Class is In Session Pt. 01

Section I: Arrival

It was early September, and the hills around Saint Eulalia were soaked in amber light. That kind of golden hour that made stone buildings look like cathedrals. The campus was quiet, still settling into the rhythm of the new term, and I was just trying to find my footing--new job, new town, new everything.

I'd arrived a little early that Sunday morning to get a head start on unpacking. Orientation had been a blur, but today was meant to be simple: move in, set up, meet my department mentor.

And then I saw her.

She walked across the courtyard like she belonged to the place. No--like the place belonged to her. Each step was composed, deliberate, like she was being followed by a slow, invisible rhythm no one else could hear.

She wore a cream silk blouse tucked into soft gray slacks that framed her hips like a whisper. Her dark hair was gathered in a low, effortless knot, a few strands catching the sun and throwing copper into the air. No jewelry. No unnecessary flair. Just elegance--the kind that doesn't ask for attention, it commands it.

That was Dr. Natasha Chen.

And I was fucked.

"Manuel?" she said, voice low and smooth.

I straightened without meaning to. "Yes," I replied, stepping forward to shake her hand. "It's an honor to meet you, Dr. Chen."

"Natasha," she corrected gently. "No need for formalities when it's just us."

Her handshake was firm, her fingers cool and precise. She held on for just long enough that I noticed, then let go like nothing had happened. I was suddenly aware of everything about myself--how my t-shirt clung a little too tightly, how the morning sun was already starting to make me sweat, how her eyes had definitely flicked down and then up again.

We exchanged small talk as she walked me toward the classroom, but I couldn't stop watching her out of the corner of my eye. Her posture. The quiet confidence. She wasn't trying to impress anyone--she was simply being, and it worked. It worked.

"Saint Eulalia values tradition," she said as we approached a pair of tall, arched doors. "You'll feel it in the architecture, in the students... and eventually, in yourself."

The classroom was unlike anything I'd expected. Rich wood paneling, a tall window with filtered sunlight pouring in, old built-in shelves with neatly arranged books, and a large antique desk that looked like it had hosted decades of whispered secrets.

"This will be our space," she said.

I turned to look at her. "We're co-teaching?"

She nodded. "It's part of the mentorship structure here. You'll teach. I'll observe. Sometimes we'll lead together. You'll have more freedom than you expect, but I'll be watching closely."

Her smile said that was either a promise or a warning. Maybe both.

I nodded, trying not to let my nerves show. "I'm ready."

"Good," she said simply. "Then let's get to work."

Section II: The Move-In Ritual

Sunday morning light filtered through tall pines as I pulled into the faculty lot beside Saint Eulalia's west wing. The buildings rose with an old-world kind of grandeur--arched windows, stone balustrades, ivy curling across the carved facades. It was the kind of place that felt like it didn't just house education--it enshrined it.

I parked in the shade and took a breath, palms a little sweaty against the steering wheel. Today wasn't supposed to be anything big--just unloading boxes, setting up my space. Still, I felt a nervous current running just beneath the surface.

I'd barely gotten out of the car when I spotted her.

Natasha Chen.

She was standing by the front steps of the main building, sunlight pouring over her like it had been choreographed. She wore a crisp, ivory blouse tucked into tailored gray slacks that hugged her hips with tailored precision. Her dark hair was swept back in a low knot, with a few intentional strands left to frame her face.

She looked... elegant. Effortless. But more than that--composed. Like nothing ever surprised her.

"Good morning, Manuel," she called out, her voice as warm as the sun.

"Morning, Natasha," I replied.

We walked toward the building together, the soft rhythm of her heels tapping against the stone path. I could feel her eyes brush over me--my fitted t-shirt, my short wool-blend shorts. Practical for lifting and moving, but suddenly, under her gaze, I felt almost exposed.

Inside, the school was quiet. The kind of quiet that holds its breath.

She led me to the classroom and gestured to the scattered boxes, the half-assembled desk. "It's all yours," she said, turning with a slight smile. "I'll be in and out--feel free to get comfortable."

"Thanks," I said, already rolling up my sleeves.

I got to work, sweat beginning to bead on my brow, the feel of effort keeping my nerves at bay. Moving always helped me think--or helped me not think. But she was never far from my mind.

I was halfway through organizing a row of books when she returned. She stood in the doorway, watching me with that same composed curiosity.

"You've made good progress," she said.

"Didn't want to drag it into the heat of the afternoon," I said, brushing dust from my arm.

She stepped closer. Just close enough that I could feel the faint warmth of her presence.

"That's smart. I was about to offer you a little break." Her voice had that tone again--quiet, gentle, but somehow unmistakably commanding.

She moved closer still, now standing directly in front of me. I couldn't move. I didn't want to move.

"You work hard, don't you?" she asked softly.

"I try."

"I can tell."

Her hand lifted to brush something invisible from my shoulder, but it lingered. Drifted lower. Across my chest. Down my abdomen. My breath caught.

Then she pressed her palm--firm, sure--against the front of my shorts.

I stiffened, instinctively. Not from fear. From the rush. From the sudden, sharp awareness that I was already hard for her. Her hand moved slowly, testing my response, her fingers curling slightly to trace the shape of me through the fabric.

"Sensitive?" she murmured, eyes fixed on mine.

I nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Her mouth curled in a soft, satisfied smile. She slid her hand into my shorts. I gasped.

Then came the sound of the door opening.

"Hey Natasha--oh, sorry!"

My body froze. I couldn't even look toward the door.

But she didn't move. Didn't flinch. She simply stepped between me and the doorway, her back shielding me, her hand still firmly wrapped around my cock.

"Hi Erin," she said, voice casual, completely unbothered. "We're just going over some lesson planning details."

I stood there, heart racing, her hand still on me, stroking me slowly, possessively, as she carried on a friendly, polite conversation. Erin didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she was just pretending not to.

Eventually, she left.

Natasha turned back to me and slipped her hand out of my shorts, her fingers wet with my need.

She brought them to her mouth and tasted me.

"We'll pick this up later," she said quietly. "There's a café in town with a quiet patio. Meet me there at five."

I couldn't move. Could barely breathe.

"Yes, ma'am."

She smiled and walked out.

Section III: The Café & the Plug

By the time five o'clock rolled around, I was still aching.

I had gone home after the move, tried to shower the sweat and tension off, but it lingered in my chest... and in my cock. I couldn't stop replaying what had happened in the classroom--her fingers wrapped around me, the way she'd shielded me from Erin like it was nothing, the way she'd tasted me after.

No woman had ever touched me like that. Not just the physical act--but the control. The confidence. The quiet, relentless authority she carried in everything.

We'll pick this up later, she'd said.

The café was quiet. European-style, with hand-lettered chalkboard menus and a warm light strung across the patio. I picked the most private table I could, tucked in a corner, facing the door.

She texted: Give me five. I needed a quick change.

And then she stepped out onto the patio.

I felt it before I understood it.

She was transformed.

Gone was the crisp, professional look. In its place: a tight, rust-colored dress that hugged her curves like it had been poured onto her. Her hair was down now, loose and slightly wild. She looked radiant. Sensual. Dangerous.

And then she turned to speak to a server, and I saw it.

A flash of silver. A glint of crystal.

She was wearing the plug.

My breath left me.

She walked toward me like nothing was unusual.

"You found us a good spot," she said, slipping into the seat across from me.

I tried to speak. I don't remember what I said. She leaned forward slightly and whispered:

"I put it in at the café. In the bathroom. Bent one leg up on the sink, pushed it in slow."

She sipped her water.

"Every step I took back to you, I felt it move inside me."

My cock was already throbbing again.

"Do you like knowing that?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Did you think about pulling the dress up? Getting on your knees behind me?"

I couldn't answer with words. My eyes must've said enough.

"You're so easy to affect, Manuel," she said. "That's a gift."

She shifted in her seat, and her expression changed--just for a moment--as the pressure of the plug made itself known.

"It's pressing right now," she whispered. "You'd love the way it feels."

She leaned in closer.

"I wore it for you."

And then:

"Follow me."

And I did.