Dom!Kylo, Teasing, Instructional Masturbation, Voyeur & exhibitionism, Pleasure denial, Hatefucking, Sex in the classroom, Spanking, Nearly caught, Degradation and praising, Possessiveness, Older man-younger woman, no aftercare.
The forenoon sun bestowed warm, golden rays of hospitality upon the dormer window of the elevated walls of the classroom. Birds chirped in harmony, as they jestled with the lengths of their feathers, and rhymed in benign song.
Students nimbly scribbled down notes, compacted and smushed in rows and rows of conjoined desks— listening attentively, or contrarily not obtaining a word, that Mr. Ren hollered over the clank of the thermostat, and the boisterous whir of the rustic heater kicking on.
Conveniently, your assigned seat was in the center of the narrow row at the bottom of the classroom; offering you a tempting view, of the dubious Mr. Ren, as he avoided your sultry, liquidated gaze of yearning, and instead directed his wavering attention to the tarnished chalk board mounted to the scalloped brick wall.
Every time those honey-speckled orbs drifted in your direction with reluctance and vain, you found that your dainty fingers had grown dangerous, salacious minds of their own; as they subconsciously, leisurely hiked up the plaid hem of your skirt, and grazed the flesh of you inner thighs.
His inclination was tactile, at the tip of your tongue, as you mimicked the candied, pearly grin of a nymphet, swiping your slithering tongue along the scarlet path of lip gloss tainting your puckering lips, observing the way he adjusted the bulge stimulating in his pants with prudence.
"Over the course of the past few weeks, we've studied numerous capabilities of Gods and Goddesses that originated from Greece," his voice was velvety and mundane; and only you saw the hiccup of his breath when his eyes loitered on you for a moment longer than configuratively appropriate.
"With winter break just around the corner, and me, being the generous professor that I am," he paused and smirked astutely, as snickers erupted from the enclosed corners of the classroom, "I decided that to end off the semester, we will be doing a project that I think you'll find manageable."
One of the bashful boys, with swooping, sandy hair, waved his hand around, and you blatantly rolled your eyes as he directed Mr. Rens attention to him, as opposed to you.
"Yes, Nate?" He accounted him with the point of his ink pen, his eyebrows raised inquisitively.
"Does that mean no exam?" Nate chirped, wiggling his eyebrows and flashing Mr. Ren a witty smile, as Ren chuckled monotonously and pursed his deliciously plump, rouge lips.
"No—" His snicker was hoarse, and keen, like lethal acid, as his hazel eyes darted to you, and back to Nate. "It means you have a project, and an exam due before winter break."
The class groaned in response, and you barked out a poised laugh, as Mr. Ren narrowed his eyes at you in a subtle warning. You would pay for that, and your titillating greed was devouring the thoughts of your punishment lusciously— your panties were soaked, and they had been, since the moment you sauntered into class ten minutes late, with a skirt that was just the perfect amount of short to drive Mr. Ren despicably, and ultimately wild.
He vocally disregarded your shifty cackle, pivoting back to his chalkboard, that had sequences of scrambled words in his ornate cursive handwriting, that were clouded with an ivory abyss of chalk dust.
"The project will be simple." He assured, crossing his bulky arms, as the complexion of his sculpted muscles peaked through the restricting material of his blue button-up shirt; glaring at you pretentiously. "You will each be assigned a God or Goddess to do detailed research on." He plucked off his black margin glasses, raking in the sight of tedious students.
"A one page paper would've sufficed, if you all hadn't decided to collectively groan about it," he grinned diabolically, eyes training on each individual attentively as they murmured curses, before his gaze locked on yours— the satin flesh encompassing his undereye twitching agilely, when he noticed the way your hand dipped past the surface of your desk, and rested virtuously on your thigh.
"I want three full pages. Complete sentences, proper grammar, the usual." He rambled, rounding his mahogany desk, and plopping down into his squelching office chair. "I'll give you the remainder of class to begin your research. Check your emails, I've forwarded each of you credible sources that may help."
Everyone clamored for their notebooks and untucked their laptops, arduously slamming their digits into their keyboards. But not you. You stared at Mr. Ren, with a lecherous stare, that was palpable on his tantalized end. His veiny, calloused hand twitched, his pen faltering in his grasp, as he clenched his jaw and peered up at you through the vail of his dark eyelashes.
You batted your own eyelashes, purity etched into your mechanisms, as you traced raunchy designs into your thigh softly; smiling innocently, as his eyes followed your hand, as it slithered closer and closer to that wildfire of amatory blazing your core.
He briskly shook his head, to shuck the erogenous visions of you away; those lustrous thoughts that were articulating in his mind, that was once stone; and was now infatuated mush, being molded by the hands of his persistent student, that he had claimed as his muse without piecing the consequences together.
He blinked exuberantly, as if the luminescent white lights beaming down on him from the buttressed ceilings were scorning his quarrying retinas. He slipped his glasses back on, and typed methodically into the flat keyboard of his desktop computer.
You opened your own laptop, browsing your email folder. The majority of it was just a collection of junk and advertisements— except a few unopened reports from infuriated professors— and then one, fresh email, from Mr. Ren.
Ren | just now — Nov. 17 |
I'm assigning you Aphrodite.
Open the tabloid for credible sources.
You nibbled on your bottom to suppress a judicious smile, glimpsing him over the barrier of your computer screen; he was staring at you, with that competent, flamboyant arch in his brow, and that scolding curl of his upper lip.
You typed your response tediously, systematically, feeling that heartbeat pulse in your panties as his hooded eyes watched the way your fingers skimmed over the keyboard like it was the plushest of silk.
You | just now — Nov.17 |
You successfully sent the reply without revealing your candor through a mischievous smirk. You feigned the endeavorment that you were researching the Goddess he had assigned you; and that he had assigned you, due to the relativity that her abilities were based off of lust and fertility.
Mr. Ren's whiskey-hazel eyes drank in the diligently poured words of your email; his irises fogged with lust, as he glanced at you diminutively, rolling his shoulders and emailing you back.
Ren | just now — Nov.17 |
Blood rushed to your face, scorning your cheeks a sheepish pink— the diabolic tug of his alluring lips doused your arousal in lecherous gasoline. You scrambled for your mechanical pencil, swallowing your abrupt trepidation, and scribbled down notes from the credible sources he provided you in your journal.
If Aphrodite would've been less flamboyant and custodious over her tempting reputation; Mr. Ren would've compared the two of you. You were an aphrodisiac, to the artistry of his electrifying veins— the equivalent to the libido of Cupid's arching arrow, that pierced his clad soul, and pumped his heart full of affixless toxins.
Time ticked tediously, as it always seemed to when you were anticipating the venereal exploits to come, once that boisterous bell chimed and all of the other students filed out of the classroom.
When the screech of chalk emitted from the slender white stick in Mr. Rens grip, you grimaced, and glanced up at the board. The tendons in his back muscles expanded and strained, his shoulder blades jeering softly, as he briskly scrawled down jumbled notes— presumably for the next course he would be teaching in a couple of hours— for he knew that with you on his hands, he wouldn't be able to get any of his complex work done.
The bell dinged, the irksome chime reverberating around the dull bricks margining the classroom, as students mumbled their farewells and spilled out of the room. A few students stranded behind the mass of people to ask Mr. Ren questions, and you were prolongingly bunching your belongings together and slipping them into your bag, so you had a feasible excuse for being the last to leave.
It was routine, now, blending in with the scenery of other curious students, just to be ladled by the hands of your professor. Both of you had adapted to this endeavoring ploy; watching the clock strike tortuously, itching for the moment it would dismiss the platoon of college kids and leave you with the promiscuous Mr. Ren.
"Have a great day," he said, and you could hear his feigned smile as he waved the last bushel of kids off. They scampered out of the dome constructed classroom— and shivers lined the expanse of your skin when the brawny corridor latched shut.
There was a beat of silence, as Mr. Ren strokes his jaw in contemplation, and blinks down at the scuffle of papers sprawling his desk— that was stained, with the remnants of last weeks events, that accumulated on the surface and was never affixed.
"You were late," his voice was hoarse with vexed mundaneness, as he interlocked his fingers together, and rested his chiseled chin on his thick knuckles. "For the third time this week." He hissed, narrowing his eyes at you provocatively.
"Was I?" You feigned bewilderment, smoothing the rippling fabric of your plaid skirt as you strutted to his desk with tantalizing strides.
"Mhm," he narrowed his eyes into smaller slits, as you slipped into the mahogany seat perched on the opposite end of his desk, batting your eyelashes virtuously. "What has gotten into you?"
He leisurely ascended from his swiveling chair, the clack of his oxfords ricocheting off of the vacant walls of the elevated classroom, as he rounded his desk tediously, until he was merely two feet away from you.
His brawny aroma was intoxicating, pumping the blood that flowed to your brain with infatuation, and salacious greed. "You'll have to be a bit more specific, professor." You mused, nibbling on your bottom lip lewdly and meeting his murky irises, that were fogged with lust.
He caresses your jaw, with the serpentine stroke of his calloused finger, tracing the supple skin until he reached the tip of your chin. He nudged your chin upward, forcing you to peer up at him, as he hovered above your frame, that was compact into the chair.
"You used to be such a good girl," he murmured, his ravenous eyes like a kaleidoscope of disdain and sapience. You purred at the warmth of his caresses, grinning coyly at him, nuzzling into his touch.
"Always on time. Sweet, open-minded," he listed the amiable features, that you once portrayed and coaxed your peers with, his fingers slithering up your chin. "Innocent." He breathed, just as his long, rough fingers slipped past your lips, pressing firmly on your tongue, as you sealed your lips around his knuckles.
"And you used to dress appropriately." He chuckled prudently, thrusting his fingers into your mouth, as you swirled your tongue around his fingertips and sucked eagerly. His other hand ghosted the fringy hem of your skirt, "I'm not going to complain about these little skirts you love to tease me with, though. Because I know your ass is mine."
He spanked your thigh, and you mewled around his fingers, your eyebrows knitting together as the flesh tingled and pulsated.
"Is that right?" He seethed, slowly slipping his fingers out of your mouth, as a ribbon of saliva attached your lips to his fingertips.
"Yes, professor." You mumbled bashfully. "All of me, is yours."
His tempting smirk deepened. His fingers latched onto a chunk of your hair, and you bleated, wincing as he jerked your head forward and growled in your face with minty breaths, "Then who the fuck do you think you are, dressing like my little slut, where every other man can see you?"
He craned your neck backwards sharply, with his fingers intertwined with a clump of your tousled hair. "Hm?" He breathed, his clad chest swelling with contempt, and possession. "Those pathetic dogs were practically salivating at the sight of you in that skimpy skirt."
He spat down on you, his drool dripping down the valley of your perky, unswathed breasts. "And these breasts, bouncing and begging to be groped," he seethed, cupping them in his large, veiny hands, kneading them with precision as you mewled at the friction of his thumb caressing your hardening nipple.
"All of them wish this were them," he whispered monotonously, cocking a brow at you and massaging your breasts harder, as you chewed on your bottom lip to suppress a strained moan. "But only who gets to touch you, baby?" He murmured in his menacing, husky voice. "Is it me?"
You nodded vigorously, a whine of pleasure crackling past your lips, as you arched your back and shoved your breasts deeper into his tantalizing grasp. "Yes, sir. Only you." You rasped, your eyebrows woven together with salacious desire, as your blood runs thin with a hounding, animalistic craving for professor Ren.
"Good." He mused, snickering lewdly. The bronze face of his pristine watch reflected the nimble white rays of the dull sun emitting from the window, as he released the cluster of your unruly hair, and propped his calloused palms on the rigid surface of his desk. "Now, go sit in your seat."
Your eyebrows knitted together in bewilderment, but you complied to his demands regardless of the lethargic aptitude of your dull trudge. You plopped down in your assigned seat, glaring at him audaciously, with a sassy side-smirk.
Those raven, silky tendrils of wavy hair that you loved to skim your fingers through, were framing his brooding face in perfectly ornate ways, that kindled a flame of scorching desire and lechery in your core. He pawed a loose coil out of his stoic face, his plump lips pursed and twisted into a frown.
"Hike the hem of your skirt up," he demanded, and you obliged, your cheeks blemished with sheepishness, as you leisurely lifted the fringy hem of your skirt, revealing the supple flesh of your thighs.
"Mm," he hummed navally, nodding curtly, as he watched the way you shimmied the hem of your skirt higher and higher— up until the point the dampness accumulating in your panties was visible.
"Trace your inner thigh," he commanded, a ripple surfacing in his brow when you relented. "Do it. Put on a show for me, like you were so eager to do as I taught."
You reluctantly swallowed your saliva, that was thick and hefty like molasses with self-revolution, and supply kneaded one of your thighs. Your fingertips carved soft rivers of lethargy into your flesh, as you met his attentive stare, and guided your own fingers towards the bundle of heat accumulating between yours spreading legs.
"Good," he acknowledged huskily, nodding appreciatively in response to your eager compliance. "Now, slowly slip your hand into your panties, just like I do."
He squared his shoulders, applying the pressure of his weight to his palms, crossing his legs and furrowing his brows, as you obeyed his demands and dipped your hand into your panties.
Your fingers ghosted your mound, and your breath hitches, as you chewed on your bottom lip to suppress a mewl, your fingertips creeping down your slit.
"Mmm," he groaned, and you perked up when your eyes darted to his twinging bulge, being restrained by the tight dress pants cladding his long legs, "Theres my pretty girl."
A sugary whine escaped your pouty lips, as you shuddered, your fingers stroking a line up your wet slit. The sweet, velvety sounds that emerged from your parted lips doused Mr. Ren in a divine, succulent trance, as he devoured every gasp, and mewl, and whimper. As he inhaled the debauchery emitting from your body, and thrived off of your tactile libido.
"Play with yourself," he clicked his tongue, voice gruff with domination and intemperance, "I can see how wet you are from here, you're practically dripping at the sound of my voice, aren't you?"
You nodded, failing to stifle the prolonged, strained moan of contempt that reverberated around the depths of your throat. Your fingers brushed your clit, and a jolt of electricity zapped the tendons in your thighs, as you winced at your own touch.
Rubbing precise, calculated circles into your clit, your toes curled salaciously in your boots, as you choked on a bleat of pleasure.
"Dirty slut," Mr. Ren barked, seething the words through gritted teeth, as he clasped his veiny hands behind his back and deliberately paced the mosaic-tiled floor. "So desperate and needy for your professor."
You kneaded swifter, choppy circles, as your core tingled with the carnal craving to be filled. All of that prudence that filtered your system just moments ago had evaporated, as you crumbled under the penetrative stare of Mr. Ren.
You massaged your clit in concupiscent, wanton ways, pinching and plucking, flicking and kneading, up until your legs were shaking with each strum of your damp fingers, your pussy pulsating and drenched in your wetness, and your untamable whines and sputters of gratitude echoed around the confined walls of the exuberant classroom.
Even without the assistance of being stuffed, your peak was ascending the latter of raunch, as your fingers cramped up and your chest swelled with each laboring breath.
"Sir, I-I'm—" Your babbles were intervened by the crude snarl contorting Mr. Rens face.
"Stop," he demanded mundanely, and you whined in protest, only for him to ball his hand into a fist and clench it at his side, "I said stop!" He scowled bitterly, and your breath hitched in denial as you ripped your tense fingers away from your panties.
"Now get on your fucking knees, and crawl to me." He aggressively pointed towards the floor encompassing his black leather oxfords.
You obliged, blinking sheepishly, as your breath quivered with disdain. Dropping to your knees with deceleration, you withheld his grueling gaze, wiggling your hips as you slowly meandered towards him, knees scuffled from the grimy tile.
The black, glimmering surface of his oxfords articulated your coy, submissive reflection, and you only grinned sardonically at yourself before biting your bottom lip and peering up at him, anticipating directions.
"Hi." He cooed, in his velvety, monotonous tone, a supple smirk tugging at his lips as he caressed a strand of your hair. "Is my little girl ready to take her punishment now?"
You only nodded. The words were hot and agile at the tip of your tongue, words that were laced with sin and an abundance of immorality. You choked these venereal words down, silently itching for his touch.
His wrist twisted arduously, as he clambered a chunk of your hair in his vice grasp, and hoisted you off of the floor with a disgusted grunt. His upper lip was curled pruriently, as he eyed you sensually from head to toe, and proceeded to methodically exchange positions with you, pivoting you in his merciless grasp.
He bucked his hips into your backside, and you croaked out a moan, as the force of his brawny build sent you toppling over the desk. Your breasts were smushed into the cold surface, your body squirming under his, as your back arched in response to his licentious yank of your hair.
Your neck was craned, chin tilted towards the elevated ceiling, as he folded at the waist, his broad chest swelling against your back.
"You're mine," he sneered, his jaw barred as his strained voice dripped like poignant vexation in his acidic tone, his breath hot and callous in your ear. His fingers were feathered through your hair, nails embedding crescents into your scalp, as you suppressed a rasp. "Isn't that right?"
The tantalizing skewer of his bulge jeering your ass was fogging your brain with lust. His long digits tampered with the clamp of his belt. Your wrists were voluntarily latched onto your sides. Your flushed cheek was sapping to his desk, papers matting to your clammy skin.
"Yes, sir." You heaved in inclination.
The clank of his belt colliding with the glacial floor, stirred the kindling warmth in your lower belly, and you sighed in relief when his hands slid up your skirt and groped the backs of your thighs, rounding the curve of your ass, protruding your flesh with his rough fingertips.
His calloused hand snapped with greed, as he embarked his palm into your ass. You jerked forward, moaning in anguish, as he kneaded the reddening flesh, only to slap the spot repeatedly.
You clawed at the mahogany surface of his desk, flakes of chipped wood embedding into the pooch beneath your nails, as you grimaced and moaned croakily, thrashing with the force of his ruthless palm.
Just as he alleviated you by smoothing his hand over your puffy skin, the warm tip of his swollen cock ghosted your slit, and you mewled, pushing your hips back into him.
His hands slithered higher up your skirt, grasping your hips, as he teased your clit with the head of his cock, humming gruffly under his breath. You could hear his smirk as he exhaled richly, swirling his tip around the pool of wetness surfacing at your entrance.
"Please, just fuck me." You breathed, your voice high-pitched with yearning, as you spread your legs wider. "Please."
He paused, his fingers threading through your hair and yanking your head back, cracking the muscles in your neck, "Shh, baby." He mused brashly, and your limbs tingled at the grittiness lacing his tone.
In one slick motion, his thick, pulsating shaft sheathed your entrance. He hissed in pleasure, as your walls embraced his dick with the grip of a vice, as if your stability relied on it. You gasped, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, as he flagrantly pounded into you.
"Oh," you rasped, the forceful slap of his hips ramming into your ass ricocheting off of the walls, as the desk creaked and belched beneath you. "Fuck, Kylo—"
He loomed over you then, one hand crushing your windpipes with his ginormous hand, the other coasting your hip as he thrusted into you with deep, rough plucks of his cock, that collided with your cervix brutally.
"What the fuck did you just call me?" He growled maliciously, spit sputtering from his barred teeth and splattering all over the desk, as his pelvis rocked in savage, perfectly tormenting rhythm with the bucks of your hips.
"I-I mean," you moaned lewdly as he removed his hand from your throat and slammed his palm into your head, smushing your blubbering face into the desk, as drool spilled from your flapping lips. "Professor!"
He huffed throatily in amusement, his breaths quipped and raspy, as he plowed straight into you and blowed a strand of coiled hair out of his face, "That's right."
He snickered, as he observed you thrash in pleasure underneath him, melting and molding into his body with howling whines and guttural moans. The thought of a student sauntering past the unlocked threshold only spurred Mr. Ren and his sardonic needs beyond moral adequate, as he gritted his teeth and enraptured himself deep within your dripping core.
"Mr. R-Ren, I'm going to c-cum," you bleated, as the warmth plateaued in your gut, and the inevitable euphoria of your climax teetered towards its edge.
"Do it," he glowered, sweat accumulating in the crevices of your snapping bodies. "Cum on my cock."
And you did. You clamored and clenched around him, shrilling out wanton moans, coating his cock in your juices as you spasmed and latched onto the desk. Your brain was scattered and discombobulated, as you raked in breaths by the lungful, limply rocking with his hefty thrusts.
Just as he was prepared to finish inside of you, there was a quaint, subdued knock at the door. His reaction was ravenous, compared to the heedful response you thought he would conjure. Instead of relenting, and scrambling to slip out of you and button up his pants— he paused, mid-stroke, before chuckling ominously— and fully slipping out of you, just to slam into you again.
You harbored your breath in your lungs apprehensively, stifling the croaky moan crawling its way up your throat, as he rolled his hips into you, fucking you with calculated precision, plucking your sensitive sweet spot.
Apparently, Mr. Ren would grant any student or bypassing professor the motives they needed to report him to the counsel, just to fill you with his seed. It was as if his demeanor was to captivate any lingering persons attention, to declare his ownership over his prized, delicate student to the entire bustling campus.
He craved everything about you, with an infatuation so sensual and scrutinizing, his barbaric soul was beginning to believe that his intoxicating, kaleidoscope of emotions for you could stray beyond excruciating lust. No. No, he loved claiming you as his possession, because you were young, naive, and brittle. Simple to break, even easier to piece back together.
"Stay quiet, little one..." He warned prudently, the slick fapping of his cock inserting and emerging from your quaking core quiet and sinful in your buzzing ears.
You sloppily pushed your hips back into him, just as another knock, that was louder and earnest, rattled the carcass of the doorframe. Mr. Ren pawed a sweaty gland of raven hair out of his dewy face, glimpsing the heavy corridor in his peripherals, as the silhouette of an antsy student bounced beyond the foggy, rectangular window.
"It feels so good..." You whispered drearily, soft, hitched gasps passing through your trembling lips, as you succumbed to his uncharitable thrusts.
"Mhm," he drawled, his head lulling back, as his breaths shallowed and his cock twitched deep inside of you, "Fuck, you're so tight."
He leisurely slipped in and out now, his jaw trembling as he stifled a pleasured grunt, and pumped his hot jets of cum deep into your core. Small, guttural sounds harboring in his chest, as he exhaled through flared nostrils.
Without a proper warning, he eased out of you brashly with a hefty sigh, and you whimpered at the emptiness, as cum drizzled from the tip of his cock and coated the floor.
Another boisterous knock. "Mr. Ren?"
He glared at the threshold, tucking himself away, and twining the buttons of his pants together with steady digits. Your body was convulsing, as cum leaked down your thighs, jerking your soiled panties back up.
Mr. Ren smoothed out your skirt, giving you a soft, nimble pat on the bum, his fingers ghosting your hip as he aids you in removing yourself from his desk.
He swiveled you around sensually, his hand briskly cupping your cheek, as the other brushed your hipbone. "You have to go," he whispered breathily, his lips latching onto yours in a swift, passionate kiss.
"Yeah," you rasped, raking your fingers through your unruly hair. He smirked at you benignly as he adjusted the collar of his button-up shirt, and you cracked a candied grin, reaching on your tiptoes to press another hasty kiss to his lips.
"Finish doing your research for me, okay?" He cocked an inculpating brow, his smirk lingering, as he tightened his tie.
"Yes, sir." You batted your eyelashes, winking at him coyly as he chuckled and scuffled with his wavy hair.
As you collected your bag from your seat, you hoisted it over your shoulder, preparing to shuffle out of the classroom, only for Mr. Ren to interject you.
"Make sure you wear a coat, it's freezing out there," his eyes darted up and down your frame attentively, maternally. "I'll see you tomorrow."
You smiled, your Doc's trudging over to the door, "Maybe. Expect me thirty minutes late though." You teased, circling the silver handle, glimpsing him from over your shoulder with a wry smirk.
He smirked bleakly himself, as he shuffled the scattered papers on his desk around, "I wouldn't expect anything less, from you, my dear." He mused, not lifting his gaze.
You peeled the door open, being greeted with the irritated face of a random student. You grinned at him amiably, waving at him with the wiggle of your fingers, hopping down the foyer with a limp in your left leg.
With one sock higher than the other, a loose, dangling bra strap, rouge lip gloss smeared all along your cheeks, and the creamy liquid glistening on your thighs— you skipped through campus, flashing your legs to strangers, blatantly showcasing your disfigurement.
If only they all knew that professor Ren was the instigator of this walking disaster.
**Authors note: I had to narrow the post down a bit to fit everything, so if the format appears a bit wonky, that’s why!**
