The Morning I Dominated My Professor in Seville

The Seville sun came through the slats of the blinds and cut the room into long bands, but it wasn’t the light that woke me—it was the smell of a shared night. The bed smelled of dried sweat and saliva, of wet pussy and someone else’s semen, that metallic, sweet aroma left only by sex when it has been long, stubborn, relentless. The smell of a thoroughly fucked woman.

Nora was sleeping with her back to me. The sheet had slipped down to her hip, exposing that golden back I had so often imagined biting. Near her left shoulder blade gleamed the reddish mark of my teeth, a deep bite I had left on her against the hallway wall hours earlier, while I buried three fingers in her pussy and she begged me to fuck her deeper. I smiled. That mark was mine. A signature on the professor’s skin.

I propped myself up on one elbow and watched her for a while. She looked vulnerable with her dark hair tousled across the pillow, breathing deeply and slowly. I liked seeing her that way, unconscious, knowing that the moment she opened her eyes, that peace would shatter beneath my hand. There were still shiny traces of my saliva dried on the inside of her thigh, right where I had been eating her pussy until she came for the third time, crying and begging me to stop.

I ran my fingers down her spine, slowly, without pressure, just with my nails. She shuddered in her sleep and let out a long sigh. I slipped my hand beneath the sheet and brushed the cleft between her buttocks with the tip of my middle finger. She was still warm and slightly sticky. I smiled again.

—Come on, Nora —I whispered beside her ear—. I didn’t give you permission to sleep all morning.

I gently bit her earlobe. She stirred groggily and slowly turned her face. Her brown eyes took a moment to focus on me, still clouded with sleep. But when they recognized mine, I saw the spark. The memory of the entire night hit her full force: my tongue between her tits, my fingers buried to the knuckle in her pussy, my knee forcing her legs apart against the wall.

—My God… Alba —she murmured—. What time is it? I feel like a truck ran me over.

—It wasn’t a truck. It was me. And I can still taste you in my mouth.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to recover that facade of a sensible, grown woman. I wasn’t going to let her put it back on. I firmly pushed her wrist aside and pinned it against the pillow so she would look at me without barriers.

—You’re still here. For a second, when I opened my eyes, I thought I’d dreamed it.

—I’m very real. And you’re in my bed. Well, your bed. But I make the rules. Or have you already forgotten what you told me last night when you came with my fingers inside you?

I watched her swallow. Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then to my bare chest, and a blush climbed her neck. I saw her nipples harden against the thin sheet.

—I haven’t forgotten anything. That I was yours. That my pussy was yours. And everything hurts inside, but I like it.

—I’m glad to hear it. Because we’ve barely started fucking you.

I straddled her hips. Her firm, hot skin contrasted with my weight. I felt her dark pubic hair brushing the insides of my thighs. Instinctively, she brought her hands to my waist, and I knocked them aside and pinned them beside her head.

—You’re insatiable —she whispered—. We’ve only just woken up.

—I let you rest last night because you behaved, because you opened your legs properly when I asked and swallowed my fingers like a good slut. Now I want to check something. Look at me. Who do you belong to?

She held my gaze for a second, defiant. That rebellious spark that turned me on so much. Then her eyes grew wet and she yielded.

—You. I’m yours. My pussy is yours.

—Exactly. And because you’re mine, you’re not going to get up to prepare lessons or look at your phone. The first thing you’re going to do is let me wash this smell of sleep and last night’s fucking off you. To the shower. And you’re not going to wash yourself.

I moved away and stood up, leaving her free with the order hanging between us. She bit her lip, threw back the sheets, and rose naked behind me. I glanced at her pussy as she passed: dark hair stuck down with moisture, lips swollen and slightly purplish from the previous night. She looked used. Perfect.

***

The bathroom was tidy and functional, with the impersonal touch of someone who spent little time there. As soon as I closed the door and turned the lock, the air grew denser. The bathroom mirror returned the image of our two bodies: me, pale and angular, with straight hair over my shoulders and hardened pink nipples; her, shorter and curvier, her golden skin marked by the previous night, her heavy tits swaying as she walked and a stripe of violet bites descending along the inside of her thigh to her knee.

I turned on the tap and twisted the handle all the way to maximum heat. Steam began to rise and fogged the glass.

—Careful, the water heater sometimes goes crazy —she warned.

—Good. That way you’ll wake up properly. Get in. Now.

She stepped in cautiously and flinched when the water struck her shoulders. The stall was narrow, forcing us to stand pressed together. Her wet skin against mine sent an electric friction through me. I felt her hard nipples scrape my ribs. She raised a hand to move her hair from her face, and I stopped her.

—Keep your hands still. Arms at your sides.

She obeyed, though I saw her jaw tighten. Giving up control in such ordinary gestures as showering was difficult for her, and that was precisely what made breaking it so pleasurable.

I grabbed the bottle of shower gel—it smelled of almonds—and poured a generous amount into my palm. No sponge. I wanted to feel every inch of her beneath my fingers. I began at her neck, in slow circles. I moved down to her shoulders, pressed the tense spots, and she tipped her head back, offering me her throat. An instinctive gesture of submission that made me smile through the steam.

My hands, covered in white foam, contrasted with her tanned skin. It looked as though I were marking her, claiming every area I passed over. I moved down to her chest, firmly encircled her breasts, and lifted them from beneath, weighing them like ripe fruit. I ran my thumbs over her hardened nipples, pinched them between finger and thumb, and twisted them a quarter turn. She gasped, arched her back, and instinctively sought my mouth.

—That feels so good —she murmured.

—I’m not doing it so you can enjoy yourself. I’m doing it because you smell like last night’s pussy. Now I want you to smell like whatever I decide.

I pinched her nipples harder, pulling them outward until a sharp moan escaped her and her knees weakened. I released them abruptly, and the poor nipples bounced, red and throbbing.

—Look at you. Just touching your tits makes your legs give way. What a slut you are in the morning.

—Alba, fuck…

I spun her around so that she faced away from me. She put her hands against the tiles and arched her back with that natural ease she had, as if her body knew its default position with me. Her golden ass opened slightly as she arched, offered up to me. I bit her wet shoulder and ran my tongue along the nape of her neck while my soapy hand moved down her belly to the dark pubic hair. I rubbed hard, cleaning, invading, sinking my fingers between her swollen lips. She was sticky, slippery not only from the water. I could feel the remnants of the previous night mixing with the fresh moisture already beginning to seep out.

—Look at you, Nora. I’m washing your pussy and you’re already dripping again. Aren’t you ashamed?

—Yes… yes, I’m ashamed.

—Then don’t stop.

I slipped my middle finger between her lips and slid it up and down along the slit, not entering yet, playing with the moisture, barely brushing her clitoris with my knuckle each time I moved upward. She began to push her hips back, seeking pressure.

—I said still. I didn’t give you permission to move.

—It’s just… your fingers. I can’t help it. Put them inside me. Please. Put them inside me.

—Then learn. Because if you move, I stop. And if you ask me like that, begging, I stop too. Sluts have to be taught to wait.

She bit her lower lip and forced herself to remain still, though her thighs were trembling. I rewarded her by driving my middle finger all the way in with a single thrust. She let out a hoarse cry that bounced off the tiles. She was so wet inside that my finger slid in without resistance, meeting swollen, pulsing walls.

—Yes, yes, like that…

—Shut up. Listen to the sound your pussy makes when I go in and out.

I added my index finger and began fucking her with two fingers, slow and deep, curling them inside to touch that rough spot that made her tremble. The wet, obscene sound of the water splashing against her vulva and of my fingers entering and leaving her filled the stall. I bit her trapezius hard enough to leave another mark while squeezing one of her tits with my free hand.

—Do you feel how tightly you’re squeezing my fingers? Your pussy doesn’t want me to come out. It clings as if it had a life of its own.

—Don’t stop, don’t stop…

—I’ll stop when I want to.

I sped up, fucking her with both fingers while my thumb brushed circles over her swollen clitoris. I felt her walls begin to tremble, closing around me in short waves. She was coming. And then I pulled my hand out abruptly.

—No! —she cried, turning her desperate face over her shoulder.

—I haven’t given you permission once. You haven’t even earned the right to come yet. You think you’re going to come in the shower after a little fingering? No, sweetheart.

She remained panting with her forehead against the tiles, her ass raised, her thighs gleaming with water and her own juices. I ran my stained fingers over her lips, and she obediently opened them and sucked them, moaning at her own taste.

—Good girl. Swallow it. That’s your taste. Remember it well. That’s what you smell like right now.

I rinsed away the foam with the showerhead, directing the spray at her chest, belly, and thighs. When the water struck her open sex, her knees weakened again. I kept the spray there for just long enough to torment her, to remind her how sensitive she was, aimed directly at her swollen clitoris, and then I shut off the tap abruptly. The only sounds left in the bathroom were our ragged breathing and the dripping water.

—Get out. Dry yourself.

I handed her the towel without looking at her for long, as if intimacy had ended by decree. I gave her a loud slap on the ass as I passed, leaving an instant red mark on her damp skin.

—Come on, get dressed. I’m hungry. And you’ll hold back your urge to come until I say so.

***

The kitchen was bright, with white tiles and pale wood. She had put on tight jeans and a basic camisole, trying to recover the efficient facade she must use in class. Beneath it, I could still feel her frustration, her nipples showing through the thin fabric whenever she moved. I watched her go from the coffee maker to the toaster, taking out cups and filling the silence with the clatter of cutlery. She walked with her legs slightly apart, uncomfortable from the moisture that was surely soaking her panties.

I was sitting at the table in one of my loose shirts and a pair of shorts. There was nothing relaxed about my posture. I was in predator mode, counting every nervous movement of her hands. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen.

—How do you take it? With milk, black…?

She turned with the coffee maker and a tense smile. Upright, chin slightly raised. The professor was back.

—Black. No sugar. I don’t need to sweeten anything right now.

She poured the coffee into a blue cup. Her hand trembled by a millimeter, but I saw it. She sat opposite me, protecting herself behind the cup and a plate of toast.

—I thought we could go up to the Santa Cruz neighborhood —she said quickly—. The views from Plaza de Doña Elvira are beautiful at this hour, before the tourists arrive. Then we can go down to the center for lunch.

She was building a shield of activities to avoid talking about us. I took a sip of coffee without blinking.

—Sounds like a very organized plan, Nora.

—I’m methodical. I told you.

—Did you? Well, last night you didn’t seem very methodical when you moaned and begged me not to take my tongue out of your pussy. You seemed pretty chaotic.

She choked on her coffee. She wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin and shot me an accusing look.

—Please… we’re having breakfast. Can’t we have a normal conversation for five minutes?

—Normal is boring. And you’re not boring, even if you try to look it with those clothes and that tourist itinerary.

I set my cup down on the table with a sharp knock and slid my left hand underneath. It was a small table, which worked in my favor. I moved toward her knee, covered by denim. She tensed at once but did not pull away.

—We’re in the kitchen —she murmured—. The neighbors have their windows open.

—No one can see what’s happening under the table.

I moved up her thigh. The friction against the fabric made a dull sound that seemed to echo throughout the kitchen. She picked up a piece of toast and spread it with mechanical movements, pretending she couldn’t feel my hand. When I reached the top of her thigh, right where the seam dug into her groin, I ordered her:

—Eat. Don’t let it get cold.

—I’m not hungry now.

—I said eat. You need strength for what’s still ahead.

My tone allowed no reply. She bit into the toast with her eyes fixed on the fruit bowl, avoiding mine. My thumb pressed against the center seam of her jeans, right over her pussy. She instinctively closed her legs and trapped my hand between her thighs. Her mistake. Now my hand was imprisoned against her heat, feeling the moisture the thick fabric was beginning to fail to conceal. I could feel her pulsing beneath my thumb.

—You’re hot and soaked. I left you without coming twenty minutes ago, and your pussy is already dripping through your jeans again. Does it make you nervous when I touch you while you’re trying to talk about tourism?

—Fuck, Alba… stop. I can’t concentrate. You’re driving me crazy.

—That’s the point. I don’t want you concentrating on the scenery. I want you concentrating on my hand.

Her dark, shining eyes locked onto mine. There was no longer any plea for me to stop. I pressed my thumb against the seam and began moving it up and down in a short rocking motion, direct friction on her clitoris through the fabric. She bit her lip until it turned white. The toast trembled in her hand.

—If you come in those jeans without permission, I’ll make you pay for it all afternoon. Do you hear me?

—Yes. Yes. Stop. Please.

I pressed once more, hard, wrenching a moan from her that she tried to disguise by drinking coffee. I withdrew my hand slowly, dragging it down her thigh to her knee, and raised my damp thumb to her nose.

—Smell it. You made that smell through your pants. You’re such a filthy girl.

She closed her eyes and inhaled shakily. Then she sucked my thumb, obediently, without being asked.

—Good girl. Finish breakfast. We’re going out. But understand one thing: even surrounded by people, my hand will still be on you. Even when I’m not touching you.

She nodded, defeated and aroused in equal measure, and bit into the toast again with an obedience that made me smile.

***

The heat of Seville outside was a dry physical blow, very different from the steam in the bathroom. We left the building and the city swallowed us. She walked beside me, trying to keep a steady pace, leading me toward Santa Cruz. She wore sunglasses, a dark barrier over her eyes, but I knew where she was looking. Every time my arm brushed hers, she gave a small start. I knew that with every step her wet panties rubbed against her swollen pussy.

—You’re walking too fast.

My voice was calm, almost a casual comment to anyone passing nearby. To her, it was an order. She stopped dead and adjusted her pace to mine.

—Sorry. I’m always in a hurry.

—Not today. Today you walk at my pace. Not one step ahead, not one step behind.

I stopped in front of a souvenir shop window—fans, ceramic plates, cheap T-shirts—and forced her to stop by gripping her elbow. To anyone watching, we were two friends looking at curiosities. But my fingers pressed on an exact point, enough to cause discomfort if she tried to move.

—Do you see all these people, Nora? Tourists, families, students. No one knows what you are.

I leaned toward her, pretending to point at a red fan. My mouth was so close to her ear that my breath moved her hair.

—No one knows that beneath those jeans you’re wearing my mark. That your pussy is swollen from last night and dripping from this morning. They only see a respectable professor.

—Lower your voice —she murmured—. There are people beside us.

An elderly couple passed by eating ice cream.

—Are you ashamed? You should be proud. You’re private property in a public place. You have my bites on your tits beneath that shirt, and you didn’t even put on a bra. Your nipples show through in the sun.

I released her elbow and slid my hand toward the small of her back. It looked like an affectionate gesture. I moved a little lower, to the curve where her back became her ass, and left it there, claiming her. She went rigid but did not move away.

—If you tense up, it looks as though I’m bothering you. And you’re supposed to like me touching you.

—I do. But you make me nervous.

—No one is watching us. Only I know how the lips of your pussy contract when I touch you here.

I stroked the fabric with my thumb, a circular movement, obscene in its subtlety.

—Come on. I want to get to a terrace.

***

We found a table in a small square, in the shade of a shabby awning. The murmur of cutlery, laughter, and distant music created a chaos in which it was easy to get lost. I had no intention of losing anything.

—Sit there —I instructed—. With your back to the wall.

She obeyed at once, sliding into the metal chair. I wanted to limit her field of vision so she could look only at me, without anyone surprising her from behind. I sat opposite her, blocking her exit, wearing my sunglasses so I could watch her without her knowing where I was looking.

A young waiter, sleeves rolled up and wearing an easy smile, approached.

—Hello. What can I get you?

Nora opened her mouth, her social instincts kicking in.

—A nonalcoholic beer and…

I interrupted her with a gesture, without looking at the boy.

—A glass of red wine for her. And a small draft beer for me, very cold.

The waiter wrote it down and left. She frowned, annoyed at being overruled in front of a stranger.

—I don’t feel like wine in this heat.

—Exactly. You’re too tense. I need you to relax. Besides, wine makes your lips red. I like the way it looks on you. It will remind me of your other lips, the ones below, which are also red and swollen because of me.

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. But I also saw her cross her legs beneath the table. A defensive gesture. Or one of need.

—Uncross your legs —I told her in a low, almost conversational tone.

—Please. We’re surrounded by people.

—Exactly. And no one will know why you’re uncrossing them. Only you and me. Do it.

She sighed and separated her legs, planting both feet on the ground. Her posture changed. She became more accessible, more exposed, though the table covered her.

—More. Open them wider. As if you were going to receive someone between them.

She obeyed. I watched her knees separate beneath the short tablecloth, watched the seam of her jeans pull taut at her groin.

The waiter returned with the drinks and a dish of olives, winked at her, and left. I noticed her return a shy, polite smile. As soon as he turned away, I leaned forward until my face was inches from hers.

—Do you like flirting with the waiter while your pussy is soaked because of me?

—I wasn’t flirting. I was just being polite.

—You’re not a normal person right now. You’re mine. And I don’t like you smiling at anyone like that when you can still feel the ghost of my fingers inside you, when you still have my saliva dried between your thighs.

I picked up an olive and chewed it slowly without taking my eyes off her. She took a long drink of wine, just as I’d predicted. She needed the alcohol.

—Look around you —I said—. That couple looks bored. They’re talking about mortgages. And look at that group of tourists, so innocent. If they knew that the elegant professor sitting beside them was here without panties…

—I am wearing panties. I told you.

—And if I ordered you to go to the bar’s bathroom, take them off, and bring them to me in your purse? Soaked, so I could smell them later while I fucked you. Would you do it?

She froze with the glass halfway to her lips. The noise of the bar seemed to fade around us.

—That’s humiliating.

—And isn’t that what turns you on?

I moved my foot beneath the table and found hers. I began moving up her calf, the sole of my shoe brushing the denim. She glanced around, terrified that someone might see what was happening beneath the invisible tablecloth.

—If someone sees us…

—No one looks under tables. Keep drinking.

I moved my foot up to her knee and slid along the inside of her thigh. She had to make a visible effort not to trap me by closing her legs. She pressed her hands against the edge of the table, her knuckles white. I reached the junction of her thighs and planted the flat sole directly over her pubis, pressing the fabric against her pussy.

—Tell me, Nora. How does it feel? Are you throbbing?

—Yes —she whispered.

—Louder. I want you to tell me what you feel while I have my foot pressed against your pussy in the middle of a square full of people.

I pressed down and began moving my foot in small circles, crushing her clitoris through the jeans. She jerked. Her glass trembled.

—That I’m coming a little more every time you move your foot —she blurted, her voice breaking—. That my jeans are stuck to my pussy because I’m so wet. That if you keep doing that, I’m going to come right here, in front of everyone, without taking my pants down. And I won’t be able to hide it.

Her dark, dilated eyes locked onto mine. There was no trace of the professor left.

—I feel like I want you to take your foot away and put your hand there. Here. Now. I want you to put your fingers all the way inside me in front of the waiter if necessary. I don’t care who sees.

That was the confession I had been seeking. I had broken her in public without anyone else realizing it. I slowly withdrew my foot, leaving her pussy throbbing in its absence. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, humiliated and burning.

—Good girl. But you’ll hold it in. Drink your wine. We’re going home.

***

The taxi ride back was an exercise in restraint. She stared out the window with her legs pressed together and her hands gripping her purse. I sat beside her in silence, enjoying the way her breathing changed each time the car took a turn and our thighs brushed. At a traffic light I put my hand on her thigh and dug my nails through the denim. A gasp escaped her, which she disguised with a cough.

We climbed the stairs without speaking. The sound of my keys turning in the lock rang out like a gunshot in the landing. I let her enter first. As soon as the door closed behind me, she turned toward me and threw herself at my mouth in a desperate, hungry kiss, trying to erase the frustration from the bar. She thrust her tongue deep inside, grabbed my tits over my shirt, and moaned against my lips like a bitch in heat.

I stopped her. I gripped her shoulders and pushed her back just firmly enough to open half a meter between us.

—What are you doing? I’ve been holding myself back for an hour. I need to come. Please. I need you to fuck me.

—I’m not rejecting you. I’m educating you. If I fuck you against the door, it will be a quick fuck to calm you down. And I don’t want to calm you down. I want to possess you. I want you to beg and cry before I let you come.

I walked into the living room and sat on the sofa, calmly crossing my legs. I pointed to the floor, right in front of me, on the rug.

—Come here. On your knees.

She blinked, surprised by the change in tone. She looked at the floor, then at me. Her pride as an independent adult woman gave one last spasm.

—I’m not kneeling down like that, cold.

—Cold? You’re burning. I can smell you from here. The stain on your jeans is visible, sweetheart. If you want me to touch you, if you want me to take away the anxiety eating you up inside, you come here and kneel like the good slut you know how to be when you want to.

I held her gaze. A battle of wills that lasted five seconds. I watched her shoulders drop, watched her release the breath she had been holding. She walked slowly toward me and sank onto the rug at the level of my legs.

—Happy?

—This isn’t about whether I’m happy. It’s about you knowing where your place is right now. And that place is at my feet.

I leaned forward, rested my elbows on my knees, and stroked her cheek with the back of my hand, an almost tender gesture that contrasted with her position.

—What happened at the bar wasn’t a game. Last night wasn’t either. You told me you were mine, and I took you literally. But if we’re going to continue, I need rules. A verbal contract, here and now.

—That sounds very serious.

—It is. Because I’m going to push your limits. I’m going to fuck you in ways you haven’t imagined. And I need to know that you’re surrendering voluntarily.

—I’m listening.

—Rule number one: brutal honesty. I don’t want you to pretend. If it hurts, tell me. If you like it, moan. If you get scared, look at me. I don’t want the composed professor. I want the woman underneath. The slut underneath.

—Understood. No masks.

—Rule number two: obedience. If I tell you to stay still, you don’t move a millimeter, even if you’re dying to touch your pussy. If I tell you to open your mouth, you open it so I can fill it with whatever I want—fingers, tongue, anything. I’m in control. You only have to feel. I’m taking away the burden of deciding. It’s a gift.

And it was. I could see it on her face.

—I like not having to think.

—Rule number three: safety. We’re going to establish a word. If you say it, everything stops instantly. No questions. Your word is “red.” If you say “red,” I stop and take care of you. Agreed?

—Agreed. Red.

I slipped my hand into her hair and grabbed a handful of dark waves, pulling gently backward to force her to expose her throat and look up at me from below.

—Are you willing to be my submissive for the next few hours? Do you give me permission to use you, to tie you up if I want, to fuck you until you can’t walk, to deny you pleasure until I decide?

Her breathing was erratic. Her pulse raced in her neck.

—Yes, Mistress. Do whatever you want with me. I’m yours. My mouth, my tits, my pussy, my ass—everything is yours.

Her confession hung in the dense air of the Seville afternoon. I smiled, released her hair, and leaned back on the sofa. I had the whole afternoon ahead of me, and she, on her knees on the rug with stained jeans and parted lips, knew it better than anyone.