Elara’s Sex Lesson in Detention – sex story

The heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, sealing me in the quiet, book-lined room. The scent of old paper and his sandalwood cologne filled the air, thick and heavy. Professor Thorne didn’t look up from the essay in his hands, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

“Elara,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through me. “Come in.”

I made sure my steps were slow, measured. I stopped before his massive mahogany desk, folding my hands in front of my prim, plaid skirt. Innocent. Always look innocent.

He finally lowered the paper, his dark eyes lifting to meet mine over the rim of his glasses. They held no anger. Only a deep, knowing intensity that made my stomach flip. “Do you have any idea why you’re here?”

I widened my eyes, letting my lower lip tremble just a fraction. “No, Professor?” My voice was a breathy, confused little thing. A perfect performance. I knew exactly what I was doing. The way I’d ‘accidentally’ dropped my pen in class, bending over so slowly right in front of his lectern. The way I’d held his gaze a second too long when he handed my test back, my fingers brushing his.

He placed the essay down. My essay. It was covered in more of his sharp, red notations than actual text. “This is… disappointingly shallow, Elara. Sloppy. It lacks discipline.”

I dropped my gaze to the floor, biting my lip to hide a smile. “I’m sorry, sir. I suppose I got… distracted.”

“I suppose you did.” The leather of his chair creaked as he stood, his tall frame towering over me. He moved around the desk with a predator’s grace, stopping so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. He didn’t touch me. Not yet. “It seems you require a more… hands-on approach to learning.”

My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. Yes. Please.

“Bend over the desk, Elara.”

The command was quiet, absolute. A shiver, hot and cold at once, raced down my spine. I kept up the act, letting a flicker of confusion and fear cross my face before I slowly, slowly turned and placed my palms flat on the cool, polished wood. I bent from the waist, presenting myself to him, the wool of my skirt brushing the back of my thighs.

I heard the soft whish of fabric, and then the air was cold on my skin as he flipped my skirt up, baring me from the waist down. My breath hitched. The only sound was the metallic click of his belt buckle unfastening, the slow, deliberate shhh-shlick of him pulling the leather strap free from its loops.

He didn’t use it. He folded it, once, and laid it on the desk beside my trembling hand. A promise.

His hand, large and warm, came to rest on the small of my back, pressing me down just a little farther, arching my spine. I was completely exposed, utterly vulnerable. Arousal, hot and slick, pooled deep inside me.

His voice was a low, dark whisper right by my ear. “Detention,” he said, and I could hear the smirk in it, the thrilling edge of controlled power, “is going to be very… thorough.”

His fingers trailed down the curve of my hip, over the swell of my bottom, a feather-light touch that made every nerve ending scream for more. Then his palm came down. Not a slap. A firm, stinging smack that broke the tense silence and sent a jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure straight to my core. I gasped, my fingers scrambling against the wood.

Smack.

Another, on the other side. The sting was bright and sharp, followed instantly by a warmth that spread through my flesh. I moaned, low and involuntary, pushing back against his hand.

“Is that what you needed, Elara?” he murmured, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on the now-hot skin. “A little discipline to focus your clever mind?”

“Yes, Professor,” I breathed, all pretense of innocence gone, my voice ragged with want.

His fingers trailed lower, through my dampening folds, and I jerked at the contact, a choked cry escaping my lips. Oh, god. He traced my slit slowly, from bottom to top, circling my clit with an agonizing, teasing pressure.

“So responsive,” he mused, his own breath starting to come quicker. “So wet for your professor. Is this the distraction?”

He pushed one thick finger inside me, and I cried out, the sound swallowed by the quiet study. I was so tight, so ready. He pumped it slowly, once, twice, the heel of his hand grinding against my clit with each movement. Stars exploded behind my eyelids. More. I need more.

He withdrew his finger, and I whimpered at the loss. I heard the rustle of clothing, the tear of a foil packet, the soft sounds of him sheathing himself. Then the broad, blunt head of his cock was pressing against my entrance, hot and insistent.

He didn’t thrust. He just held himself there, letting me feel the immense pressure, the promise of what was to come. My whole body was trembling, begging.

“Please,” I whimpered, the word torn from me. “Professor, please…”

With a low groan that was pure need, he drove into me, one smooth, powerful stroke that filled me completely, stretching me, claiming me. I screamed, my vision blurring at the edges from the overwhelming sensation of being taken so utterly.

He held himself deep for a moment, both of us panting, connected. Then he began to move.

His pace was relentless, each thrust a precise, punishing glide that hit a spot deep inside me that made me see stars. The desk creaked in rhythm with our bodies. His grip on my hips was iron, holding me in place as he pistoned into me, each impact sending a fresh wave of that delicious, stinging warmth through my backside and a searing pleasure through my core.

I was mindless, reduced to a series of gasped pleas and ragged moans. I could feel the coil of my orgasm tightening, unbearably tight, with every deep, sure stroke.

“You take your… punishment… so well,” he grunted, his voice strained with his own effort, his own pleasure.

His hand snaked around my hip, his fingers finding my clit again, rubbing fast, hard circles exactly where I needed it. That was all it took.

The climax ripped through me, violent and shocking. My entire body seized, a raw, guttural scream tearing from my throat as waves of pure ecstasy crashed over me, my inner muscles clenching around him rhythmically, milking his length.

Feeling me convulse around him pushed him over the edge. With a final, deep thrust and a guttural groan that was my name, he followed me, his own release pulsing into me, his body shuddering against mine.

We collapsed together over the desk, his weight a heavy, welcome comfort on my back. Our harsh breathing was the only sound in the room. He nuzzled into my neck, pressing a soft, unexpectedly tender kiss just below my ear.

After a long moment, he shifted, pulling out of me slowly. I winced at the sensitivity, the feeling of emptiness. He righted my skirt, his touch now gentle, almost reverent. He fastened his belt with that same decisive click.

I pushed myself up, my legs wobbly, and turned to face him. His gaze was hooded, satisfied, but there was a new heat simmering there.

He picked up his folded belt from the desk, running his thumb over the leather. He looked from it to me, a dark, promising smile playing on his lips.

“Now,” he said, his voice dropping back to that irresistible, commanding rumble.