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Prologue
Eight Years Ago
College-aged girls were my weakness. Everything about them made my knees tremble and my cock hard. The way they batted their lashes, the way their lips, slick with girly lip gloss, tipped up in shy, teasing smiles. The way heavy books weighed their arms down as they hurried from class to class.
I was sickly, disgustingly, grotesquely obsessed with everything about them.
When I first became a professor, I vowed to never have a relationship with a student. I’d seen too many colleagues lose their jobs and find their lives flipped upside down, their reputations ruined, and divorced from decades-long marriages, all because of college pussy.
That wouldn’t be me.
But the girl currently sitting in front of me was making it damn hard to keep that vow.
The blonde bombshell with perky tits and a tight waist made me want to throw everything out, bend her over my desk, and fuck her until she screamed my name so loudly it turned her throat raw.
“Professor Ashford?” Eloise’s voice pulled me from my perverted thoughts, and I smiled tightly. “My grade?” Her big brown eyes—eyes that looked innocent but held a gleam that told me she was anything but—lowered to the desk with practiced shyness.
“Of course.” Clearing my throat, I turned my attention to my computer, praying to a god I didn’t believe in to get rid of the hard-on in my slacks. All I needed was for this girl to see and tattle to the Dean. Even if she was teasing me, trailing her white-painted fingernails over the course textbook on her lap, I was the adult. I was the one in power. I couldn’t let her see the effect she had on me. But it wasn’t my fault she had curves in the right places and pouty lips that would look lovely wrapped around my cock.
It wasn’t my fault most girls had the same look.
Perhaps it was wrong of me to know that, with my power as their professor, I could manipulate them into fucking me for a higher grade. I understood why my colleagues, some of whom I’d been good friends with, did the same.
It was hard to not want to abuse our authority and fuck the girls we’d drooled over when we were their age. It was wrong—I knew that. But the more these girls stared up at me with starry eyes and pouty lips, the more I started to think I didn’t really care.
But I had that pesky vow to myself—the vow that was quickly slipping away.
I’d done well up until this moment, usually going home every night, ever the loyal husband, and fucking my wife until we were both left unsatisfied. I wanted more; she wanted less. Lights off under the covers. No oral. No anal. Put it in and get it out as quickly as possible.
Our intimacy, if one could even call it that, was suffering. Desperately.
So perhaps it was all her fault. Maybe it was her lack of sexual desire, her lack of attention for me, that gave me a wandering eye. It was because of her I fucked my fist every chance I got while imaging these ripe college girls kneeling under my desk, sucking me off, while I chatted with another student, pretending like the pretty little cocksucker didn’t even exist.
“There’s a poetry reading this weekend,” Eloise said, pulling my attention to her and her perfect tits once more. They sat high on her chest, her collarbones poking out just enough to make me wonder how much cum she could hold there.
I blinked, shaking the images of her sprawled on my bed out of my mind. I smiled as blandly as I could, still looking at my computer as I said, “Sounds like something you’d enjoy.”
“I was wondering?—“
“It seems your grades are near perfect this semester,” I interrupted.
My gaze slid back to her in time to watch her face fall in disappointment, but if she asked me what I thought she was about to, all my resolve would snap, and I really would fuck her.
I’d take her to that bar and plant her body in front of mine. Her ass would grind against my aching cock while I trailed my hand up her inner thigh until I found her dripping pussy. I’d finger her to a climax so intense she’d want to scream. But she couldn’t. She’d have to stay silent for me. She’d have to pretend like her older, perverted professor wasn’t petting her perfect cunt, helping her come down from that orgasm. Once her knees stopped trembling, once she was breathing regularly again, once she was back to normal…I’d do it all again.
Over and over. I’d send her flying over the edge, then bring her back down before forcing her to come in front of all her peers. Again, and again, and again.
I blinked, refocusing on her once more. I needed to stop fantasizing about her. Even if, in my mind, she wanted me, I wasn’t stupid enough to actually believe it. She was young, and gorgeous, and had half the boys in class drooling over her. What could she possibly want with an old man like me?
But the thought of her young, tight body writhing under mine was enough to make my cock throb in time with my heart.
“You’re one of my best students.”
Her cheeks flushed, and I swallowed thickly, unable to look away from the pretty pink color. How much more would she blush if I praised her while she took my cock? Would she like hearing me tell her she was a good girl? Or would she prefer I called her my good little slut?
“Thank you, Professor.” Her voice was breathy, and it sent electric pleasure shooting through my body. She lowered her head to hide her smile as she tucked her blonde hair behind her ear. Her brown eyes lifted, and she looked at me from under thick black lashes, elongated from mascara. Her lips, slathered with pink lip gloss, tipped up in a smile. A smile different from her usual ones.
This one was full of need, full of something I couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—give her.
