Sitting through another lecture with Professor McArthur was an ache turned molten. Through the entire first semester, I’d let my mind wander, wondering just how his voice would curl down my spine if he called me baby. Some days I’ll just sit there—wide-legged, feeling the heat rise—biting my lip as the wet soaks into my jeans, and his voice fills my head.
Once, I’d moaned.
Friday nights were spent hanging out with the other seniors. I drank myself tired and ready, smoked more than I should, and found a weekend cock to fuck when that was my vibe.
Most weekends, that was exactly my vibe.
But this particular Friday night, I felt tired. A little worn down by college expectations, and a little underwhelmed by student cocks.
I let my roommates know I was heading back to the dorm.
I lit another cigarette as I stepped out into the fresh spring air, letting it lick my face with the promise of spring. The tail end of midterms smelled foul, like something hungry and boozed out. That’s why I’d decided to retreat from it. I’d go back to my room and masturbate in silence.
The paths through campus were quiet, but the city hummed beyond the trees. Austin never sleeps.
I’d just crossed the courtyard before our dorm when I heard it. The sound of the bike came from behind the buildings, and it was strange how I recognized it immediately. I’d know it anywhere, like a dog tuned to the familiar. It made me stop and wait.
The headlights cut through the dark, then dimmed. He stopped next to me.
“Miss Cahill,” he said.
“Professor McArthur,” I answered.
“Stephen,” he insisted.
I let my eyes scan the campus site. A few couples were stumbling up the pathways to the dorms. They would fuck, and at least half of them would regret it in the morning.
“Okay,” I sighed. “Stephen.”
He nodded to the seat behind him.
It was all the wrong decisions stacked on a Friday night. I was technically a student, his student. He was technically a professor. My professor. But was a professor still a professor after hours on a Friday?
Was a student still a student when the university technically didn’t own her?
I inhaled deeply and let the smoke settle in my lungs before allowing it to curl from my nose. I flicked my cigarette into the grass and straddled the seat, my thighs wrapping around him. My cunt shivered with anticipation, pulsing into his ass. He didn’t speak. He just handed me the black visor helmet and took off, the heat of his leather pressed to my chest, the rumble of the machine rubbing me raw through the seat.
I remembered the first conversation with him.
“Miss Cahill. Victoria?” he had said, leaning back in his chair. “There are a few notes on your… morale in your file.”
His shirt clung to his chest like it was begging for mercy. His lazy curls danced with hypnotic allure, and his eyes burrowed behind mine. He was the first man who made me shrink just by looking at me; it had been eating at me since his first lecture.
I don’t shrink.
And yet, here I was, straddling his bike, grinding wet onto leather and holding him tighter than I needed to.
Every red light was a torturous halt. The slow idling struck like an even pulse into my crotch, crawling up my spine and down my thighs. And then we’d fly again, and I’d gasp with every acceleration. I loved how I hated it. How easy it was to surrender to motion and the unspoken. I let myself fill with the smell of leather and the raw fact of being taken. It was an abduction fantasy, and I wanted the unknown.
I let him steer without asking or telling, not a word on intent. Where didn’t matter. The road didn’t matter. The ride was all that mattered.
And still, I wanted it to end so he could bend me over a railing like a cheap thrill picked up at a dive bar. I wanted him to fuck me senseless and leave me stranded in a ditch with my jeans ripped around my ankles, dripping cum like I was leaking all his theories straight from my cunt.
But the red lights stopped, as did the city, and suddenly I missed the halts. Speed mattered now. The roads narrowed with each intersection, trees edging closer, crowding the bike like they might reach in and drag us off the asphalt and into the dark beyond.
I wondered if he knew. If he could feel me pressed against him, soaked through my jeans, my breath catching every time we leaned into a curve. I didn’t want to ask where we were going. I didn’t want him to tell me.
If I knew, I might say no.
And I didn’t want to say no.
He turned again, up a narrow gravel road where the trees stood close enough that I could reach out and touch them. The ride turned rough and uneven, like the bike itself was trying to fuck me into an orgasm, each jolt daring a whimper I knew he could hear. I slid my hands down to his crotch. At least he was as hard as I was wet. At least I wasn’t alone in whatever this was.
A cottage appeared beyond the trees, a single light shining through one of its windows. We came to a halt just beyond its porch.
I got off and felt the heat and moisture on the seat. He let the bike idle before killing the engine and setting it on the stand.
Quiet had never felt louder.
He removed his helmet, let it hang from the bar, and finally looked at me.
I knew what he was seeing, and he’d probably seen it numerous times before: a horny little slut asking to be taken.
He was part of the institution but wasn’t too concerned with its rules. Power and morality blurred where consent overrode structure.
“Well, Victoria,” he said, too calm for ease, too eerie for comfort, “Ready to put yourself to the test?”
I fumbled with the words in my mouth; everything was layered in wetness, drool, and lust. I bit my lip to stop myself from speaking, because every word that pressed forward sounded like fuck me.
I swallowed it and tried to bury it. I tried to breathe past it, and he just watched me struggle. Everything in me was wet.
I didn’t even jerk when the door opened. A woman caught halfway between my age and his appeared in the doorway.
“So, this is her, Stephen?” she asked.
“Victoria,” he grinned. “Meet my wife, Susan.”
Susan was gorgeous. I wasn’t alarmed that she wore a tight corset, had her tits hanging out, and an open crotch worn with purpose. It made sense.
Love only reaches as far as consent, and when consent stops at desire, there is no limit to love.
I wondered how many of his students had spent a weekend at his cottage, but the decision that it didn’t matter arrived almost immediately.
She took my hand and led me up the three creaking stairs; he followed across the deck and into the cottage.
It smelled of warmth, of wood fighting the elements for generations of men.
“Drink? Weed? Drugs?” she asked me, a smile so tender my crotch moaned.
“Scotch,” I answered, but my voice was weak and trembling.
She grinned.
“Motorcycles,” she whispered knowingly. “Who needs foreplay?”
She nodded toward the chair at the table, poured a generous measure of golden, inevitable consent, and slid the drink across before sitting opposite me and lighting a cigarette.
She watched me sip. She watched me fill my mouth and dull my tongue in the sting. She watched me swallow.
“So, Victoria. Stephen tells me you’re not afraid to fuck?”
I feigned nonchalance and took another dulling sip, trying to figure out what lay beyond that tiny kitchen.
“Oh? Curious?” she teased, smoke trailing her words in a warm breath. “The tour? Later, honey. Drink and answer my question.”
Stephen pulled off his boots and leathers, muscles tensed and playing under his t-shirt. A swell in his boxers let me know I still wasn’t alone in this. But her presence made me hesitate. What was her vibe?
“I…”
I made a mental note to ask my future self, when my prefrontal cortex might have landed me anywhere other than where I found myself that night: why a married woman made me hesitate. It was her tits that were out. Not mine. At least not yet.
I swallowed.
“I fuck what I want,” I said.
“Good,” she grinned. “I don’t fuck anyone who has to ask permission.”
She watched me finish my drink too quickly, then poured another.
“Do you like my tits?” she breathed.
They were pale, beautifully so against the black of her corset, pierced with a rose blooming across the curve. They weren’t as big as mine, but perhaps they had been once.
“I’m more of a cunt and ass person,” I admitted.
She smiled, wide and unapologetic, openly inviting.
“Good,” she said. “Because I love sitting on a girl’s face while she’s fucked.”
It was enough to conjure it: my body spread and taken, her cunt above me, my brain parsing every detail of my undoing, caught between instinct and intellect, theory and heat.
“Ready to figure out what’s beyond?” she teased, still in control, still guiding the moment.
I looked at my professor. We shared the same disdain for Freud, and I loved how he dismantled illusion and forced his students to think beyond the syllabus. His eyes gave nothing away, but I suspected this was just another part of his curriculum. He didn’t bring the easy ones here.
He brought the difficult ones.
I downed my drink and let it settle in my blood, in my guts, and in the pulse of my cunt.
“Oh, no clothes beyond this room,” she teased, eyeing her husband as sternly as she did me.
He was already halfway there.
I stood and pulled off my hoodie. There was no ceremonial grace, no pretended shame. I unbuttoned my jeans and let them drop to the floor. My panties were soaked, but they’d already smelled me. I stepped out of my jeans, a little wobbly from whiskey and want, and regretted declining the joint.
“Your move, Professor,” I panted.
He pulled off his t-shirt, every muscle taut like it had rehearsed for this.
He came close and pressed against me. His fingers reached around, unclasping my bra with practiced indifference. I shrank under his touch, not from weakness, but from everything inside me shifting toward need.
He slid the straps down my shoulders but held the fabric in place by staying close. His fingers traced the slope of my side. I jolted at the touch, delicate but devastating. Then he found the strings of my panties. His fingers tugged the fabric tight, the press of it firm against my cunt for a breath before it gave.
The snap was intimate, sharp and final, and the recoil sent a helpless jiggle through my ass that made my breath catch.
He stepped back. My bra fell to the floor like a final exhale.
“Your move, Victoria,” he replied.
It was the moment every girl hesitates before she kneels in front of a man, wanting to pull him free from cloth and smell his flesh and arousal. I’d read the theories behind it.
I was done with theory.
I was done with hesitation.
I let the breath out and dropped effortlessly to my knees. I tugged gently at the waistband of his boxers and pulled slowly. A perfect bulge, slick with his own arousal, ground against my cheek.
First came cloth against skin, then, as I pulled, flesh against flesh.
He wasn’t stiff or rigid, but perfectly swelled, hot against my cheek.
I pulled back and watched. Even like this, he was bigger than most, bigger than any weekend boyfriend I’d had. Almost the size of my high school linebacker, Trevor. A slick drop of pre-cum inviting my tongue.
I parted my lips, wanting a taste.
The whip cracked, and pain stung my ass and teased my cunt with more sensation than I thought possible.
“I didn’t say you could,” Susan snarled behind me.
It was that kind of game.
I stayed still, my breath shaking, my cheek still pressed to the heat of him. I felt him pulse and thicken, a consuming warmth radiating through my jaw.
Behind me, the whip dragged across the floor, slow and deliberate, not quite a threat and not quite a tease. Leather kissed the backs of my thighs, traced my ass, and slipped up the crack like a question with only one answer.
“Again,” I begged.
“Get up,” she said.
I rose slowly and unfolded like a confession. Each motion was a surrender. I wasn’t thinking in terms of theory anymore; in fact, I wasn’t thinking at all. I was hot breath, thundering pulse, and only carried the sticky truth between my legs.
How long had it been since I told my roommates I was retreating? That was earlier, in the form of a different Victoria. I had been on my way to the dorm, to my bed, only wanting to masturbate slowly before finding sleep.
But that was before the night came with a different intent.
Before the ride abducted me from that life.
Before the seat taught me a different intimacy.
Before the gravel road and the cottage and the woman with a whip appeared.
Before my professor’s cock pressed like a brand against my cheek.
As I stood, I realized the night was still unknown. My thighs trembled. My cunt throbbed. And this wasn’t even the game.
“Good girl,” Susan said. There was no sweetness in her voice, no softness in her confirmation, no tenderness in her allowing.
It still made me moan. No, I whimpered. I whimpered.
She pushed the door open and nudged me inside.
The last time I had seen a room like that was through a kink search on my laptop, from the safety of my ass on a chair, legs braced against my desk. It had looked like sin and release, of lube and oils, of wood and iron. But that space had been staged. This one wasn’t.
This was real.
It wasn’t a scene set up and cleaned for the next take, not a place you could pretend inside. There was no one to fix the girl’s makeup, no one fluffing the male lead.
There was just the one bench with braces and rings, spreaders and chains, not built for comfort, but for the total surrender of anything you could mistake for control.
It was something I’d once decided wasn’t for me.
But now, I ached for it.
“On the bench,” Susan said.
It wasn’t a command. It was a suggestion, a breath along my spine, too soft to refuse.
My feet didn’t move at first, but my pulse did. It throbbed through every sensory opening of my body. I circled the table once, pretending I had a choice, pretending she didn’t own me, pretending I still breathed from will and not her allowance.
I traced my fingers against the wood and the stains, imagining the girls who had surrendered before me. Then I climbed on, naked and trembling. There was no more pretending.
She laid me down and strapped me in, head first.
“This is where I’d normally ball-gag you,” she teased, “but I’ll be needing your mouth.”
I didn’t need her to clarify. She leaned in, brushing her tits against my face, but I knew better than to bite. She slid the first strap across my chest, making sure I couldn’t flail.
Then she pulled my legs apart, iron and chains, a spreader bar attached to a beam in the ceiling.
“Morality,” she whispered. “That’s your enemy, is it?”
“I have no enemies,” I whispered, out of need more than anything.
She laughed, a soft, teasing laugh.
“We’ll see,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll find it’s you?”
She took my arms next and pulled them up over my head, stretched almost to the edge of pain. I suspected pain would ease in soon enough.
She pulled close, her face to mine, and licked my cheek.
“When my husband fucks you, and he will, do you expect him to reward you with an A just for effort? Is that what you’re chasing here, Victoria?”
Bodily exchange for academic recognition was not my style. But it sounded hot.
“I hope your cunt smells better than your breath,” I murmured. I had intended to hiss, but between control and desire, desire always wins.
She burrowed her tongue inside my mouth, leaving her taste there before withdrawing. It tasted of expensive cigarettes and high-class bourbon, with a hint of something chemical, pharmaceutical maybe, something studied, measured, controlled. She dragged her nails along the table, and the sound was sharp enough to draw a flinch from somewhere under my ribs.
“Gutsy,” she said, savoring the word like a second drink. “For a girl tied and spread like an offering to my every indulgence.”
The whip cracked again, louder, closer, and with less warning. It felt more like a verdict. It lit my thigh in a streak of fire and dragged a whimper out of me I didn’t know I had. It wasn’t even pain, not really, just nerves coming online for the game.
She tugged the chain, then pulled another notch and pulled me wider.
It didn’t hurt yet, but the suggestion was enough. She was letting me know what my body was, where it could go, and what it could become. This wasn’t the limit.
“You have a gorgeous pussy,” she breathed, close enough that her voice felt like breath across my clit. “And I’ve seen a few. None dripping like yours, though. Mind if I plug your ass?”
She didn’t wait.
She pulled a tube of lube from a drawer in the table and lubed me. She lubed her hand, then pressed two slick fingers against my ass, slow and unhurried, like she was taking inventory. I arched, not from pain, but from the way her confidence rewired my breath. She teased the rim, circled, nudged, and slid inside like I’d been prepped hours ago, like my body had been waiting just for this.
“So good,” she purred. “So relaxed. So trained.”
She added a third finger, maybe. I couldn’t count. I couldn’t think.
Her hand worked me open with practiced, filthy patience, stretching, pressing, curling just enough to graze nerves that lit like fuses. I wasn’t an anal virgin in any sense, but this wasn’t something I’d been given often. Not like this. Not with reverence disguised as filth.
“I’ll have to use one of my bigger ones,” she whispered, so close it made my stomach twist. “You like big, don’t you, honey?”
I moaned. It wasn’t a yes, not exactly. It was what my body said instead of words. It was the sound of lectures and theory books abandoned for sensation, my desire laid bare.
It didn’t feel good. Not in the way gentle hands and soft mouths feel good.
It felt like everything. Like being dismantled in slow increments, unmade and repurposed into something of pure want.
If I’d spoken, the only words that could have escaped would have been the echo of my brain screaming:
Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.
My roommate’s words lingered in memory. “Until you’re just a hole. A single purpose. A single sensation.”
Susan didn’t warn me. She withdrew her fingers and replaced them with the blunt, slick press of silicone.
The head of the plug kissed against my hole, cold and humming with lube. It wasn’t pain. Not yet. It was pressure and insistence, the kind of stubbornness someone who truly wants you ruined possesses.
A slow, mean push turned into a stretch that I whimpered through, loud and involuntary. I felt my cunt open from the pressure. I felt like I was being pulled apart and carved open at my core.
“That’s it, honey,” she whispered. “You’re doing so well.”
I breathed through it, thighs locked open, wrists straining in their binds. The burn came slowly, curling into something darker. Something needy.
She didn’t rush.
She wanted to open me. She wanted me to beg.
When the widest part slipped past, my whole body jerked. Not from pain, but from the sensation of fullness, the awareness of being sealed. The base kissed against me, locking in. I was plugged, stretched, and marked.
I gasped, a kind of gasp that no longer sounded like me. When my orgasm tore through me, she laughed. My legs fought the restraints. My back lifted from the table. The pain from my muscles felt unbearable as they pulled me apart. Air became secondary. I only remembered to breathe again when my muscles relaxed and the last tremors left my thighs.
Susan kissed the inside of my thigh, tender and terrifying. Then her fingers grazed my clit, once, lightly. A reward. A warning.
“You wear it beautifully,” she said, sliding a finger inside my throbbing cunt.
“So tight,” she gleamed. “Now let’s see how well you fuck with it in.”
She slipped out of me, wet, obscene, and utterly revealing my need.
“Stephen,” she breathed, not taking her eyes off me. “She’s prepared. Ready.”
***
Thank you for reading Part One. Part Two is ready, but I’m letting this section breathe while the queue works its way through.
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