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The dorm room smelled like stale beer and hairspray. Carol wrinkled her nose as she adjusted the straps on her oversized sweater, tugging it down over her hips for the third time that morning.
Across the hall, Fred was already waiting outside her door, shifting his weight between sneakers like he did every Tuesday before their 8 AM accounting class. “You’re late again,” he said, grinning as he held out a Styrofoam cup of dining hall coffee. When Carol reached for it, his fingers lingered against hers a beat too long—the same desperate little pause he’d been doing since sophomore year of high school.
Professor Fanini’s classroom was ice cold, as usual. He never turned the thermostat below 65, claiming it “kept the blood flowing to the brain.” Today he stood with one polished loafer propped on the edge of his desk, grading papers while the overhead projector hummed. His gold pinky ring caught the fluorescent light when he flipped a page.
Carol’s pencil snapped during the mid-lecture quiz. Fanini didn’t look up from his newspaper as he slid his own pen across her desk—a heavy silver Montblanc that still carried the warmth from his hand. Fred stared at it like he’d seen a gun.
After class, Fanini crooked a finger without turning around. “Miss Welsh, The department office.” His briefcase clicked shut. Fred opened his mouth, but Carol was already slipping past him, the borrowed pen clutched in her sweating palm.
Inside the cramped administrative space, Fanini loosened his tie without touching the knot. “Your answers on question four were… creative.” He leaned back against the copier, making it groan. “Not correct, but creative.” Copies of Carol’s quiz slid from the tray, her hurried handwriting smeared where she’d erased too hard. Fanini caught one mid-air. “You know what happens to bad girls who cheat, don’t you?”
The Xerox machine stuttered out another page—Carol’s chest tight against her sweater, her thighs sticking to the vinyl chair. Somewhere down the hall, Fred’s nervous pacing creaked the floorboards. Fanini’s cufflink scraped her chin as he tilted her face up. “Breathe,” he murmured. Her exhale fogged his glasses.
When his thumb brushed her lower lip, Carol tasted salt and the faint sting of his aftershave. The overhead lights buzzed louder. She wondered if Fred could hear it through the wall—that electric hum, the wet click of her swallowing, Fanini’s quiet chuckle when her knees pressed together too late.
“Bad girls don’t get to keep secrets,” he said, tapping the quiz against her collarbone. His knuckles grazed the neckline of her sweater, lower than necessary. The Xerox spat out another copy—her blush this time, blooming under the fluorescents.
The chair creaked when she shifted. Fanini’s sigh was almost affectionate as he plucked the pen from her trembling fingers. “This isn’t calculus, Miss Welsh. No partial credit.” His teeth flashed when her breath hitched. “But I do believe in… extra credit opportunities.”
Footsteps echoed outside—Fred’s nervous shuffle, the squeak of his sneakers pivoting by the door. Fanini’s palm settled heavy on Carol’s knee. Through her jeans, the heat of his grip seeped into the muscle. “Tell me,” he murmured, leaning down until his tie brushed her thigh. “Does he touch you like this?”
Carol’s pulse jumped where his fingers inched higher. The copier shuddered awake again, spitting paper onto the floor—her quiz, smeared with eraser marks and now, the damp imprint of Fanini’s thumb over question four.
Fred knocked twice. “Carol? You good?”
Fanini’s smile never wavered as he straightened her collar with one hand, the other still burning through denim. “We’ll discuss your… performance,” he said, loud enough to carry, “after hours.” The chair rolled back sharply when he stood. Carol’s thighs unstuck from the vinyl with a sound that made her face burn hotter than his touch.
Fred’s third knock went unanswered. Fanini smoothed his tie down his chest—slow, deliberate—his eyes never leaving Carol’s as she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. The copier groaned again, spitting out a final page that fluttered to the floor between them. “Extra credit,” he murmured, toeing it closer with his loafer. The quiz facedown now, his handwriting slashed across the back: Tomorrow. No bra. No panties. Sit front row.
Carol’s pulse hammered in her wrists, her throat, between her legs where a traitorous throb betrayed her before she could nod. Fanini inhaled deeply through his nose, his eyelids fluttering for half a second before his grin turned wolfish. “Christ, you’re already dripping through those Sears jeans, aren’t you?” His polished shoe nudged her knees wider apart, fabric whispering against the chair. “Smells like cheap perfume and bad decisions.”
The doorknob rattled. Fred’s voice cracked through the wood. “Carol, I’m coming in—”
Fanini stepped back just as the door swung open, his expression schooled into polite boredom while Carol’s thighs clamped shut. Fred’s gaze darted between them, lingering on the scattered papers, the unnatural flush creeping down her neck. “Everything okay?”
“Peachy,” Fanini said, snapping his briefcase shut. He plucked the silver pen from Carol’s lap where it had rolled, his fingers brushing her inner thigh just long enough to make her breath catch. “Miss Welsh was just volunteering to assist with tomorrow’s lecture demonstration.” His teeth gleamed under the fluorescents. “Weren’t you?”
Carol’s fingernails dug into her palms. The quiz crinkled under her shoe when she stood, Fanini’s handwriting searing into her memory like a brand. Fred reached for her elbow—his grip too soft, too familiar—but she was already sidestepping him, the damp cotton between her legs clinging with every step toward the hallway.
Fanini’s chuckle followed her out. “Don’t be late,” he called after her. The copier whirred one last time, ejecting something that sounded suspiciously like lace.
Carol’s thighs burned with every step—not from walking, but from clenching, from fighting the slick heat that pooled between them with each click of Fanini’s loafers echoing behind her. She could feel Fred’s confusion radiating off him like cheap cologne, but she couldn’t bring herself to care, not when her pulse pounded in her clit, not when the phantom scratch of Fanini’s tie still lingered on her skin.
Back in her dorm, Carol sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her reflection in the vanity mirror. She’d never seen herself like this—cheeks flushed, lips swollen from biting them too hard. Her fingers traced the neckline of her sweater, imagining Fanini’s hands there instead. The thought alone made her whimper.
She tugged the sweater off, then hesitated before unhooking her bra. Her nipples peaked instantly in the cool air, sensitive and aching. Carol’s breath hitched as she pinched one between her fingers, imagining Fanini’s mouth instead. Her other hand slid down her stomach, past the waistband of her jeans. They were still damp, the fabric sticking to her swollen lips.
Carol gasped when her fingers finally found her clit, already throbbing. She came embarrassingly fast, biting her fist to muffle the moan that tore from her throat. Fanini’s smirk flashed behind her eyelids—extra credit opportunities—and her hips jerked into her own touch again.
She barely slept that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Fanini’s gold pinky ring glinting in the fluorescent lights, heard the wet click of her swallowing when he tilted her chin up. By dawn, her sheets were tangled, her skin feverish with want.
Carol dressed carefully the next morning—a loose blouse that hid nothing, a skirt just short enough. No bra. No panties. The fabric whispered against her bare skin, every shift sending sparks up her spine. She could already feel Fanini’s gaze burning through her, could already hear Fred’s choked protest when the professor called her to the front of the class.
Her cunt throbbed at the thought.
She was halfway out the door when her phone buzzed—a single text from Fanini: Front row. Legs spread. Don’t disappoint me. Carol’s knees nearly gave out.
Fred was waiting outside her dorm again, but this time she didn’t take his coffee. His confused frown deepened when she adjusted her skirt just a fraction higher before walking—no, striding—toward the lecture hall. The fabric whispered against her bare thighs with every step, the ghost of Fanini’s smirk burning between her legs.
Professor Fanini’s classroom door was propped open with a calculus textbook. He didn’t glance up when Carol slipped inside, but the corner of his mouth twitched as she took her seat—front row, center, legs falling open just enough to make Fred’s pencil snap behind her. The overhead lights caught the dampness already glistening on her inner thighs.
Fanini’s polished loafer scuffed the linoleum as he prowled toward her desk. “Miss Welsh.” His voice dripped with mock formality, but his nostrils flared when he caught her scent—peach body spray undercut by something saltier. Carol’s pulse hammered in her throat as his knuckles grazed her knee under the desk. Fred’s chair creaked violently.
Fanini straightened, adjusting his tie with one hand while the other trailed along Carol’s blouse collar. “Today’s demonstration requires a volunteer.” His fingers dipped lower, catching on the third button—the one that gaped just enough to reveal the shadow between her breasts. “Someone… committed to learning.”
Carol’s thighs pressed together involuntarily, the ache between them throbbing as Fanini placed a stack of quizzes in her hands. “Distribute these,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “And do try to be thorough.” His knuckle brushed her nipple through the thin fabric—a glancing touch that sent electric sparks straight to her clit.
The first row snickered when she stood. The second row gasped when she bent to place a quiz on the nearest desk, her blouse falling open to reveal pink, pebbled nipples. Fred’s choked curse echoed from the back, but Carol barely heard him over the rush of blood in her ears. Fanini’s gaze burned into her spine, his silent approval making her fingers tremble as she moved down the aisle.
By the time she reached the sophomore with gauged ears and a smirk, sweat beaded between her breasts. His pencil rolled off the desk when she leaned over—deliberately slow this time—and his muttered “Jesus Christ” as her nipple brushed his textbook sent a wicked thrill through her. She could feel Fanini watching, could practically taste his smug satisfaction when the sophomore’s Adam’s apple bobbed as she straightened.
Fred’s face was beet-red when she passed him, his fists clenched around his pen hard enough to crack the plastic. His eyes darted between her exposed chest and the tent in his khakis, torn between outrage and arousal. Carol lingered just long enough to watch a drop of pre-cum darken his thigh before moving on, her pulse hammering between her legs.
When she finally returned to her seat, the dampness had soaked through her skirt, leaving a dark patch on the vinyl. Fanini’s loafer nudged her knees apart as he began the lecture, his pointer tapping the projection screen inches from her face. “As we can see,” he drawled, his free hand settling possessively on her shoulder, “some assets appreciate under… proper management.”
Carol bit back a moan when his thumb found the hollow of her throat, pressing just hard enough to make her squirm. The sophomore licked his lips. Fred’s chair squeaked under his frantic shifting. And Fanini? He just smiled, his fingers trailing lower to trace the outline of her stiff nipple through the blouse as fifty pencils scratched uselessly at their quizzes.
She let her knees fall wider when he paced past her desk, the damp curls between her thighs glistening under the fluorescents. A drop of arousal smeared the vinyl seat when she rocked forward—subtle, just enough to make the fabric ride up. Fanini’s pointer stick paused mid-sentence. His nostrils flared. Behind her, someone coughed into their fist.
“Problem three,” Fanini murmured, his knuckles brushing her collarbone as he reached to adjust the projector. The slide changed—a ledger, a balance sheet—but his eyes stayed locked on the dark thatch visible between her thighs. Carol’s breath hitched when his loafer nudged her ankle wider. The scent of her own arousal curled thick in the air.
Fred’s pen clattered to the floor. Fanini didn’t even glance his way as he leaned over Carol’s shoulder, his tie dangling perilously close to her exposed nipple. “The solution,” he said, tapping the screen, “requires… deeper examination.” His pinky finger dipped below her blouse, teasing the swell of her breast. The class tittered. Carol’s cunt clenched around nothing.
When the bell rang, Fanini straightened his tie with one hand while the other palmed her quiz—her name smeared where she’d sweated through the paper. “Office hours,” he said, too quiet for Fred to hear as he lunged for her elbow. “Now.” His Montblanc pen slid into Carol’s trembling hand like a key.
She didn’t look back at Fred’s spluttering protest, didn’t flinch when Fanini’s office door clicked shut behind them. The blinds were already drawn. His desk was already cleared. And Carol? She was already on her knees before he’d unbuckled his belt, her fingers fumbling with his zipper as he fisted a handful of her hair.
“Open,” he commanded. The first salty drop hit her tongue before she could obey.
Carol gagged once—just a reflexive jerk of her throat—before her lips sealed around him, swallowing every twitch, every pulse. Fanini’s fingers tightened in her hair when she hollowed her cheeks, her own slickness soaking through the skirt bunched around her waist. He came with a grunt, his hips snapping forward to paint the back of her throat. “Good girl,” he murmured, watching her Adam’s apple bob. “Now turn around.”
The desk was cool against her bare stomach when she bent over, her swollen cunt dripping onto the mahogany. Fanini’s chuckle vibrated through her as he traced her slit with his still-hard cock. “Look at this mess,” he tsked, landing the first spank so suddenly she yelped. The sting bloomed across her left cheek, morphing into heat that pooled between her legs. “You like that, don’t you? My little accounting slut.”
Fred’s shadow shifted under the door—hesitant, lingering—just as Fanini brought his palm down again. The crack echoed off the filing cabinets. Carol’s knees gave out, her cunt clenching as a hot gush splattered the desk. Fanini caught her by the hips, hissing through his teeth. “Fuck. You’re squirting from a spanking?” His fingers dug into her flesh as another spank landed, this one punctuated by a wet slap that sent droplets arcing onto his loafers. “Say it. You know what i want”
“I—I won’t fuck Fred anymore!” Carol gasped, her thighs trembling. The admission tore something loose inside her—some last thread of propriety snapping as another spasm wracked her body. She came again, her juices running down her thighs in rivulets.
Fanini’s thumb circled her asshole, pressing just enough to make her whimper. Outside, a sharp intake of breath—Fred’s, no doubt—followed by the unmistakable sound of a zipper. Fanini smirked, delivering a final, stinging slap that left Carol’s entire body twitching. “Louder,” he murmured, his fingers sliding through her mess. “Let him hear you break.”
“Never Fred!” she wailed, her voice cracking as another orgasm ripped through her. The chair outside scraped violently. Fanini’s laughter curled against her spine as Fred’s hurried footsteps retreated down the hall—his shame outpaced only by the frantic rhythm of his own fist.
“You belong to me now.” Fanini’s fingers hooked into her swollen lips, spreading them obscenely so fresh slickness dripped onto his waiting tongue. Carol’s thighs quivered when he hummed, the vibration traveling straight to her clit. “Say it.”
Her voice sounded foreign—hoarse, wrecked—when it clawed past her throat. “Yours.” The confession earned her three fingers plunging deep, fucking her in quick, punishing strokes that hit the spongy spot inside. The metal filing cabinet dented under her grasping fingers.
“Again.” His teeth grazed her earlobe. “Let him hear it through the goddamn walls.”
Carol’s scream shattered when he twisted his wrist—”PROFESSOR FANINI’S PUSSY!”—just as Fred’s faint, choked grunt filtered through the door. Fanini’s grin was feral when he pulled her upright by the hair, his other hand smearing her juices across her trembling lips. “Tonight,” he murmured, “you’ll spread those pretty thighs for him in the dorm lounge. Let him see what he’ll never taste.” His thumb pressed against her clit through the ruined skirt. “And if his cock twitches?” A sharp pinch made her sob. “You’ll laugh.”
Outside, Fred’s muffled groan synced with the wet slap of his fist. Carol’s cunt pulsed around nothing, her body already craving the next humiliation Fanini would invent. The scent of sex and submission hung thick between them as he tucked himself back into tailored slacks, adjusting his tie with the same hand that had marked her insides.
“Mine,” he reminded her, pressing the Montblanc into her shaking palm. The gold nib caught the light—just like his ring, just like the chain he’d soon fasten around her throat.
Fred’s sneakers squeaked in retreat. Carol’s knees hit the linoleum again before Fanini had finished zipping his briefcase.
“Louder,” he hissed, dragging her up by her hair until her scalp burned. His spit-slicked fingers pried her lips apart—the same fingers that had just milked her clit raw. “Tell the whole goddamn business department who owns this cunt.”
Carol’s blouse gaped where buttons had popped during her last orgasm. Fanini’s gold pinky ring scraped her nipple as he twisted. “Scream it.“
“I—” Her voice cracked when his teeth closed over her earlobe. The hallway beyond the door erupted in coughs and shuffling backpacks. Somewhere past Accounting 301, Fred’s choked sob carried through the vent.
“PROFESSOR FANINI’S SLUT!” The confession tore from her throat like a live wire, her thighs clamping around nothing as another hot gush splattered the desk. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. A stapler clattered to the floor.
Fanini’s chuckle vibrated against her spine. “Good girl.” He palmed her soaked skirt, kneading the fabric until translucent. “Tonight, you’ll ride the armrest in the dorm lounge—skirt up, legs wide—while Fred jerks his pathetic little dick in the stairwell.” His thumb found her clit through the wet cotton. “You’ll count his strokes. Loudly.”
Carol’s hips jerked. Her own arousal dripped onto his loafer.
“And if he cums?” Fanini’s grip tightened. “You’ll thank me for letting him watch.”
The door shuddered under a sudden impact—Fred’s fist, maybe his forehead. Fanini’s tongue traced the shell of Carol’s ear. “Tell him,” he murmured. His fingers slid under her skirt, plunging into her slick heat with a noise that made the hallway go dead silent. “Tell him what he’ll never taste.“
Carol’s scream shattered the fluorescents. “BERNIE’S PUSSY!” Fred’s answering whimper barely registered over the squelch of Fanini’s fingers fucking her faster, deeper, until her thighs trembled and the desk groaned under their combined weight.
Fanini’s teeth grazed her pulse point. “Again.” His free hand unspooled his tie—silk whispering against her collarbone—before looping it around her throat. “Make him cry.“
Carol’s scream tore through the administrative wing: “MY PUSSY AND ASS BELONG TO BERNIE FANINI!” Somewhere down the hall, Fred’s textbooks hit the floor with a thud that shook the vents. The sophomore with gauged ears whistled through his teeth.
Fanini’s chuckle vibrated against her back as he knotted the tie just shy of too tight. “Go on,” he murmured, smearing her own slickness across her parted lips. “Take your ex-boyfriend to the lounge. Let him sniff what he lost.” His Montblanc tapped her clit—once, sharp—before tucking it into her blouse pocket like a trophy.
The lounge smelled like microwave popcorn and unwashed socks. Carol perched on the armrest exactly as instructed—knees wide, skirt hiked to reveal the dark thatch glistening with Fanini’s spit. Fred’s Adam’s apple bobbed violently when she crossed her ankles behind his neck, her bare heels digging into his shoulder blades.
“Text him,” she whispered, rolling her hips just enough to make the vinyl creak. Fred’s fingers twitched toward his fly before fistng his own thighs. Her phone buzzed against her thigh—Fanini’s signature smirk emoji followed by three words that made her cunt pulse: Make him beg.
Carol’s teeth found Fred’s earlobe. “Lick my shoe,” she murmured, flexing her toes until the damp leather brushed his chin. “Maybe I’ll let you touch my ankle.”
Across campus, Fanini adjusted the projector with one hand while the other palmed his cock through tailored slacks. The sophomore from Accounting 301 smirked when the professor’s phone lit up with Carol’s submission—a photo of Fred on his knees, tongue outstretched toward her bare heel, her skirt hitched to show the tie still knotted around her throat.
Fanini’s gold ring glinted as he typed: *Now make him cum on your feet and eat it
Carol’s moan echoed through the dorm.
Fred cringed—his hands clenched into fists—as she arched her back against the ratty couch cushions. His throat tightened at the sight of Fanini’s silk tie still knotted at her neck, the damp imprint of teeth marking where the professor had claimed her earlier. Carol’s fingers dug into her own thighs as she rolled her hips. “Say it again,” Fanini’s text demanded, the screen glowing against her bare knee.
The lounge TV blared an infomercial—some garbage about salad choppers—but the sound couldn’t drown out the wet squelch between Carol’s legs. Fred’s jaw ached from clenching it. Carol’s phone buzzed again.
She licked her lips before obeying. “MY—” Her voice cracked. Fred flinched. “—PUSSY AND ASS BELONG TO BERNIE FANINI!” The words bounced off the popcorn ceiling. Down the hall, a door slammed. Someone snickered.
Fred’s own erection strained against his jeans—a traitorous throb he hated himself for—as Carol spread wider. Her skirt pooled around her waist. The scent of her—musky and thick with Fanini’s spit—clung to the stale air.
“Now,” she panted, tapping her phone screen, “Bernie says you get to watch.” Her bare foot nudged Fred’s crotch. His hips jerked involuntarily. “Touch yourself,” she whispered. “But don’t you dare fucking cum.”
Fred’s zipper sounded obscenely loud. Carol’s breath hitched when his fist wrapped around his cock—same as she’d done a hundred times before, but now her eyes glittered with something cruel. “Slower,” she ordered, kicking his wrist. “You don’t deserve to feel good.”
Her phone buzzed again. Carol’s grin turned feral as she read Fanini’s latest command aloud: “Lick my toes clean after he ruins his pants.”
Fred’s stomach dropped. Carol wiggled her freshly pedicured toes—the ones Fanini had paid for yesterday—just inches from his leaking tip.
“Bernie’s watching,” she murmured, holding up her phone. The camera light blinked. Somewhere across campus, Fanini’s laughter vibrated through the lecture hall vents.
Fred’s hips stuttered. Carol’s smirk widened.
The first hot spurt hit her instep right as the dorm doors burst open.
Carol didn’t flinch—just arched her toes to catch every pearly drop while Fred whimpered into her ankle. Her phone buzzed against her inner thigh, Fanini’s text flashing: Bring him. My office. Now. The timestamp read 2:47pm—three minutes before Fred’s scheduled study session in this very lounge. Carol’s lips curled as she tapped out a reply with her free hand, her other twisting in Fred’s hair to smear his come across his gaping mouth.
“Change of plans,” she purred, dragging her slick heel down his trembling chin. “Bernie wants dessert.” Fred’s sob vibrated through her bones when she stood, Fanini’s tie still cinched around her throat like a leash. The damp patch between her thighs glistened under the fluorescents as she stepped over him. “Lick your mess off my foot,” she ordered, “or I’ll let the rugby team fuck me raw in your single bed.”
Fred’s tongue was warm and shaking as it lapped between her toes. Carol’s phone buzzed again—a photo from Fanini’s desk: his cock glistening beside an open tube of cherry ChapStick. Hurry, the caption read. I want him to taste where you’re sweetest.
The administrative building reeked of industrial cleaner when Carol gently opened his office door. Fred staggered behind her, his lips still shiny with his own humiliation. Fanini didn’t glance up from grading papers, just nudged a silver bowl toward the edge of his desk with his loafer. “Strip her,” he said, and Fred’s fingers trembled on Carol’s buttons.
Fanini’s sigh stopped them both when the last button popped. “Not like that.” His Montblanc tapped the bowl. “With your teeth.”
Carol’s moan echoed off the filing cabinets when Fred’s incisors caught her blouse hem. The fabric tore—a wet sound that matched the squelch of Fanini’s fingers plunging into his own fly. By the time Fred reached her waistband, Fanini’s cock glistened in his fist, the cherry gloss smeared along the vein.
“Knees,” Fanini ordered, and Carol sank onto the linoleum just as Fred’s tongue breached her folds. The professor’s chuckle curled around them both when Carol arched into the dual sensations—Fred’s frantic lapping between her thighs, Fanini’s thick head nudging her lips. “Good boy,” he murmured, and Fred’s answering whimper vibrated through Carol’s clit as the first salty splash hit her tongue.
Fanini’s thumb smeared the excess across her chin. “Swallow,” he told Fred. “Then clean what drips out of her.”
The bowl clattered to the floor when Fred lunged.
Fanini caught him by the collar—effortless, like swatting a fly—and slammed his face into the desk beside Carol’s splayed thighs. “You’ll ask,” he murmured, twisting Fred’s wrist until bone creaked. Carol’s breath hitched when Fanini pressed Fred’s trapped fingers against her trembling asshole. “And you’ll beg like the virgin you are.”
Fred’s whimper soaked into the mahogany. Fanini’s chuckle curled around them as he leaned down, his tie brushing Carol’s puckered rim. “Tell him,” he ordered, twisting Fred’s pinky backward. “Tell him what he wants.“
Carol’s voice shattered: “Fuck my ass, Professor. The admission dripped with Fanini’s spit, her hips canting backward to smear slickness across the desk. “Please. Please fuck your dirty little sluts—ohgod—tight little asshole while Fred’s little cock twitches and he watches.”
Fanini’s teeth grazed her earlobe. “Again.” His grip tightened on Fred’s wrist. “Make him weep for it.”
Fred’s sob vibrated through the desk when Carol obeyed—her words filthy now, desperate, each syllable punctuated by Fanini’s fingers stretching her wider. “Make him lick it first,” Fanini murmured, and Carol’s thighs trembled as Fred’s tongue breached her without hesitation, lapping at the clenching rim Fanini’s thumb had just abandoned.
Fanini’s gold ring glinted when he finally unzipped Fred’s jeans. “Stroke,” he commanded, palming the leaking head of Fred’s cock with his own spit-slicked hand. “And look at what you’re not getting.
Fred’s head bobbed violently as Fanini’s fingers—still wet from Carol’s ass—guided his trembling fist. The scent of cherry ChapStick and violated virginity clung to the air when Fanini positioned himself behind Carol’s spread cheeks. Her whimper synced with the wet pop of Fred’s precum hitting the desk.
“Beg,” Fanini growled, his cockhead pressing against Carol’s fluttering rim. Fred’s choked “Please” barely registered over Carol’s sob as Fanini’s first brutal inch stretched her obscenely wide. The sophomore’s discarded calculator cracked under Fred’s frantic thrusting.
Fanini’s chuckle vibrated against Carol’s spine when Fred’s hips stuttered. “Louder,” he hissed, sinking deeper until Carol’s scream rattled the filing cabinets. Fred’s broken “Fuck her ass please” dissolved into wet hiccups as Fanini’s thrusts turned punishing—each snap of his hips smearing Carol’s virgin blood across Fred’s twitching cock.
Carol’s nails carved crescent moons into the mahogany when Fanini twisted her hair into a leash. “Tell him,” he panted, his gold ring scraping her abused rim with every withdrawal. “Tell him whose whore you are.“
“PROFESSOR FANINI’S!” The confession tore from Carol’s throat as Fred’s orgasm splattered across her trembling thighs. Fanini’s final thrust buried him to the hilt—claiming, branding—as Fred’s spent cock dripped onto his own abandoned textbook.
The office reeked of sex and submission when Fanini finally withdrew. His Montblanc tapped Fred’s limp wrist. “Clean her,” he ordered, smearing Carol’s mixed fluids across the boy’s gaping mouth. “Then lick my shoes.”
Somewhere beyond Accounting 301, a janitor’s mop slapped against tile in time with Fred’s broken whimpers. Carol’s thighs quivered when Fanini’s tie tightened around her throat—his final knot securing what Fred would never untie.
To be continued…
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