My Student Stayed on a Saturday and Broke My Discipline

—Repression is not a mistake in the system —I said, capping the marker and setting it on the edge of the desk—. It’s the bill we pay for living in society.

The classroom fell silent. Thirty-odd heads nodded and copied the phrase into their notebooks as if it were a commandment. I’ve been teaching Human Behavior for six years and I know the script by heart. I’m Professor Ezequiel, thirty-eight years old, skinny, always in a pressed shirt, low voice. The one who never shouts and turns red if someone drops a vulgarity in class.

But from the lectern I see things the rest don’t.

My eyes, hidden behind the reflection on my glasses, landed in the front row. Again.

Renata was there, sprawled across her desk with a laziness that should have been banned by the regulations. That day she had come in looking different. She wore tight light jeans so snug they looked painted on, tracing every line of her legs with almost cruel precision. She’s dark-skinned, with warm skin and dark eyes that always seem to be calculating something. Her straight hair fell over her shoulders as she bit the cap of a red pen.

She settled in her seat and crossed her legs. The fabric tightened over her thighs and over the firm curve of her hips. The white blouse was as plain as could be, but nothing about her looked plain: the short waist, the modest neckline, that air of being twenty-two and knowing it.

Renata noticed I was looking at her. Of course she noticed.

She let the pen fall and held my gaze. There was no shame, no reserve. Just a crooked smile and one eyebrow barely arched.

—Professor —she said, raising her hand without taking her eyes off me—. So, according to the theory… if someone holds back their urges for too long, do they end up going crazy?

There were a few nervous laughs in the group. I felt the heat climbing my neck, that reaction I hate so much and have never learned to control.

—Not exactly, Renata —I replied, adjusting my glasses to buy a few seconds—. Psychic energy looks for an outlet. If it doesn’t come through action, it comes out as a symptom.

She nodded slowly and lowered her voice just enough for me to keep hearing her.

—So you’d rather have the symptom than the act. What patience, prof.

The bell rang and saved me from answering. While everyone packed up, Renata stood slowly, deliberately turned her back to me to bend down and pick up her backpack, and made sure I saw how those jeans clung to her round ass, marking every centimeter of that young flesh. Before leaving, she winked at me and disappeared down the hall.

I drove home with my jaw clenched and my cock hard against my pants, something that hadn’t happened to me in years. My wife was already asleep, so I ate whatever I found standing in the kitchen and checked a few emails in the living room, grateful for the silence. Or I tried to be. My head was still in that classroom, in that ass, in that smile.

***

It was almost midnight when the phone vibrated on the table.

I frowned. Nobody texts me at that hour. I picked it up, lowered the screen brightness, and unlocked it. I recognized the profile photo instantly: Renata in front of a mirror, her phone covering her face, but showing that unmistakable waist.

“Prof, sorry for the hour. I have a question about class that won’t let me sleep.”

I hesitated. My common sense was shouting that I should answer at a decent hour. My instinct said it was a trap. My fingers moved on their own.

“Renata, this number is only for emergencies. Send me an institutional email tomorrow.”

The reply came in seconds.

“Email is too cold. And you yourself said repression does harm.”

“Do you think self-control always works? Because today, when you were explaining drives, it felt like the theory fell short. Like you know there are things you can’t hide, no matter how serious you act.”

I felt a jolt in my stomach. I sat up on the couch. She was using my own subject to corner me, with no safety net.

“You’re overanalyzing the class. Go to sleep.”

“Haha. ‘Overanalyzing.’ Such a technical word for not admitting you’re nervous.”

The “typing…” indicator blinked and an image arrived. It wasn’t a nude; it was worse. It was her bare legs from mid-thigh down, crossed over white sheets, with my own textbook open on her knees. The light was dim, intimate.

“I can’t concentrate, prof. Can you?”

I stared at the screen in the dark. I could block her. I could report her in the morning. I did neither. I left the message on read and set the phone on the table with my heart pounding in my temples, with my cock swollen and tight under my pajama pants and a mix of guilt and excitement that kept me from sleeping.

***

Three days passed in which I avoided the front row as if it were on fire. I didn’t block her, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer either; I didn’t know what to say without bringing the barrier down. That read receipt was my only defense, and it weighed more than any clumsy word I could have typed.

Renata felt it. I saw her shifting in her seat during the week, crossing and uncrossing her legs, throwing me looks that went from arrogance to insecurity.

Friday afternoon arrived. The sun was going down and painting the windows orange; there was still enough light to see the dust floating in the air. The faculty was emptying fast: nobody wants to stay on a Friday after six.

I was packing my things in a hurry, stuffing markers and lists into my briefcase, eager to leave before traffic became impossible. I wanted to get home to the safety of my house and forget the tension I’d been carrying in my neck for three days.

When I looked up, I realized I wasn’t alone.

Renata hadn’t left. She was leaning against the doorframe, my only exit, arms crossed and one hip cocked in a way that seemed to mock the laws of academic decency. The sun was behind me and lit her from the front. She wore a black strappy top that left her shoulders bare and, below, the same jeans from the photo.

—It’s late, Renata —I said, snapping the briefcase shut. I tried to sound firm, but my throat was dry—. If you don’t hurry, they’ll close the main exit.

She didn’t move. She just tilted her head with the expression of a cat that has just cornered a mouse.

—You left me on read, prof —she said, without preamble.

The heat shot up to my ears. I adjusted my glasses, looking for a visual escape route.

—I was busy —I lied, going around the desk toward the door.

She didn’t step aside. I had to stop a meter away so I wouldn’t bump into her. The smell of vanilla hit me full force, sweet and dizzying.

—Busy looking at the photo —she corrected with a little laugh, taking a tiny step toward me, invading my space—. I know because it took you two minutes to close the chat.

I froze. She was right, and denying it would make me look more guilty. I looked into her eyes, dark and shining with amusement. She was enjoying this. Enjoying seeing Professor Ezequiel nervous, clutching the briefcase like it was a shield.

—Keep your distance —I warned, though my voice came out weak.

—Why? —she whispered, leaning in just a little—. Do I make you nervous, prof?

She bit her lower lip, that red lip that contrasted with her skin. My traitorous eyes dropped to her mouth and then to her neckline. She noticed and smiled wider.

—You’re blushing again —she said, brushing my jacket sleeve with the tips of her fingers—. You don’t have to hide it so much. I already understood that you liked the photo… and that you like me.

The silence stretched, taut. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to shove her away and I wanted to grab her right there, fuck her against the desk until I tore her clothes off, and both things terrified me equally.

Before I could stammer out an excuse, she took a step back and freed the door. She slung her backpack over her shoulder as if nothing had happened.

—See you Monday —she said, and added in a sing-song voice—: Bye.

She walked out into the hallway slowly, making sure I saw those jeans move. I was left alone, briefcase in hand and breathing hard, knowing my escape no longer mattered: she had gotten into my head.

***

That night I locked myself in my study under the excuse of grading exams. I closed the door, loosened my tie, and took out my phone. Nothing. I felt an absurd stab of disappointment.

At ten-thirty, it vibrated. My heart gave a stupid leap.

“Has your color gone down yet, prof? Or are you still thinking about me?”

I should have ignored her. I should have deleted the chat. But the smell of vanilla was still stuck in my memory, and my fingers flew over the keyboard before my conscience could stop them. After all, I told myself, it’s just a message. No one can see us.

“You should be sleeping. Or studying.”

“Wow, what a genius. I’m in bed, but I’m not sleepy. I wanted to keep talking. You were the one who ran away.”

“I didn’t run away. I have a life and responsibilities. You should look for your own instead of bothering professors.”

“Haha, ‘bothering.’ If I were really bothering you, you’d have blocked me already. But you’re still here, answering me on a Friday night. Admit it: you like it this way. The others are scared of me, I’m not.”

I rested my head against the back of the chair. It was true. I liked that she wasn’t afraid of me, that she was breaking my gray routine.

“You’re reckless, Renata. That’s what you are.”

“And you’re very repressed, Ezequiel. (Oops, I let the name slip.)”

Seeing my name written by her, without the title in front of it, felt dangerously intimate. A current ran down my back to my cock, which was already painfully pushing against the zipper of my pants. I no longer defended myself.

“Be careful what you say.”

“I’d rather be careful with what I do. Tomorrow is Saturday. Are you going to the faculty to review theses?”

She knew my schedule. She knew I spent a couple of hours in my cubicle on Saturdays getting work done. It was my sacred routine.

“Yes. From ten to twelve.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you there. And you’d better not run away this time, because I’m going to show up looking good for you. Good night, Ezequiel.”

She disconnected. I was left alone, with the dim lamp and the shining certainty in my hand that I had just agreed to meet her. I felt guilty, dirty, and, for the first time in years, eager for morning to come.

***

On Saturday, the faculty looked like a mausoleum. The empty hallways echoed my footsteps toward the third-floor seminar room, the most isolated one. I told myself I chose it for the light to read. I was lying: I chose it because nobody goes up there.

I spread papers across the table, opened the laptop, and grabbed a red pen. My eyes didn’t read anything; they looked at the clock every thirty seconds.

At ten fifteen, the door opened. She didn’t knock. She just turned the knob, walked in, and closed it behind her with a softness that made the latch sound like a gunshot.

—You got here early —she said, leaning against the door.

I looked up and lost my breath. She’d kept her promise: she came looking good. A short denim skirt, a white strappy blouse, hair down. She looked insultingly young and alive in the middle of that gray building.

—I have work, Renata —I replied, my voice too formal, almost ridiculous. I clutched the pen like a weapon—. If someone sees us here…

—Nobody comes up on Saturdays —she interrupted, walking toward me slowly—. Besides, I locked the door. Myself.

That detail chilled my blood and, at the same time, set it on fire. She stopped on the other side of the table, looked at my scattered papers, and then looked at me.

—Not a single page advanced, prof. The sheet’s blank.

—I’m organizing my thoughts.

—You always think too much —she whispered, circling the table like a patient predator.

I turned in my chair so I wouldn’t have to face away from her, but I stayed rooted in place. My old shyness paralyzed me. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Renata came up beside me and leaned on the edge of the desk, ending up a little taller than I was.

—Why are you trembling? —she asked, looking at my hands.

—I’m not trembling.

—You are. —She leaned in and placed her hand on mine. Her skin was warm—. Relax. I don’t bite… yet.

The joke didn’t make me laugh, but it made me let out the breath I’d been holding. I looked at her. This time there was no mockery in her eyes; there was curiosity and a strange tenderness.

—This is wrong. I’m your professor. I’m married.

—I know —she admitted, bringing her face closer to mine, giving me time to pull away, to shove her, to run. I didn’t move—. But there’s nobody here. Just you and me. And we both know you want to fuck me as much as I want you to do it.

The word in her little-girl mouth cut through me like a hot knife. Her fingers brushed my cheek. I shivered. They slid down to the loose knot of my tie.

—It looks better like this —she murmured, playing with the fabric—. Less perfect. More real.

—Renata… —My voice came out in a rough whisper.

—Shh. Don’t think. Just feel.

She leaned in and kissed me.

It was soft at first, a tentative brush. I stayed rigid for a second, gripping the armrests, fighting years of discipline. But her lips were insistent and tasted like strawberry gloss. Something in my chest broke loose. My hands left the chair and, clumsy, climbed to her waist. I pulled her closer. She sighed, opened her mouth, and slipped her tongue in without asking, tangling with mine, biting my lower lip, ripping a groan out of me that hadn’t escaped my throat in years.

She shifted to sit astride my lap without breaking the kiss. I felt her weight, the friction of her skirt against the cock that no longer fit inside my pants, and she noticed it instantly. She slid one hand between our bodies and pressed the bulge with her open palm, measuring me through the fabric.

—Wow, prof —she whispered against my mouth, rubbing slowly against that hardness—. You had all this hidden?

I pulled back, panting, my glasses fogged and crooked.

—You’re crazy —I said, but my hands squeezed her hips instead of letting go.

—Crazy for you —she answered, taking my glasses off and setting them on the desk, stripping me of my shield—. Now then, prof… teach me something that isn’t in the books.

She was on top of me, legs spread over my thighs, and I could see her with painful clarity: the blush climbing her neck, the shine on her swollen lips, the way her chest rose and fell under the thin fabric.

My hands, which had hesitated so much, took on a life of their own. I yanked the straps of her blouse downward and the fabric gave with a rough rustle, exposing two young, firm, round breasts crowned by dark nipples already hardened like little stones. I stared for a second, like a teenager facing his first discovery. She gave a low laugh and cupped the back of my neck.

—Suck them, prof. I can’t take it anymore.

I obeyed. I took an entire nipple into my mouth and sucked hungrily, while my other hand kneaded the other breast, fingers sinking into that warm flesh. She moaned loudly, threw her head back, and started rocking her hips over me, rubbing her hot cunt against the bulge in my pants. I switched breasts, tugged the nipple with my teeth until I heard her moan with a new tremor, and ran my tongue over it, leaving her chest shiny with spit.

—You’re beautiful, damn it —I blurted, and even my own curse sounded foreign, strange, delicious. I never said damn it. I never said anything.

—Say more dirty things —she panted, smiling with half-closed eyes—. It suits you.

I grabbed her hips and lifted her as if she weighed nothing, startled by my own strength, and sat her on the desk among my papers. I spread her knees with a rough slap, yanked her skirt up to her waist, and saw her black lace panties, soaked, with a dark stain spreading in the center that gave everything away. I pushed two fingers through the fabric and pressed the bulge of her vulva. The cloth clung tight to her swollen lips. She arched and let out a broken moan.

—You’re dripping, Renata.

—For you. All for you. I’ve been touching myself thinking about you for weeks, prof.

The sentence pierced me. I hooked her panties with two fingers and pulled them aside, not taking them off, and I just stared at that pink, young cunt, with neat little hair and lips shining with moisture. A transparent thread hung down to the edge of the desk.

—Shit —I muttered.

I knelt between her legs before I even thought about it. The chair squealed as it was pushed back. She looked down at me with her mouth open, unable to believe it.

—Prof, no… Ezequiel, you don’t have to…

I didn’t let her finish. I gripped her thighs, spread them wider, and buried my mouth in her cunt. The taste hit me hard, salty, sweet at the same time. I licked from bottom to top, tongue broad, searching for the clit. When I found it, I sucked slowly and she let out a sharp cry, covering her mouth with both hands.

—God, God, God… —she repeated, driving the heels of her shoes into my back—. Like that, like that, don’t stop.

I ran my tongue in circles over her swollen clit, then flattened it with my whole tongue and moved up and down with fury. I slid two fingers deep inside and felt her open, felt those walls sucking on my knuckles. Her pussy clenched, wet, hot, as if it had a life of its own. With my fingers I found the rough spot inside and rubbed it in time with my tongue. She writhed on the desk, knocking papers to the floor, arching, her nipples pointed toward the ceiling.

—I’m going to cum on your face, prof, I’m going to cum —she babbled.

I sucked harder, shaking her clit with the tip of my tongue, and drove in a third finger. She went rigid, held out for two silent seconds, and then exploded: I felt her walls contract around my fingers in brutal spasms, she gushed a wave of warm liquid that washed over my chin and the collar of my shirt, and she screamed my name muffled against her own hand. I kept licking her slowly, tasting her, until she pushed my head back because she couldn’t take any more.

I stood up with my mouth shining, breathing hard, and my pants on the verge of bursting. Renata was lying back over the desk, tits out, skirt bunched at her waist, hair messy and a stupid smile on her face, drunk on pleasure.

—Nobody… nobody’s ever done it to me like that —she panted—. Now me.

She sat up abruptly, grabbed my belt, and with quick hands undid it. The button, the zipper, everything gave in seconds. She pulled my pants and boxers down to my knees in one yank and my cock sprang free, hard, pointing at her face, the tip already wet with pre-cum.

—Wow, prof —she murmured, gripping me firmly, measuring me—. No wonder you held out so much. You’ve got a big one.

I didn’t get a chance to answer. She leaned in and took me into her mouth in one shot, halfway down, sealing her lips tight around me. An animal groan escaped from the bottom of my chest. I grabbed her hair with both hands, not hard, letting her work. She knew what she was doing. She went up and down slowly at first, her tongue curling around the head each time she came up, then she started speeding up, sucking me deep, with that wet, obscene sound echoing through the empty classroom.

—Renata, like that… —I said, my voice breaking—. Suck me like that, don’t stop.

She looked up at me from below, my cock buried in her throat, her dark eyes shining with wickedness. She relaxed and swallowed me all the way, until I felt her nose against my belly and her throat hugging my tip. She stayed there for a few seconds, barely choking, swallowing, and the walls of her throat squeezed me in a way that nearly made me cum right then.

—Come here —I growled, pulling her hair upward—. I’m going to cum if you keep going.

I lifted her off the desk, turned her around, and pressed her chest against the table. I yanked her skirt up over her ass, shoved her panties to one side again, and just stared: that round, firm, young ass, split by a black strip of wet lace, and the cunt below, swollen, pink, shining with my spit and her own juices.

—Fuck me, prof —she begged, turning her head on the table—. Fuck me hard. I came here for this.

I took hold of my cock and ran the tip along the lips of her cunt, soaking it. She pushed her ass back, searching for me. When I drove in, I did it in one thrust, entering all the way to the balls. We both moaned in unison. She was so tight it almost hurt; she gripped me like a fist, warm and alive.

—Holy God —I blurted, clutching her hips with both hands—. You’re so tight, damn it.

—Fuck me, don’t talk —she panted—. Move.

I started thrusting. At first slowly, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in fully, savoring every centimeter of that tightness. The desk shifted with each shove, dragging papers to the floor. Renata moaned with her cheek pressed to the wood, biting her wrist to keep from screaming too much. I ran my hand up her back to her shoulder and grabbed her hair, pulling it back to see her in profile, mouth open.

—Faster, prof, faster, like that, like that —she repeated, and every word drove a spur into me.

I sped up. The slapping of our bodies became constant, wet, obscene. I let go of her hair and dug my fingers into her hips, pulling her onto me with each thrust, pounding into her with all the restrained anger of three days. My palm landed against her ass before I even planned it, leaving a pink mark.

—Yes! —she screamed—. Again, again, hit me.

I slapped her again, harder, and felt her cunt clamp down in response, as if that tamed violence was driving her wild. I slapped her a third time, on the other cheek, watching the flesh tremble. I was discovering her, and discovering myself.

—Turn around —I ordered, surprised by my own commanding voice—. I want to see your face when you cum.

I pulled out with a wet sound, turned her on the desk, and lifted her legs, resting them on my shoulders. I tore off her panties in one yank; the ripped fabric hung from one leg. I sank back into her fully, in that position, and she arched her back with a long cry.

—Oh, Ezequiel, like that, like that you go deeper, like that, God…

I fucked her there, folded over the table, her tits bouncing with each thrust and the thesis papers sticking to her sweaty back. I leaned down and caught one nipple in my mouth without stopping. She sank her nails into my neck and ripped a groan from me. I let go of the nipple to look at her: dark skin bathed in sweat, mouth open, eyes half-lidded, hair messed over the papers, my cock sliding in and out of that pink, shining cunt.

—Touch yourself —I said, my voice rough—. Rub your clit while I fuck you.

She lowered her hand obediently and started rubbing in quick circles while I kept thrusting. The sight finished breaking my sanity. I sped up, driving deeper, rougher, trying for the very bottom. My chair had fallen long ago; I was standing, sweating, shirt open and tie crooked hanging from my neck, fucking my student on the desk in the seminar room.

—I’m cumming, I’m cumming again, oh God, prof, I’m cumming —she started moaning, fingers moving frantically on her clit.

—Come, come on top of me, show me how you cum, beautiful slut.

The word slut came out on its own and it hit her brutally. Her whole body tightened, her back arched until her ass lifted off the desk, and she exploded a second time. I felt the walls of her cunt contract around my cock in violent spasms, milking me, squeezing so hard I couldn’t hold out. I drove three, four more brutal thrusts, all the way in, and emptied inside her with a low roar, feeling every thick hot spurt fill her while pleasure blurred my vision and my legs shook.

I stayed still, buried to the balls, feeling how she was still contracting softly, squeezing out the last drop. I slid out slowly and a thick white thread escaped me, running down her swollen cunt to the edge of the desk.

***

We stayed still for what felt like an eternal few seconds, her collapsed over the table with her legs still open, me braced on both hands at the sides of her hips, both of us drenched in sweat. The only sounds were the laptop’s hum and my heart gradually coming down from its sprint.

—Ezequiel… —she whispered, lifting her face. Her hair was a mess, her lips swollen, and there was nothing student-like left in her gaze. It was the look of a woman who had just marked her territory.

—We have to go —I said, trying to recover some authority. Even to me it sounded weak.

She smiled, lazy and satisfied. She slowly got up from the desk, ran two fingers between her legs to gather what was leaking out of her, and looked at them for a second with curiosity before putting them in her mouth and sucking them clean, never taking her eyes off me. I almost got hard again.

—Amazing —she murmured, smiling—. Now I can settle myself.

She pulled her skirt down, adjusted the torn straps of her blouse as best she could, crossed her arms over her cleavage to hide the disaster. Her ruined panties lay under the desk; we both looked at them and she didn’t pick them up. I pulled up my zipper and fastened my belt with clumsy hands. I felt light, emptied, as if a burden I’d been carrying for years had been lifted. I found my glasses, put them on, and the world came back into focus.

—And now? —she asked, crossing her ankles against the desk.

—Now you go home. And I finish reviewing the theses.

She laughed softly and shook her head.

—You’re incredible. We just fucked over those papers, and you already want to start reading.

She came close one last time, fixed my shirt collar, and tightened my tie knot with a familiarity that scared me because I liked it too much.

—But it’s fine —she said, rising onto her toes to kiss my cheek—. I’m leaving. But don’t think this ends here, prof. There’s no turning back now. I already know you’re not as saintly as you pretend. And I already know how you use it.

She walked toward the door with her legs still faintly trembling. Before leaving, she turned and winked at me, the mischievous spark back in her eyes.

—Thanks for the private lesson, Ezequiel. It was… intense.

She left and the click of the lock echoed in the emptiness.

I let myself fall into the chair. Everything smelled like her, like sex, vanilla, and semen. I touched my lips, remembering the taste of her cunt and the feeling of her body pressed against mine. I knew I should feel guilty, that my ethics and my marriage had just taken a killing shot. But as I closed my eyes and breathed the thick air lingering in the classroom, I didn’t feel guilt.

I felt hunger. Hunger for Monday to come so I could see her again, fuck her again, hear her moan my name again. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like repressing anything.