laughed, moaned, begged for another. He gave it to me, and another on the other cheek, and another in the same spot until my skin burned. He spit on my asshole and ran his thumb over it, pressing just a little, while he kept fucking my cunt. I asked him to put it in there too, my voice breaking, and he told me he’d do that another day, when I was begging him for it in class.

—You’re going to behave better on Monday —he said, gripping my waist, speeding up the rhythm.

—I make no promises —I panted, pushing back at him too, throwing my ass at him.

I felt him speeding up, felt his cock swelling inside me, felt his breathing breaking up. He pulled out just in time, grabbed himself with his hand, and gave himself two or three quick strokes over my ass. He squeezed my butt cheeks apart with his other hand and filled them. Hot, thick, a long stream first, then two shorter ones, all over the lower back, the asshole, and the start of my thigh. Some of it slipped into the crease and slowly ran down, brushing my cunt again. I stayed still, forehead pressed to the mat, ass up, feeling his semen drip over my skin, until his breathing went back to normal. Andrés leaned down and ran two fingers over the cum, scooped it up, and put it in my mouth. I sucked them clean, not leaving a single drop, looking him in the eye.

***

I wiped myself with the red thong before putting it back on, rubbing it over my ass, my thighs, my cunt still open and throbbing. It was my small poetic revenge: that for the rest of the day I’d walk around with his smell stuck to me, with his semen mixing with mine in the fabric. I pulled my skirt down, ran my fingers through my hair, and picked up my backpack. Andrés kissed my temple before opening the door, and gave one ass cheek a squeeze over my skirt as goodbye.

—Monday, front row again.

I left the library when the last classmates were heading out. I walked to the bus stop with my legs still warm and the feeling that something was dripping down my thigh with every step. On the bus I couldn’t stop staring out the window; I felt like anyone who looked at me would know, that I smelled of freshly fucked cunt and someone else’s semen.

At home I went straight to the bathroom. I slowly pulled down my thong, set it on the sink, and brought it up to my nose. It smelled like him, like me, and like that whole hour I had just spent. I ran my tongue over the fabric once, just enough to taste the two of us mixed together, and tucked it into the top drawer of the dresser, under a couple of pairs of stockings. Then I got into the shower, spread my legs under the hot spray, and made myself come once more with two fingers, thinking about the books trembling and his hand on the back of my neck. I cried a little, not from sadness. More from something like relief.

On Monday, of course, I went to the front row. Without a thong.