The Afternoon My Professor Gave In at the Library

The first time I noticed Professor Torres was looking at me more than he should have been was on a rainy Tuesday in October. We had been in class for three weeks, and by then I had already identified the room’s blind spot: the back-right seat, almost hidden behind the tall student who was always late. From there I could cross my legs without anyone seeing. Except him.

Professor Torres must have been about forty. He was slim, wore dark-framed glasses, and spoke about Latin American history with an intensity that was unusual in that department. He wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense, but there was something in the way he moved around the classroom — that calm certainty of someone who knows exactly what he is doing — that I found irresistibly intriguing from the very first day of class.

That Tuesday, while he was explaining something about the independence movements with chalk in hand, I crossed my legs and watched his eyes leave the board for a second. Only a second. But it was enough.

I realized several things at once: that he was aware of where I was sitting, that he knew exactly what I was wearing under my skirt, and that he was making a huge effort not to look. That effort seemed more revealing to me than any direct glance.

That afternoon I went home with something lit in my chest that took me a while to identify. It wasn’t surprise, exactly. It was more like recognition. And lower down than my chest, too, a wet little tingle between my legs that I didn’t bother hiding as soon as I closed my bedroom door.

***

The next day I went to the bathroom before his class and took off my underwear. I tucked it into the inner pocket of my backpack and walked into the classroom as if nothing had happened. I sat in my place, opened my notebook, and waited for him to begin.

At some point during the first ten minutes, I opened my legs.

It wasn’t exaggerated or theatrical. I just sat as if the heat in the room were too much and that was the most comfortable position. But he saw it. He was taking attendance and stopped on my name a fraction of a second longer than normal.

—Valentina.

—Present —I answered in the most innocent voice I could manage.

He finished taking attendance. He kept teaching. But every time he walked toward my side of the room, he slightly altered his route so he wouldn’t pass too close. I noticed that, too. And I noticed the bulge that stood out against the fabric of his trousers every time he turned his back to the board.

At the end of class, when the others had already left, he called me over.

—Stay a moment.

I walked up to his desk. He waited until the last student closed the door behind them.

—Valentina, what you’re doing isn’t right.

—What am I doing? —I asked, holding his gaze.

He ran a hand over his neck. Lowered his voice.

—You know perfectly well what you’re doing. I know you weren’t wearing panties under that skirt. I saw your cunt, Valentina. And I’m asking you to stop. Because if not...

He didn’t finish the sentence. That suspended “if not” hanging in the air was the hottest thing anyone had said to me in a long time.

—I don’t know what you’re talking about, professor.

I left before he could answer.

***

That night I was awake longer than I would have liked. I imagined him in his office after I left, reviewing notes that didn’t need reviewing, trying not to think about what he had seen. I wondered whether he would be thinking of me while I was thinking of him.

I slipped my hand between my legs and masturbated imagining exactly that: his face when he saw my naked cunt between my thighs, his low voice warning me beside the desk, his control on the verge of giving out. I imagined unzipping his pants right there, pulling out his hard, hot cock, kneeling in front of him on the platform of the empty classroom. I imagined taking it all into my mouth, feeling it hit the back of my throat, his fingers gripping my hair while he fucked my face without saying a word. I imagined leaning over the desk, hiking my skirt to my waist, spreading the lips of my cunt with my fingers so he could look before he put his tongue in me.

I had two fingers inside me and my thumb rubbing my clit in quick circles. A moan escaped onto the pillow when I imagined him spitting on my cunt and driving his cock into me in one thrust. My other hand was squeezing a breast, pinching my nipple until it hurt. I came thinking about his hot cum sliding down my thighs, about how he would make me clean his cock with my tongue after he had emptied himself inside me.

It didn’t take long. And I came again fifteen minutes later, imagining the same thing but dirtier.

***

On Friday I arrived prepared. I had dressed carefully: light blouse, dark skirt, and nothing underneath from the start of the day. I had already gotten used to that sensation over the previous days, and it no longer made me nervous.

I sat down, opened my notebook, waited.

Professor Torres came in, set his briefcase on the desk, and before looking at the class he looked at me. Only an instant. Enough for me to know he had been thinking about how to handle what might come next.

He didn’t handle it.

Halfway through the lecture, while his back was turned to the board, I opened my legs wide. When he turned around, I had already crossed them again. I did it three or four times during class. Each time I could tell it was getting harder for him to keep hold of what he was saying, and the bulge between his legs was becoming more and more obvious.

Then he came to my seat. He bent slightly, as if he were about to point something out in my notebook, and said in a very low voice:

—If you’re not going to wear panties, at least give them to me so I don’t spend the whole class thinking about your cunt.

I looked at him for a moment.

—Will you give them back after?

—Next Friday.

I thought about it for two seconds. I took the underwear out of my pocket — I had brought it exactly for this moment, and I had made sure to rub it well against my wet cunt before putting it away — and slid it under my notebook into his hand. He took it without anyone seeing and tucked it into his briefcase. I caught a glimpse of him discreetly running his thumb over the fabric before closing the bag, feeling the dampness I had left behind.

He kept teaching as if nothing had happened.

So did I.

***

The following Friday I arrived in the classroom with a mixture of anticipation and something dangerously close to nerves. I waited.

When he took attendance, as he reached my name he walked over to my seat and placed a folded little envelope on my notebook. I took it discreetly and put it in my backpack without opening it.

I opened it in the bathroom, between classes.

It was my underwear. Folded carefully, with a handwritten note that said: Put them on before my class. I’ve come three times on them this week thinking of you.

I did.

And when I put them on I noticed they smelled different. It wasn’t my smell. It was something warmer, denser, unmistakable: dried semen soaked into the fabric, that thick, salty scent that clung to me immediately between the lips of my cunt as soon as I pulled them up over my thighs. I understood at once what had happened to them during that week — I pictured him masturbating against my fabric, moaning softly in his office, coming in spurts over the cotton that carried my scent — and a current ran through my whole body, from the nape of my neck to my heels. My nipples hardened so much they showed through my blouse.

I walked into his class wearing those panties, feeling his dried cum rubbing my cunt with every step. I sat down. And when he looked at me, I didn’t do anything special. I just met his gaze and let him draw his own conclusions.

Halfway through class he stood beside my seat under the pretext of checking something in my notebook and said, barely moving his lips:

—After your last class today, go to the library. Back hallway, between the colonial history shelves. Wait for me there.

I nodded without saying a word.

***

The faculty library was almost empty at that hour in the afternoon. Two or three people were left at the front tables, but the back hallway — flanked by rows of shelves no one had touched in months — was completely deserted. It smelled of old paper and the accumulated dust of years of books no one ever asked for.

I waited standing, backpack over my shoulder and my heart beating a little faster than I would have liked to admit. My panties were soaked from thinking about what was going to happen.

He arrived ten minutes later. He greeted the librarian at the entrance as if he were there to look up some random reference, and walked toward me at an unhurried pace. He stopped half a meter away.

—You can leave if you want —he said—. No one’s forcing you to be here.

—I know.

—And?

—I know, and I’m here anyway. I want you to fuck me, Torres.

He nodded. Took a step toward me and gripped my waist with both hands. Not roughly, but with the firmness of someone who has been thinking about this exact moment for weeks and already knows what he wants.

He kissed my neck. Slowly, without haste. Mouth open and warm breath against my skin, biting me just under the ear. His hand slid down my back to my ass, squeezed hard over my skirt, and I felt his hip press against mine. His cock was hard against my stomach.

—You’ve been driving me crazy for weeks —he said against my ear.

—I know —I admitted.

—Were you doing it on purpose?

—What do you think?

He pulled back just enough to look at my face. He smiled for the first time in all the time I had known him outside the classroom. It was a small, slightly tired smile, like someone who has been resisting something for too long and already knows it’s inevitable.

—You’re a very complicated person, Valentina.

—You are too, professor.

We laughed. And that broke something, because after we laughed everything became much easier.

***

He found a rolled-up mat behind the shelves — I never learned why it was there and I didn’t care either — and spread it out on the floor of the aisle. I lay back. He knelt between my legs and lifted my skirt to my waist with both hands, slowly. He looked at me for a long time like that, with my legs open and my panties soaked and his dried semen stuck to the fabric.

—Are those the same ones? —he asked, voice rough.

—The same ones.

Something in his face changed. He became more intense, more focused. He buried his nose between my thighs and smelled my cunt through the fabric. Then he yanked my panties aside with his fingers and spread my lips apart with his thumbs. He stared at me for a moment, dark eyes behind his glasses.

—Your cunt is soaked —he said.

—I’ve been like this for weeks because of you.

He lowered his face and licked me from bottom to top, once, long and slow, stopping just as the tip of his tongue grazed my clit. The sound that came out of my mouth was involuntary and completely honest. I bit my forearm to control it.

Then he stopped holding back. He devoured my cunt as if he’d been hungry for centuries. He sucked my clit with his lips, with his flat tongue, and suddenly he was pressing it between his teeth with calculated softness that made my back arch against the mat. He slid two fingers into me and curled them, searching for that spot inside, and found exactly what he was looking for. He moved them slowly, back and forth, while he kept sucking me without stopping.

—Shut up —he whispered when a louder moan escaped me—. The librarian is thirty meters away.

I covered my mouth with both hands. He kept going. He put in a third finger, opened me wider, licked my ass too, moving his tongue up and down from there to my clit with a skill that made me think for a second about how long he’d been fantasizing about doing exactly this to me.

I came against his mouth almost without warning, crushing his face with my thighs, shaking all over. He didn’t pull away until I stopped clenching, and when he stood up his chin and lips were shining with my wetness.

When I had a little breath back, I sat up and knelt in front of him. I unbuttoned his pants. My hands were a little unsteady, not from fear but from impatience. I lowered his underwear and his cock sprang out, hard, thick, the tip already wet with built-up need.

—Fuck —I said under my breath, almost without realizing it.

I took him in my hand first. I stroked him slowly, up and down, looking at his face. I caught the clear drop leaking from the tip with my thumb and brought it to my mouth. He swallowed.

Then I took him all the way into my mouth.

I heard his breathing change. I felt him place a hand on my head, not pressing, just resting it there as if he needed to anchor himself to something. I sucked his cock with all the attention I knew how to give. I wrapped my tongue around it, pulled it all the way out to lick the tip in circles, swallowed it to the back of my throat until my eyes watered. I grabbed his balls with my other hand, squeezed them slowly, massaged them while my mouth went up and down the whole length.

—Fuck, Valentina —he said, voice broken—. Don’t stop. Like that, like that.

I sucked him faster. I dug my nails into his thigh. I felt his legs tense beneath me and knew that if I kept going he was going to come in my mouth, but he had other plans. He grabbed my hair and gently pulled me off. The tip was swollen and purple, his breathing out of control.

—Lie down —he ordered.

I obeyed.

He positioned himself over me. He moved my panties aside again and ran the head of his cock up and down my cunt, soaking himself with my wetness. He brushed my clit with the crown and I lifted my hips, desperate for it.

—Ask me —he said.

—Please.

—Please what.

—Fuck me already. Put it in me.

He pushed in slowly. I felt myself opening around him centimeter by centimeter, stretching, my cunt closing around him and squeezing. When he had it all the way in, we both exhaled at the same time. He stayed still for a moment, propped on his arms, looking down at me with an expression I had never seen on him before.

—You’re so tight —he murmured.

—Move.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and buried my face in his neck to muffle any sound I couldn’t control. He started slowly, with long, deep thrusts, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in to the hilt. Each time he reached the end, he hit something inside me that made me see lights.

—Harder —I begged against his skin.

He sped up. He grabbed one of my legs and threw it over his shoulder, and from that angle he drove even deeper into me. I moved against him too, with him, following something that wasn’t exactly a rhythm but more like a conversation where both of us were asking questions and answering at the same time. The mat squeaked against the wooden floor. The sound of our skin slapping together seemed obscenely loud in that library silence.

He pulled out suddenly and turned me face down on the mat. He lifted my ass, pried my legs open with his knee, and shoved back into me from behind in one single thrust. A cry escaped me, muffled into the sleeve of my blouse.

—Shhh —he said, grabbing my hair and pulling just slightly back—. Hold on. Don’t make noise.

He fucked me like that, one hand in my hair and the other squeezing my hip. He hit me all the way to the bottom with every thrust. He put his thumb in my mouth and I sucked it while he drove into me, and then he brought it down to my ass and started moving it in circles there, pressing just enough. I came a second time, biting the fabric so I wouldn’t scream, feeling everything clamp down around his cock.

The faculty dismissal bell rang somewhere far away. Neither of us stopped.

—I’m going to come —he panted against the nape of my neck.

—Inside. Come inside.

He sped up. He dug his fingers into my hip hard. I felt his cock swell inside me a fraction of a second before I felt the first hot jet slam into the deepest part. He stayed still, pressed against my ass, breathing in ragged bursts, while he filled me completely. I felt every pulse of his cock emptying inside me. When he finally stopped moving, he pulled out slowly, and I felt his semen begin to run down my thighs.

***

He pulled away from me and sat on the floor with his back against the shelves, just slightly out of breath. His cock was still shining and half-softening. He stayed silent for a moment that felt long but not uncomfortable.

—Are you okay? —he asked.

—Yes.

—Really?

—Really, Torres.

It was the first time I called him by his last name without “professor” in front of it. Neither of us commented on it, but we both noticed.

I pulled my soaked panties back up, feeling his cum keep leaking between my legs and soaking into the fabric. I straightened my skirt, put on my backpack, and before leaving I turned back to him.

—Next Friday? —I asked.

He stayed quiet for a moment. A long one.

—Next Friday —he said at last.

I left the library. I joined the flow of students heading out through the main gate as if I had just come to consult a history book. No one asked me anything. No one noticed anything. No one saw my professor’s come sliding down the inside of my thigh with every step.

I walked home with that strange feeling of having crossed some kind of line and not being entirely sure whether that was smart or not, but knowing with absolute certainty that I didn’t regret it.

That night I slept straight through for the first time in weeks.