My Professor Summoned Me to the Library at the End of Friday

My name doesn’t matter now; what matters is what happened that semester with Professor Suárez, the one who taught literature on Wednesdays and Fridays, right after recess.

I’m twenty-two now and none of it seems anywhere near as innocent as it did back then. I had just turned eighteen. I was small, barely five-foot-one, with a body that attracted more attention than I could control. I wore the school uniform with the skirt a little loose, not out of carelessness but on purpose: I liked the way it would move on its own when I crossed my legs in class. It was stupid, I know. But stupid things weigh differently at that age.

Professor Suárez was in his early thirties. Always ironed shirts, short hair, a beard coming in. He wasn’t handsome in the usual sense, but he had that way of looking at you like he was reading the back side of you. And I liked being read.

It all started on some ordinary Thursday, in the noon class. I had debuted a black thong, one of those my older sister called “grown-up,” and for some reason I had decided that day deserved to be seen. I crossed my leg once. Nothing. I uncrossed them. Crossed them again. When I looked up toward the front, he was no longer reading. He was looking at me.

—Professor —another student asked from the back—, what page?

—Fifty-seven —he answered without taking his eyes off me.

I lowered my gaze to my notebook and felt something rise through my chest. It wasn’t shame. It was something else. Something like having power over someone for the first time in my life.

Ten minutes later he called me to his desk. I walked slowly, holding my skirt with the tips of my fingers. When I got there, he said in a low voice, almost without opening his mouth:

—Don’t distract me, please.

I smiled at him. I didn’t answer.

I went back to my seat and crossed my legs again. He only stood up when the bell rang, and then I noticed, while he adjusted his trousers with a discreet gesture, that he had an erection. His hard cock pressed against the fabric, thick, leaning to one side, and he tried to hide it with his folder but I had already seen the whole thing. I noticed it, and so did my urge to keep going.

That night I lay down on my bed and slipped my hand into my panties, imagining him watching me from the other side of the room. I was already soaked before I touched myself. I parted my cunt with two fingers and rubbed my clit slowly, in circles, the way magazines I’d read in secret had taught me. I imagined the cock I had seen outlined in his trousers, imagined it out, hard, pointing at me. I pushed two fingers deep and pulled them out shining. I licked my own juices and came biting the pillow, clenching my thighs, thinking of his face watching me do it.

***

The following Friday I came prepared. I had chosen the white thong, the thinnest one, the one you can almost not see when you’ve got something on top. I walked in, said hi to everyone, and sat in the front row, right in front of the desk.

He took attendance. He started the class. I spread my legs a little wider than usual, just enough for him to see it when he looked up from the book.

He saw it.

—Caro —he said, using my name for the first time—. Come here a second.

I went over. He was writing something in a notebook without looking at me.

—Don’t play with this —he murmured—. You won’t be able to handle what happens if you keep going.

—What if I want it to happen? —I answered, in the same tone.

He lifted his eyes for a tenth of a second. Then he lowered them again.

—Go back to your seat.

I went back. And five minutes later I asked permission to go to the bathroom. He let me go without lifting his head.

In the bathroom I took the thong off. I shoved it in the pocket of my sweater. I tugged my skirt up two fingers, carefully, and looked at myself in the mirror. I laughed to myself. Before leaving, I ran a finger over my naked cunt, pulled it out wet, and brought it to my lips. I wanted to get back to the classroom with the taste on me.

When I returned, he followed me with his eyes from the door to my chair. I sat down. I crossed my legs, uncrossed them, crossed them again, very slowly, letting the skirt ride up on one side. He swallowed. I saw him swallow and I saw his fingers tighten on the edge of the table.

A few minutes later he called me to the desk again.

—If you’re not wearing it anymore —he said quietly—, give it to me.

I looked at him, not understanding at first. Then I understood.

—What do you want it for?

—I’ll give it back on Monday —he replied—. With a surprise.

I thought about it for three seconds. I pulled the thong out of the pocket of my sweater, balled up, and left it on the desk beside the book. He put it in his briefcase without looking at it and kept teaching as if nothing had happened. I spent the rest of the hour with my legs a little open and my skirt hiked higher than it should have been, knowing that he had, in clear view whenever he lifted his eyes, my naked cunt barely visible beneath the fabric. He looked at me three times. Three times his jaw tightened, three times he shifted in his seat to adjust the cock growing on its own beneath the desk.

***

On Monday I spent the entire day thinking about that briefcase.

I got to his class and sat in the same seat. He took attendance. When he said my name, he looked up, and I spread my legs. He came over to my desk, set a white envelope on top of my notebook, and kept going as if nothing had happened.

—Go to the bathroom —he said as he passed.

I left. Inside the envelope was my thong, carefully folded. It smelled like something new. A heavy smell, mixed with his cologne. I sniffed it for a long time, leaning against the bathroom door. And there I realized what that smell was: it was his dried semen. He had come on my thong over the weekend. The fabric had hardened, translucent stains, and others whiter in the center, right where my cunt had been on Friday. I unfolded it with both hands, smelled it again, and without thinking ran my tongue over the most stained part. It tasted salty, thick, like a man who had come thinking about me. I had to lean against the sink because my legs went weak.

Then I put it on. I pulled it higher than usual so it would fit snugly, so the damp, hardened fabric would stick against my cunt lips. Walking back to the classroom felt like a ceremony: each step rubbed his dried load against my flesh, and I got back to class with my cunt dripping inside and my breathing off.

When I sat back down, he looked at me. He only looked. And kept teaching. But I knew he knew what I was wearing and where I was wearing it, and that complicity kept me wet the whole hour.

At the end of the period, before leaving, he said out loud to the whole group:

—Caro, you’re the most obedient student I have. You deserve a reward. Stop by the library after the last class.

The whole class laughed, thinking it was an innocent comment about my grades. I laughed too. But inside my knees were shaking.

***

At the end of the day I told the math teacher that Professor Suárez needed some books with me. The math teacher told me to take my backpack just in case I didn’t come back. He said it without malice, but I blushed in a way he interpreted as shyness.

The school library was at the back of the second floor. At that hour no one was there. I pushed the door open and he was inside, next to one of the long tables, his jacket hanging over the back of a chair. He closed the door behind me and turned the key.

—Come —he said.

I walked toward him very slowly. He grabbed me by the shoulders, squeezing them with both hands. He didn’t kiss me. He smelled my neck first, slowly, as if he wanted to make sure of something. Then he lowered his nose to my neckline, lifted my skirt with one hand all the way to my waist, and smelled me between the legs too, over the thong.

—You’re still wearing it —he murmured against my thigh—. With mine on top.

—All morning —I replied.

—Do you know what I’ve wanted to do for days? —he asked, straightening again, his mouth at my ear.

—Touch what you’ve been looking at for days —I answered.

—Fuck you —he corrected me—. Fuck you until you can’t walk.

He smiled against my hair. A low, ridiculous, involuntary moan escaped me.

He pushed me toward the back aisle, the one between two tall shelves, where the philosophy books nobody ever asked for were kept. On the floor there was a gym mat, folded in half. He spread it out with his foot without taking his eyes off me.

—What if someone comes in? —I asked.

—No one’s coming in. I’ve got the key.

I sat on the mat. He knelt in front of me. He pulled my skirt aside with both hands, slowly, like he was opening a rare book. He looked at my cunt through the soaked fabric for one long second, and without saying a word he shoved my thong to the side with two fingers and lowered his head without warning.

I bit my hand so I wouldn’t make a sound.

His tongue went all the way between my lips, from bottom to top, with a calm that had nothing timid about it. He licked me slowly, long, tasting me, as if he wanted to know everything he’d been imagining for days. Then he focused on my clit. He sucked it gently at first, closing his lips around it, then with the tip of his tongue, making short, quick circles that lifted my hips against his face. He slid one finger into me and moved it slowly, curling it upward, toward the exact spot I took forever to find on my own. When he added a second finger and kept sucking me, I couldn’t keep my thighs closed anymore: I had them open with my forearms, pressed against the floor.

—You’re soaked, Caro —he said between laps—. You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?

—Yes —I answered, panting—. Since I smelled what you gave back to me.

—And what did it smell like?

—Your load.

—And what did you do?

—I licked it.

He groaned against my cunt and shoved his fingers in faster. I writhed on the mat and held his head with one hand, pushing his face against me. The other was buried in my own mouth, biting my knuckles so nothing would escape me. I felt the orgasm gathering deep inside me, a hot weight climbing up my legs.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I gently pushed him away. I wanted to see him. I wanted his cock in my mouth before I came.

I fumbled with his belt and yanked it open. The fabric of his trousers dropped heavy to his ankles. Over his underwear his erection was outlined, a dark stain of pre-cum at the tip. When I pulled down his underwear and saw it, I laughed. Not mockingly, but because it seemed absurdly whole, beautiful even, with the veins standing out in a way that was almost graphic. His cock hung hard, thick, the tip red and swollen, shining with what was already leaking out.

I got down on my knees. I grabbed it by the base with one hand and ran my tongue from his balls to the glans, very slowly, feeling each vein under my tongue. I licked the tip, collected the drop that came out, and swallowed it while looking him in the eyes. He let out a low curse.

I took him into my mouth slowly at first. I sucked only the head, playing with my tongue under the glans, squeezing his balls with my other hand. Then I took more of him, pushing down as far as I could, and pulled him out all slick with spit. I took him in again, this time all the way, and he held my hair gently. Then not so gently. He shoved himself down my throat and I slapped his thigh with my left hand to warn him. He pulled back for a second, let me breathe, and went back in. Again. And again. He fucked my mouth at a steady pace, his hands on the back of my neck, and I felt his balls hitting my chin with every thrust. I looked up at him with tearful eyes, saliva dripping down my chin to my breasts, and saw that he was looking at me with a face I had never seen in class.

—Swallow it all —he told me, pulling out for a second to spit on my tongue and shove himself back in.

—Stop —he said suddenly, his voice broken—. Lie down. I’m going to come in your cunt if you don’t stop.

***

He laid me on the mat and moved my thong aside again. He rubbed his cock along my lips, up and down, soaking himself in my juices before he started to push in. He entered slowly, watching my face to see if it hurt. It didn’t hurt. Heavier, fuller, working its way into me with each centimeter, but it didn’t hurt. When he was all the way in, I ran out of air for a second. I dug my nails into his shoulders and he laughed against my neck.

—Don’t complain if you scream —he murmured—, but don’t scream.

He started moving. He pulled almost all the way out and drove back in hard, with a wet sound that filled the aisle between the shelves. He kissed me for the first time there, while he fucked me with long thrusts, his weight pressing down on me. He kissed me like he’d been saving that kiss for weeks: his whole tongue in my mouth, biting my lips, swallowing my gasps. I bit his lower lip when he started moving harder, and he moaned softly against my mouth. He lifted my blouse without stopping, yanked my bra down, and sucked my nipples one after the other, biting them until I arched my back.

—What tits you’ve got, fuck —he murmured against my chest—. All semester staring at them.

He put a finger in my mouth so I’d suck it while he kept thrusting. Then he took his hand down and used it on my clit in time with his cock, and I started shaking beneath him, the first orgasm rising from very deep inside me. I came, clenching his cock with my cunt, biting my arm, and he kept driving into me without letting me stop.

A few minutes later he made me stand up. He braced me against one of the shelves, both hands on the spines of the books. He hiked my skirt up to my waist. He spread my legs with a knee, bent down for a second to lick my cunt from behind again, and then straightened, grabbed his cock, and shoved it back inside me in one single thrust. He gripped my hips with both hands and started again, this time harder, with sharp blows that made my forehead press against the leather of the old books. I lowered one hand and touched myself while he slammed into me, feeling his cock go in and out dripping with my own juices.

—What are you now? —he said low against my nape.

—A bad student —I answered.

—Lower.

—A bad student.

—That’s right. And what do bad students do?

—They let the teacher fuck them.

—More.

—They swallow whatever they’re given.

He slapped my ass so hard it sounded louder than either of us expected. We froze for a second, listening to the silence of the back aisle. No one. He started again, even harder, grabbing my hair with one hand and burying the other in my hip. He spat on my back, wiped the spit with his finger, and brought it to my ass, pressing without entering, only threatening.

—Another day —he whispered in my ear—. Here too.

I nodded without a sound. Another orgasm escaped me against the shelf, shorter, drier, biting my forearm so I wouldn’t scream.

***

The school bell rang for dismissal. Far away. Like it was another world.

—Finish —I begged him—. Finish now, before someone comes by the door.

He turned me around. He pushed me back onto the mat, this time face down, ass up, and shoved his cock into me from behind again. He sped up. He was really fucking me now, with fast, dry thrusts, his balls hitting my cunt with every shove. I could feel him breathing faster against my nape, his voice breaking into short moans. Without thinking, I told him to finish outside, and he understood.

He pulled out at the last second, grabbed his cock with his hand, and jerked off over me twice. When he came, he did it over the lower part of my back and over the fabric of my skirt, in thick, hot spurts that slid down my skin, in silence, biting the back of his hand so he wouldn’t let out a moan. I felt one drop fall, then another, and a third, thicker one, right into the hollow of my back. Then he ran the tip of his cock, still hard and drooling, over my ass and cheeks, smearing me with what was left.

I came right after, almost without realizing it, with two fingers on my clit and his hand still gripping my waist, feeling his semen running down my skin to the fabric.

We stayed like that for a full minute. Maybe two. I listened to my own breathing find its way back, and felt his load cooling on my back.

—You have to leave before I do —he said after a while—. Blend in with your group.

I nodded. I wiped off what I could with my thong, dragging it over my back and the insides of my thighs, where my own juices had mixed and spilled as well. I pulled it back up, soaked, now doubly soaked, and lowered my skirt. I ran my fingers through my hair. He looked at me with a mix of pride and fear I only understood much later.

—Caro —he said when I was already at the door—. This doesn’t get talked about.

—I know.

—I’m serious.

—So am I.

I stepped out into the hallway. The light seemed much brighter than I remembered. I walked to the exit at a normal pace, feeling his semen still warm between my ass cheeks and the skirt sticking to my skin, caught up with my classmates before the main exit, laughed with them about something I didn’t hear, and got on the bus as if I were coming back from a normal class.

***

At home I locked myself in the bathroom. I lowered my thong in silence. I smelled it. I ran my tongue over the most stained part, calmly, tasting the sum of the two: my thick fluids and his semen already dry, mixed until you couldn’t tell them apart. It tasted like something new, something that was neither him nor me entirely. I slipped two fingers between my legs, still sensitive, still swollen inside, and touched myself one last time, slowly, until I came sitting on the edge of the bathtub, with the thong between my teeth. I rolled it up and hid it at the bottom of my T-shirt drawer, where my mother never put her hands.

Then I went to my room. I lay down on my bed fully dressed, my skirt still damp, and stared at the ceiling for a long time.

I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t feel proud either. I felt something stranger, more adult: the certainty that something inside me had changed places and wasn’t ever going back where it had been. That certainty frightened me a little, but I liked it more than it scared me.

I went back to Professor Suárez’s class six more times before the school year ended. Three of those six times we went back to the library. But the first one, the Friday of the mat and the thong in the envelope, was the only one I ever told anyone about, even if I only told it to myself, until today.