Steamy Sessions with My Student 4

Morning sun shone across the blinds, casting its golden stripes on my bare skin. I tossed and rolled onto my side, the sheets wrapped around my thighs. I had flashbacks of the previous night, I couldn't fall asleep, restless and every time I drifted, I was dragged back into the same tormenting dream—his hands, his mouth, his voice calling me “professor” with that sinful voice.

Noah.

I sat up quickly, as if a hot coal was placed on my skin. My hair was tangled, my pussy was deliciously swollen, my thighs sticky, and the shame I felt burned hotter than the sunlight. I’d touched myself to the thoughts of my own student. The worst part, I’d climaxed with his name on my lips, the taste of me on his tongue, on his lips.

I pressed my palms to my eyes. What the hell is wrong with me?

I was a professional. A woman who demanded respect. A woman who commanded a classroom of restless, eager minds and kept them in line with nothing more than a glance, and a heartfelt smile. And yet, one man—one boy, had made me a mess with nothing more than his smirk, and filthy thoughts.

I dragged myself into the shower, turning the water cold, hoping to wash away the memory, the sin. It didn’t help. The harder I tried not to think of him, the more vividly my body remembered and ached for his touch.

By the time I dressed and reached campus, I had made a perfect plan inside my head: steel, unbreakable, necessary. I would keep him out, keep him at a distant. He was a walking temptation and I was discipline.

That would be enough. It should be enough.

Or so I convinced myself.

Class should have been easy. I had taught this lesson a million times before, and could recite it in my sleep. But every time Noah shifted in his chair, I felt it run through me like a shock. His legs sprawled wide, too casual, too confident. His eyes never left me, even when I turned to write on the board. I swore I could feel them burning holes in the back of my skirt.

“Professor?” His voice called, cutting through my lecture, smooth as silk, daring me to meet his gaze.

“Yes, Noah?” I kept my tone flat, neutral, and extremely professional, but my heart started to beat fast.

“Could you… explain that last point again?” His lips curved at the corner, into a smirk, like he already knew the answer.

I explained it, careful to keep my eyes on the board instead of his mouth, instead of the lips that had kissed me senseless yesterday. But when I finally looked at him, he was leaning forward, forearms placed on his desk, watching me like a predator watches it's prey.

Something moved low in my belly. I looked away.

The rest of the class hour passed in a blur of words I barely remembered. When the clock finally chimed the end of the class, I dismissed them quickly, my heart racing with relief.

The room emptied, except for him.

Noah stayed seated, watching the others move out, his fingers tapping lazily on the desk. When the last student was gone, he stood, moving slowly, deliberately, until he was the only one left between me and the door.

I swallowed. “Class is over.”

“I know.” His voice was calm, low. “But you seemed distracted today.” “What's the problem?"

My throat tightened. “I wasn’t.”

He smirked. “You were. And I think I know why.”

I turned my back, gathering my notes. “You’re out of line.”

“Am I?” His footsteps moved closer, soft thud against the floor. “Because the way you’ve been looking at me, doesn’t feel like I’m the only one crossing lines.”

I froze. My hands clenched the papers until they crumpled.

Then he was behind me, right behind. Not touching, just close enough that the warmth of him hugged around me like smoke. His scent—clean soap, faint cologne, filled my nostrils, intoxicating.

I turned on him, my heart pounding. “You will stop this game, Noah. Now.”

His grin widened, like he was enjoying this. “Game? Is that what this is for you?” His eyes lowered, lingering on my lips before moving lower, down the line of my blouse. “Because it doesn’t feel like a game when I see the way your thighs press together every time I speak.”

I inhaled deeply, too sharp, too revealing. Sighing loudly.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

The air between us vibrated with tension. I could almost taste the kiss that hovered over us.

My body screamed to give in. My brain begged me not to.

At the last second, I pushed my chair back, creating space. “Enough!” My voice cracked louder than I intended.

He straightened slowly, unfazed. “Alright, professor.” His tone was now casual, like he hadn’t just cornered me in my own classroom. “But you’ll come around. You want me as badly as I want you. You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

And then, like he hadn’t just set my entire body on fire—he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked toward the door.

He paused in the frame, looked back once, and smirked. “See you tomorrow.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

I collapsed into my chair, my chest heaving. My entire body throbbed with want, my slit slick with need.

Damn him.

Damn me.

I placed my palms on my knees, forcing the heat down, but it was no use. Every nerve in my body was tuned to him now, every thought recognized by his presence.

He knew it, too. That was the worst part. He knew exactly what he was doing, and I do not have the power to stop him.

I closed my eyes, head tilting back against the chair’s backrest. For one reckless minute, I imagined what it would be like if I hadn’t stopped him. If I had let him lean in that much closer, if I had let his mouth finally crash into mine, let him taste the hunger he teased me with every damn day.

The thought alone made my thighs clench, made heat rise between them.

I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

This was moving fast, too fast.

And deep down, in the part of me I couldn’t admit out loud, I didn’t want it to stop. I liked it, heck, I loved it.

That evening, grading papers in my office felt like an impossible mission. Every red mark blurred, every word looked the same. My mind wouldn’t stop. It replayed the way his voice had made shivers run down my spine, the way his body had filled the space, the way his confidence had stripped away my defenses.

My hand trembled as I set down the pen. My thighs pressed together, seeking relief.

I told myself no. Over and over again, I whispered it in my head. But my body was louder.

With a shaking hand, I slid one beneath the desk, beneath the hem of my skirt. My fingers brushed the damp slit between my thighs, and a soft gasp escaped from my lips before I could stop it.

God, not again.

But my resistance crumbled.

I closed my eyes and gave in, stroking myself slow, deep, imagining his voice whispering “professor” in my ear, imagining his fingers instead of mine, his mouth devouring every sound I tried to swallow.

The office, the papers, the risk—all of it faded away until there was nothing but him, everywhere, consuming me.

And when I finally climaxed, biting my lip hard to keep me from crying out his name, I knew I was lost.

This wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t a harmless attraction.

It was an obsession.

And it was only getting stronger by the minutes.