The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sterile light over rows of desks where girls shifted nervously in thigh-high stockings and micro-skirts. This was my class at the University of Sluts, Los Amigos. My palms were slick against the wooden desktop as Professor Blackwood’s gaze fell upon me.
His fingers tapped my exam paper. “Your written answers on fellatio techniques were… impressive.” His knuckle brushed my collarbone, igniting trails of heat down my spine. “But theory means nothing here. Demonstrate.”
I am a slut, I chanted silently, the mantra drowning out my hammering heart. Around me, classmates watched. I slid off the desk, knees hitting the floor.
“Good girl,” he murmured, unzipping his trousers.
The scent of him—musky and sharp—hit me as his erection sprang free. My classmates’ stares prickled across my skin like static as I looked up at Professor Blackwood. His thumb pressed against my bottom lip, demanding entrance. I am a slut, I repeated fiercely, opening my mouth. The first touch of his cockhead against my tongue sent a jolt through me—salty, velvet-soft. I hollowed my cheeks, taking him deeper as he gripped my hair.
A low groan vibrated from his chest when I swirled my tongue along the thick vein beneath his shaft. Someone shifted in their seat nearby, a sharp intake of breath audible. I focused on the weight filling my mouth, the way his hips jerked slightly when I sucked hard. Drool slicked my chin. This is what I am, I thought wildly, tasting the saltiness of his erect manhood. My fingers dug into his thighs for balance as he began thrusting shallowly, fucking my face with slow, deliberate strokes that made my throat spasm.
“Depth,” he commanded, fingers tangling in my hair. I hollowed my cheeks more and relaxed my throat as I took him deeper, gag reflex suppressed by sheer will. Whimpers escaped me—not from discomfort, but the thrill of thirty pairs of eyes tracing my every movement.
“Now,” he commanded, voice rough, “show them how a true slut swallows an entire cock.” His gaze pinned me—expectant, challenging. I didn’t hesitate. Tipping my head back, I took him all the way down until my nose pressed against his pelvis, throat working around him. Tears blurred my vision as I held there, trembling. Applause erupted—sharp, mocking claps from the other students—but Professor Blackwood’s approving grunt drowned it out. “Perfect,” he rasped, dragging himself out with a slick pop. “Now, stand up. Bend over the desk.”
I had my skirt already rucked up around my waist as I obeyed, bare skin hitting cold wood. The air prickled against my wetness. I felt the blunt pressure of his cock head at my entrance. I am a slut, I screamed inside my head, arching back to take him deeper. He slammed into me with one brutal thrust, knocking the breath from my lungs. Gasps rippled through the classroom. Someone whispered, “Fuck, she’s taking his entire cock in her pussy.”
He didn’t ease in. His hands clamped on my hips, fingers digging bruises as he pistoned into me—hard, fast, claiming. Each snap of his hips drove the desk legs screeching across the linoleum. My tits bounced against the desk, the sounds were obscene: wet slaps of skin, his guttural grunts, my choked whimpers. I could feel every girl watching, judging, wanting.
“Louder,” Professor Blackwood growled, yanking my hair. “Let them hear how much you love it.” I moaned, high and shameless, letting the sound echo off the classroom walls. My pussy clenched around him, greedy, as he pounded deeper. The sting was delicious, the stretch a brutal reminder—this is where I belong. Sweat dripped down my spine. I could smell myself, musk mixed with his cologne.
A girl in the front row sighed, shifting in her seat. Her fingers crept under her skirt. Professor Blackwood noticed; his thrusts turned jagged. “See how she craves it?” he snarled at the class. “This is hunger. This is worship.” He slapped my ass hard, the crack sharp. Heat bloomed. I arched higher, offering myself, and he hissed approval. His cock dragged against my walls, sparking white fire. “Tell them,” he demanded, fingers digging into my hips. “Tell them what you are.”
“Slut!” I gasped; the word ripped from me. “I’m your slut!” The confession hung thick in the air, mingling with the scent of sex and sweat. Whispers intensified. A pen clattered to the floor. He rewarded me with a brutal surge, burying himself to the hilt, grinding hard against my clit. My vision swam. Stars exploded behind my eyelids. I was nothing but sensation—the burn, the stretch, the raw, obscene pleasure radiating from my core.
Professor Blackwood leaned over me, his breath hot on my ear. “Again. Louder.” His voice was gravelly and commanding. His thrusts became erratic, punishing. The desk slammed against the wall with each powerful drive. “Tell the whole class what you are!”
“Slut!” I screamed, the word tearing raw from my throat. “I’m a filthy, desperate slut!” The admission echoed, met by a chorus of low moans and the slick sound of fingers working under desks. My own pussy clenched violently around him, the friction so intense it bordered on pain. Tears streaked my cheeks, mixing with drool on the polished wood. I didn’t care. The eyes on me—judging, envious, aroused—only fed the fire. This is me. This is all I am. His cock hit a spot deep inside that made my legs shake uncontrollably.
Suddenly, the professor withdrew. The abrupt emptiness was a shock, cold air rushing against my wet, stretched flesh. I gasped, my hips instinctively pushing back, seeking that brutal fullness again. “No!” I whimpered, the denial raw. His hand landed hard on my ass, the sharp sting a punctuation mark. “Patience, little slut,” he murmured, his voice thick with exertion, as he tucked himself away, smirking. “Good work. Pass. Next student, prepare for anal assessment.”
I stumbled back to my seat, thighs trembling. but beaming with a proud smile at the praise. Yes. This is who I am.
