After Hours. You're halfway down the hall, a stack of graded midterms under one arm, a coffee going cold in your other hand, and you almost keep walking. His office door is closed, which isn't unusual. The professor holds office hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and students trickle in and out all afternoon with questions about citations and thesis statements and whether their C+ could maybe be reconsidered.
But it's Friday. And an unmistakable sound stops you mid-stride.
Muffled. A moan that someone is clearly trying to suppress. You freeze. Your shoes squeak on the linoleum and you hold your breath, convinced you gave yourself away, but nothing changes behind the door. Another moan, longer this time, followed by a low murmur that you recognize instantly as his voice. You've spent months listening to that voice lecture about modernist literature. You know its rhythms, its cadences, the way it drops when he's making a point he considers particularly important.
It's doing something very different right now.
You realize this is a side of him he’s never shown you, and you should absolutely leave. You should walk to the elevator, go home, and never think about this again.
You take one step closer.
The door isn't fully latched. There's a gap, maybe half an inch, where the old wood has warped away from the frame. You can't see anything. But you can hear everything.
"Relax." His voice. Low and calm. The same tone he uses when a student interrupts his lecture. The same authority. But underneath it, something darker. Something that makes your skin prickle. "You wanted to learn. So hold still and learn."
A whimper. Then a sound you can't immediately place, wet and rhythmic, and your brain cycles through possibilities before landing on one that sends heat flooding to your face and between your legs simultaneously.
"Good girl. Just like that."
Your hands are shaking. You press your back against the hallway wall and stare at the ceiling. You’re trying to force yourself to move, but your body has decided independently that you're not going anywhere, and your ears are tuned to the frequency behind that door with a precision that borders on predatory.
You hear her gag softly. Then his breath, a sharp intake followed by a slow, controlled exhale.
"Slower. You're rushing. Take your time with it." A pause. "Use your tongue. Yes. Right there."
Your thighs press together. The pressure makes it worse.
"You've been thinking about this." That voice, god, that voice. Measured and certain, like he's walking her through a close reading of a passage, pointing out things she missed. "Haven't you? Sitting in the first row, staring at me, thinking about being right here."
A muffled sound that might be a yes.
"I could tell. You're not as subtle as you think." The wet sound again. His breathing changes. "Deeper. Come on. You can take more than that."
She gags again. Louder. Then a gasping breath and the sound of her coughing.
"Easy. You're doing well. Breathe through your nose and try again."
Your hand is pressed flat against your stomach. Your heart is slamming against your ribs so hard you're afraid they'll hear it through the wall. Every nerve in your body is lit up in a way you've never experienced, not from the porn you've watched out of curiosity, not from the few times you've touched yourself in the dark and felt more confused afterward than satisfied. This is different. This is real, happening ten feet away, and the man making it happen is someone who handed you a stack of papers this morning, said "nice work on the Woolf analysis" and smiled at you in a way that made you feel, briefly, like the smartest person in the room.
That man is currently getting his cock sucked in his office and coaching her through it. He's giving her a private lesson you can only dream about.
"Open wider. Relax your jaw. Let me in." A groan, his, the first sound he's made that doesn't sound completely in control. "That's it. That's perfect. See? I knew you could do it."
You close your eyes. Behind your lids, against every effort of your rational mind, you picture it. Him in his desk chair. Her on her knees between his legs. His hand in her hair, directing. His cock in her mouth, and you don't even know what his cock looks like but your brain is constructing one anyway: thick, the head pushing past her lips, her cheeks hollowed around the shaft. His slacks open, but his shirt still buttoned, still dressed like a professor from the waist up while she works him with her mouth.
"I'm going to finish," he says, and his voice has roughened, the composure finally fraying at the edges. "And you're going to swallow. And then we're going to discuss your thesis, because it still needs a lot of work. Understood?"
A sound that you interpret as agreement.
Silence. Then a long, low groan, restrained, followed by the sound of her swallowing, small and effortful, and then both of them breathing hard.
"Good." His voice settling back into place. "Take a minute, then let's look at your argument structure."
You finally run.
Ungracefully. Your coffee sloshes over your wrist and the midterms nearly scatter across the floor. You make it to the elevator and press the button fourteen times and stand there panicking until the doors close and you're alone. Your reflection stares back at you from the brushed steel, flushed and wide-eyed and undeniably, catastrophically turned on.
