Desires of Professor : Office Sex Stories

“Tell me what you want, Evelyn. Use your words.”

Mr. Harris’s voice was a low rumble against my ear, his breath hot on my neck. His fingers, which had been expertly tracing the line of my jaw, slid down to my collarbone, a possessive and thrilling weight.

My own voice was a breathy, desperate thing I barely recognized. “I… I want you.”

He didn’t move. He just waited, his body a wall of delicious, immovable heat pressed against my back. “That’s not specific enough.”

It had started three hours ago, with a single sheet of paper left on my desk after my final seminar of the day.

Subject: Urgent Matter

Dear Mrs. Thompson, I couldn’t help but notice how your eyes lingered on me during class today. Perhaps we should discuss this further… privately. Yours, Mr. Harris.

My heart had hammered against my ribs. Mrs. Thompson. He’d used my married name, a deliberate, dangerous acknowledgement of the forbidden line we were toeing. And he’d seen me. He’d known. All semester, sitting in the back of his literature class, I’d watched him. The way he pushed his glasses up his nose when making a point about Kafka. The way his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he wrote on the whiteboard. The low, confident timbre of his voice that made the most dense poetry sound like a secret whispered just for me.

I was twenty-eight, a graduate student returning to finish my degree after a messy separation. He was, perhaps, in his late thirties. And he was my professor.

It was insane. Reckless. I should have crumpled the note and thrown it away.

Instead, at 7:02 PM, I found myself standing outside his office door, my knuckles hovering inches from the wood.

It swung open before I could knock.

“Evelyn.” He said my first name like it was a private joke. He’d already shed his blazer and tie. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with dark hair. He stepped back, granting me entrance to the book-lined sanctum. The door clicked shut behind me, the sound final, sealing us in.

“Your note was…” I began, my voice trembling.

“…presumptuous?” he offered, a faint, dangerous smile playing on his lips. He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. “Or was it merely observant?”

“Observant,” I whispered, my cheeks burning.

“Good.” He didn’t move from the desk, his gaze holding me captive. “Because I’ve been watching you, too. Watching you bite that full bottom lip of yours when you’re concentrating. Watching the way you… fidget… during my lectures. It’s been a unique form of torture, Evelyn.”

His words were a direct current, arcing through the space between us and straight into my core. The formality of the room, the scent of old books and his subtle cologne, it all crumbled under the weight of his confession.

He pushed off the desk then, closing the distance between us in two strides. He didn’t touch me. Not yet. He just looked down at me, his eyes dark and intense behind his glasses.

“This is a very bad idea,” I managed to say, my protest weak even to my own ears.

“The worst,” he agreed softly, his thumb finally, finally, rising to trace my lower lip. A sharp, electric jolt shot through me. “But you’re still here.”

My breath hitched. “I’m still here.”

That was all the permission he needed.

His mouth crashed down on mine, not with gentle exploration, but with a raw, starved hunger that stole the air from my lungs. His hands came up to cradle my face, his touch firm, insistent. I melted into him, my own hands clutching at the soft cotton of his shirt. The taste of him, of black coffee and mint, was an intoxicating drug. The scratch of his stubble against my skin was a delicious friction.

He broke the kiss, both of us gasping for air. His eyes were wild. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first day you walked into my classroom.”

Before I could respond, his hands were on my waist, spinning me around. My back met the solid plane of his chest. He buried his face in my hair, and one hand came up to my throat, not squeezing, just holding, a silent claim that made my knees buckle. The other hand slid down, over the swell of my breast, my stomach, coming to rest low on my abdomen, pulling me back against him. I could feel the hard, thick length of him straining against his trousers, pressed against the curve of my bottom.

That’s when he demanded the words. That’s when he asked me what I wanted.

And my feeble “I want you” wasn’t good enough for him.

“Tell me what you want, Evelyn. Use your words.”

His fingers, still splayed on my stomach, dipped lower, brushing the top of my trousers. A desperate, aching throb answered his touch. My head fell back against his shoulder, my eyes squeezing shut.

“I want your hands on me,” I breathed, the admission feeling both filthy and freeing.

“Where?” His voice was gravel.

“Everywhere.”

A low growl rumbled in his chest. His fingers made quick work of the button and zipper of my trousers, sliding them, along with my panties, down over my hips. The cool office air hit my heated skin, and I shuddered. His hand didn’t hesitate. It slid down, past my curls, and his fingers found me, wet and desperately ready for him.

I cried out as two fingers plunged into me, a deep, filling stretch that had me seeing stars. “Oh, god…”

“Not god. Harris,” he corrected, his voice thick with lust as his fingers began to move, a slow, devastating rhythm. His thumb found my clit, circling it with a precision that felt clairvoyant. “Say my name.”

His other hand was still at my throat, a constant, dominant presence. I was utterly surrounded by him, possessed by him. Pleasure, sharp and brilliant, began to coil tightly deep within me.

“Harris,” I moaned, the name a prayer on my lips.

“Again.”

“Harris!” It was a sob as his fingers curled inside me, hitting a spot that made my legs tremble. The coil tightened, unbearably taut. The world narrowed to the feel of his skilled hand and the sound of our ragged breathing. My orgasm ripped through me, violent and shocking, a tidal wave of sensation that left me gasping and boneless against him.

He held me through it, his fingers gentling but not stilling, drawing out every last shuddering pulse. When I finally stilled, he slowly withdrew his hand, turning me in his arms to face him. His eyes were blazing with triumph and undisguised desire.

He brought his wet fingers to his lips, never breaking eye contact, and sucked them clean. The sight was so blatantly erotic, a fresh wave of heat flooded my veins.

“That,” he said, his voice husky, “was just the beginning.”

In one swift motion, he swept the papers and books from his desk. They fluttered to the floor in a chaotic rain. He lifted me as if I weighed nothing and set me down on the cleared surface, the cold wood a shock against my bare skin. He stepped between my legs, his hands pushing my shirt up, his mouth following to lavish attention on my breasts through the lace of my bra.

“I need to be inside you, Evelyn. Now,” he growled against my skin, his own need a palpable force. His fingers worked at his belt buckle, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room. “Tell me you want that. Tell me you need to feel me.”