I often think of how I’d love if Professor!Charlie did unspeakable things to me in the back of the classroom while the lights are dark and everyone is watching a presentation.
Um…ex-excuse me, anon?
(Warnings: Fingering, public sexy-times)
Charlie puts on a film - a documentary, an art piece, a recorded stage play, you don’t know and you don’t care. All you know is the lights are off and everyone’s attention has been focused on the front of the room while all your attention is focused there in the back where you sit. With the shadows. With Charlie.
After pressing play he’d gone over to join you where you sat alone in the last row. It was out of character for you, as you usually say in the front, but before class you’d received a text from him requesting you break your pattern for the day.
It starts off innocently enough (if any of this could ever be considered innocent what with him being your professor). Charlie’s hand slides under the desk and finds yours, interlacing your fingers where your palm rests on your knee.
But as time goes on, Charlie becomes more daring. Or more foolish. You’re not sure which. But soon he’s got your joined hands slid up underneath your skirt, his large index finger swirling feather-light circles around your panty-covered clit.
Before you know it, you’ve brought your free hand up to your face, biting at your fist to keep from moaning obscenely. Your hips gyrate, out of sight behind your desk, allowing your clothed pussy to grind against Charlie’s knuckles when he refuses to give you more pressure. More of the friction that you crave.
You know he must be hard. Know this must be killing him, too, because otherwise why would he be taking this risk and doing this right now in the first place? If he didn’t need this right here and now as well.
But you’d never tell it from looking at him. Because while you squirm in your seat and sweat and ache, Charlie sits beside you perfectly at ease. He’s lounging even, reclining comfortably back in his chair. You’d never know just from looking at him that he was driving you wild. Right in that crowded room. Where anyone could see.
His other hand slides beneath the desk as well and rests innocuously on your knee. You feel his thumb stroke against your skin. A soft caress that makes you look up at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly with what you hope are silent pants. In profile you watch as his mouth curls into a smile. Just as the hand beneath your skirt jolts and he applies a sudden swirling pressure right to your clit.
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since some of yall (mostly racist white people and c**ns) got upset with me the other day about supporting black fanfiction writers, i decided to explain to you all about why i said what i said.