Office Hours
"I think you missed the point of Hegel's dialectic," Professor Calloway murmured, his breath warm against her inner thigh as the late afternoon sun slanted across his office shelves. Emma's fingers tightened on the couch's leather back, her ballet flats squeaking slightly against the hardwood as she struggled to hold her position—one leg hitched up, knee bent over the sofa's crest like some Renaissance painting gone feral. His thumb hooked the lace of her panties sideways with a precision that felt both clinical and obscene, the damp fabric clinging briefly before yielding.
The first slow pass of his tongue made her gasp, the sound swallowed by the hum of the building's ancient radiator. She'd come for clarification on her midterm paper, her highlighted copy of *Phenomenology of Spirit* still splayed open on his desk, the yellow ink now bleeding into the grain of the wood where condensation from her water glass had pooled. His free hand slid up the back of her thigh, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of her ass as he worked her with a scholar's patience—every flick and circle a deliberate annotation in some private marginalia.
Emma's teeth sank into her lower lip when he hummed against her, the vibration traveling up through her pelvis like a struck tuning fork. The angle was absurd, precarious; her calf trembled against the sofa's upholstery where she'd hooked it, the leather creaking faintly beneath her shifting weight. She could smell her own arousal mingling with the bergamot of his cologne and the musty tang of old books, the scent thick enough to taste.
Her fingers—still clutching the couch—twitched before sliding down her own stomach, the motion half-instinctive. The first exploratory touch made her hips jerk forward, her fingertip catching on slick flesh before pressing in alongside his tongue. The dual sensation was dizzying; his mouth hot and insistent while her own touch curled inward, slow and testing, as if mapping unfamiliar terrain. His groan against her thighs sent a fresh pulse of wetness between her fingers.
"Look at me," he murmured against her skin, lifting his chin just enough for their gazes to meet over the trembling line of her body. His lips glistened. "That's right. Now slower—count with me." His fingers replaced hers, pressing into her in time with his words—two, three, four—before withdrawing on five, the rhythm deliberate as a metronome. She gasped, her thighs tensing around his wrist as he repeated the motion, the drag of his calloused fingertips sparking something sharp and bright behind her ribs.
When she came, it was with his thumb circling her clit and his voice low in her ear—"Good, just like that, perfect"—the praise dissolving into static as her hips jerked against his palm. The orgasm rolled through her in waves, leaving her boneless against the sofa cushions, her hair sticking to her temples in damp curls. He watched her with dark eyes, wiping his fingers absently on his slacks before unbuckling his belt with a quiet click that made her stomach flip.
She opened her legs eagerly, the leather creaking beneath her as she raised her hips to meet him. He tapped his shaft against her entrance once, twice—a teasing pressure that made her whimper—before pushing in with a slow, deliberate thrust that stole her breath. The stretch burned sweetly, her muscles fluttering around him as he sank deeper, his groan muffled against her collarbone where he'd buried his face.
His hands slid beneath her, palms pressing into the small of her back to arch her closer, the angle shifting just enough to drag his cock along a spot that made her toes curl. Emma gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as he began to move—not the frantic pace she'd expected, but something languid and measured, each withdrawal almost cruel in its slowness before he filled her again. The rhythm was maddening, the friction building in tight coils low in her belly.
"You take me so well," he murmured, the words rough against her throat. His hips snapped forward suddenly, jolting a surprised cry from her lips, and she felt him pulse inside her, thicker somehow, as if her body was drawing him deeper still. The sensation was dizzying—like sinking into warm honey, every nerve alight with the sheer impossibility of how full she felt. His fingers tightened on her hips, blunt and possessive, as he fucked her in earnest now, the sofa groaning beneath them.
Emma's second orgasm crested without warning, ripping through her with such violence that her vision whited out at the edges. She barely registered her own scream—raw and ragged—as her back arched off the leather, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders for purchase. He swore against her skin, his thrusts turning erratic as he spilled into her with a low, guttural groan, his cock twitching inside her with each pulse. Heat flooded her core, thick and impossible to ignore, and she whimpered at the sensation, her thighs trembling around him.
When he finally pulled away, Emma collapsed bonelessly onto the couch, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The afternoon sunlight had shifted, painting golden stripes across their tangled limbs, and she watched absently as a bead of sweat rolled down his collarbone, disappearing into the rumpled fabric of his dress shirt. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair before reaching for his discarded glasses on the side table. The lenses were fogged.
She stretched lazily, her muscles still humming with satisfaction, and grinned when he caught her wrist mid-motion, pressing a kiss to the inside of her palm. The gesture was unexpectedly tender—so at odds with the raw intensity of moments before—that she felt something flutter in her chest. Outside, the campus bells chimed four o'clock, their melodic tolling muffled by the thick office door. Neither of them moved.
The first slow pass of his tongue made her gasp, the sound swallowed by the hum of the building's ancient radiator. She'd come for clarification on her midterm paper, her highlighted copy of *Phenomenology of Spirit* still splayed open on his desk, the yellow ink now bleeding into the grain of the wood where condensation from her water glass had pooled. His free hand slid up the back of her thigh, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of her ass as he worked her with a scholar's patience—every flick and circle a deliberate annotation in some private marginalia.
Emma's teeth sank into her lower lip when he hummed against her, the vibration traveling up through her pelvis like a struck tuning fork. The angle was absurd, precarious; her calf trembled against the sofa's upholstery where she'd hooked it, the leather creaking faintly beneath her shifting weight. She could smell her own arousal mingling with the bergamot of his cologne and the musty tang of old books, the scent thick enough to taste.
Her fingers—still clutching the couch—twitched before sliding down her own stomach, the motion half-instinctive. The first exploratory touch made her hips jerk forward, her fingertip catching on slick flesh before pressing in alongside his tongue. The dual sensation was dizzying; his mouth hot and insistent while her own touch curled inward, slow and testing, as if mapping unfamiliar terrain. His groan against her thighs sent a fresh pulse of wetness between her fingers.
"Look at me," he murmured against her skin, lifting his chin just enough for their gazes to meet over the trembling line of her body. His lips glistened. "That's right. Now slower—count with me." His fingers replaced hers, pressing into her in time with his words—two, three, four—before withdrawing on five, the rhythm deliberate as a metronome. She gasped, her thighs tensing around his wrist as he repeated the motion, the drag of his calloused fingertips sparking something sharp and bright behind her ribs.
When she came, it was with his thumb circling her clit and his voice low in her ear—"Good, just like that, perfect"—the praise dissolving into static as her hips jerked against his palm. The orgasm rolled through her in waves, leaving her boneless against the sofa cushions, her hair sticking to her temples in damp curls. He watched her with dark eyes, wiping his fingers absently on his slacks before unbuckling his belt with a quiet click that made her stomach flip.
She opened her legs eagerly, the leather creaking beneath her as she raised her hips to meet him. He tapped his shaft against her entrance once, twice—a teasing pressure that made her whimper—before pushing in with a slow, deliberate thrust that stole her breath. The stretch burned sweetly, her muscles fluttering around him as he sank deeper, his groan muffled against her collarbone where he'd buried his face.
His hands slid beneath her, palms pressing into the small of her back to arch her closer, the angle shifting just enough to drag his cock along a spot that made her toes curl. Emma gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as he began to move—not the frantic pace she'd expected, but something languid and measured, each withdrawal almost cruel in its slowness before he filled her again. The rhythm was maddening, the friction building in tight coils low in her belly.
"You take me so well," he murmured, the words rough against her throat. His hips snapped forward suddenly, jolting a surprised cry from her lips, and she felt him pulse inside her, thicker somehow, as if her body was drawing him deeper still. The sensation was dizzying—like sinking into warm honey, every nerve alight with the sheer impossibility of how full she felt. His fingers tightened on her hips, blunt and possessive, as he fucked her in earnest now, the sofa groaning beneath them.
Emma's second orgasm crested without warning, ripping through her with such violence that her vision whited out at the edges. She barely registered her own scream—raw and ragged—as her back arched off the leather, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders for purchase. He swore against her skin, his thrusts turning erratic as he spilled into her with a low, guttural groan, his cock twitching inside her with each pulse. Heat flooded her core, thick and impossible to ignore, and she whimpered at the sensation, her thighs trembling around him.
When he finally pulled away, Emma collapsed bonelessly onto the couch, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The afternoon sunlight had shifted, painting golden stripes across their tangled limbs, and she watched absently as a bead of sweat rolled down his collarbone, disappearing into the rumpled fabric of his dress shirt. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair before reaching for his discarded glasses on the side table. The lenses were fogged.
She stretched lazily, her muscles still humming with satisfaction, and grinned when he caught her wrist mid-motion, pressing a kiss to the inside of her palm. The gesture was unexpectedly tender—so at odds with the raw intensity of moments before—that she felt something flutter in her chest. Outside, the campus bells chimed four o'clock, their melodic tolling muffled by the thick office door. Neither of them moved.
1ヶ月前
