professor!sevika just can’t help herself to take a “glance” at your photo’s app
the moment she flicks her office door shut, it’s over for you.
ms sevika drops into her chair with that slow, heavy sigh she always uses when she’s pretending she isn’t amused. your phone, your confiscated phone, is still warm in her palm from where you’d been clutching it in class, trying to hide whatever you were doing behind your backpack.
she only meant to check your messages, just to see which friends you were texting instead of paying attention.
…but the photos app is right there.
and gosh, think about the wonders she could see there?! so why not just…take a peek. just. a. peek.
she hesitates for all of three seconds before her thumb taps it open.
the first picture is tame. just you in the mirror, shirt tight, lip gloss on.
second one? you’re in bed. thighs slightly parted. in your panties and bra.. the lacey ones, your favourite set. she exhales hard through her nose, jaw clenching.
and the third? you didn’t even pretend to be shy. your hand between your legs, your face flushed, eyes crossed and mouth open.
“you little brat.” she sits back and loosens the top button of her blouse. keeps scrolling.
each swipe is worse. worse for her, anyway. you arching for the camera, your fingers buried, your tongue out, that one video where you just whimper and moan, babble some shit like ‘o-ohh ngh, fuck, ms sevikaaa!!’ she watches that twice.
her thighs press together under her desk.
she shouldn’t. she knows she shouldn’t. she’s your professor for god’s sake. but she’s alone, the door is locked, your pretty little sounds are playing from your own phone in her lap — and eventually she gives in.
her hand disappears under her jeans, slow at first, like she’s still convincing herself she’s only touching, not doing anything serious. but your voice spills from the speaker again. a shaky, ‘please..’ and she’s gone.
her hips jerk once, sharply like she wasn’t prepared for how badly she’d needed this. her breath stutters, controlled only because she’s trained herself to be quiet. her head tips back against the leather chair, her eyes closed, focusing on the sounds as her fingers working harder and harder the more she scrolls through your gallery.
then she finds that picture.
the one where you’re fully naked, sprawled open, hand between your thighs, looking directly at the camera like you’re begging someone or maybe even begging her to ruin you.
she comes hard.
silent, shuddering, thighs trembling as she grips your phone like it’s the only thing grounding her. her hips lift off the chair before she forces herself still, panting through her teeth, knuckles white. it takes her a full minute to recover.
another minute to wipe her hand discreetly, even though no one’s around.
and then she reorganises your camera roll with the same calm precision she uses when grading papers.
she even favourites a few photos.
your filthiest ones.