Dear Professor

By: Blaire Drake

He watched her.

He knew that it was wrong, but he couldn’t stop. It was becoming an addiction, one that was starting to cost him a lot of money. He’d tried to stop—by God, he had. But, after the slog of grading papers and marking tests, he lived for the thirty-to-forty minutes when she’d be on his screen.

His cock strained against his pants as she bit her lip and removed her bra. Her delicate hands cupped her sizable breasts and massaged slowly. She teased her nipples, saying words he could barely register. He was mesmerized by her every movement, from the way her finger and her thumb pinched her pink, pebbled nipple to the way her raven hair fell around her shoulders.

I want you to touch yourself, he typed.

He knew the exact moment the message appeared on her screen because she paused. It was only momentarily, and he doubted that anyone else watching would have noticed. Not that anyone was watching. Oh, no. This show was for him and him alone.

He liked it that way. Loved it, even. Every movement was for him.

She lay back and raised her hips. She slid her tiny, black thong over her toned ass and down her long legs until she threw the scrap of material onto the floor. As she grabbed her pillow and got comfortable, he stood and unzipped his jeans. They fell to the ground, swiftly followed by his underwear.

His cock sprang free, and he sat back down, grasping the hardness with his hand.

On the screen, Darcy Hamilton eased her hand down her body and between her legs. There, he watched raptly as her middle finger zoned in on her little, pink clit. He watched her as her body jerked in pleasure at that one single touch.

Desire flooded his body. Fuck, how he wanted to be the one to do that. How he wanted it to be his fingers exploring her wet pussy, pumping in and out of it. How he wished her fingers were his cock.

Soon, a voice whispered in his mind as he stroked himself. Soon, she will be mine.

The thought made Professor Jordan Keaton smile.

Dear Professor, I should have known. Wouldn’t things have been so different? Xoxo, Darcy.

The sharp sting of his hand connecting with my ass cheek tingled across my skin.

I was in a severe state of indecision about whether or not this guy was giving me an orgasm or if I was imagining it. It felt like I’d been hanging on the thread that separates the ohgodyeah and oh…yeah for a good five minutes. Maybe longer—I’d lost track of time.

As far as fucks went, he was pretty good, if a little robotic. God only knew that my back was aching from all the arching: my attempt at getting him to do something other than thrust, thrust, thrust. I wanted to reach back, grab his hair, and whisper in his ear that he could roll the heck outta those hips, because those seven inches pounding inside me would be fucking heaven sent if he had any idea what to do with them.

Honestly, it felt like a bit of a waste. Seven inches of cock should not, under any circumstances, be wasted with a guy who banged a chick like he was banging a nail into the wall—carefully so he didn’t hurt his ickle, wickle fumb.

After another minute of his mindless thumping, I realized that the spank was a one-off and, if I wanted to come, I had to do it myself. Maybe he wasn’t comfortable with screwing on camera. I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to know. I just wanted that sweet hell over with—sooner rather than later.

I tilted my head toward the screen and saw the message right as it came up.

Touch yourself.

Now that I could do.

I dropped down to my elbows then reached beneath me, straight to the apex of my thighs. My middle finger found my clit almost instantly, and using the wetness of my pussy, I pressed down on the tiny bundle of nerves and circled it incessantly. After a minute or so, the sweet convulsions of my muscles signaled that what I was doing was working, and I moaned—mostly for the client’s advantage.

Good girl, came his message.

I smiled but bit down on my lip to hide it. Hell, if I was gonna do this a few times a week, at least someone had to get some enjoyment out of it. It was unfortunate that it happened for the client far more than it did me, but I couldn’t complain. I had known what I was getting into the day I’d stepped through the doors of Dalton House.

Pleasure sizzled through my body as I brought myself to my own climax. His fingertips tightened on my hips, and I clenched my pussy muscles extra hard.

It took him two seconds to groan and collapse on top of me.

My client clicked off without another word. It was always the same with this one. He watched me at least two times a week, just like clockwork. The show changed every week. Sometimes, it was solo; sometimes, it was with another guy. Sometimes, I got lucky with the guy my boss brought in.

This week was not that week.

I fought back a sigh as I shut the window down. It occurred to me then, as the guy behind me pulled himself out of me, that I didn’t even know his name.

Sloppy Seven-Incher would do. Names were far too personal for this job. There’s a reason porn stars, for the most part, don’t use their real names.

I shut the laptop screen and reached for the towel I kept on hand. I wiped between my legs and across the tops of my thighs, removing any traces of come. What I couldn’t wipe away, however, was the feeling of yuckiness that remained there.