I Pasted My Erotica Into My Paper

My face is bright red. I instinctively clench my thighs together, more a protective mechanism than being turned on. Heat radiating through my yoga pants. Professor Magnusson doesn't say another word. He doesn't need to. I cannot believe how careless I was. I had asked for an extension. He'd been gracious. And then at the eleventh hour, I fucked it up.

I am addicted to writing erotica. When I need a mental break from my studies, like making the case that healthcare data should be shared internationally between countries with high rates of success versus low, I write about women who want to fuck. A bit of wish fulfillment, because my anxiety gets bad around guys. I never seal the deal. I get in my head because I swear they can tell I'm picturing them naked, assessing their character and their body. And once I'm in my head, I get awkward.

So I write erotica and for six semesters, my system had worked. I had split screen the documents -- final paper on the left, on the right my latest story about seducing a man modeled after my professor.

"I'm sorry."

"You were already late. I can't give you another extension to fix this."

The paper he hands me has a big red circle around two paragraphs of sex. I must have screwed up a copy/paste.

"I take what we do very seriously. You want to go into healthcare after college. Think of all the patient information you will have access to. A mistake like this would end your career. And rightly so."

"I understand." I can't bring myself to look him in the eyes. It's like I'm being scolded by my dad all over again, for the hundredth time.

"Do you?" he says, and pauses. "Because I could fail you for the semester."

"I know."

"I probably should."

At the faint hope of that one word -- probably -- I force myself to meet his eyes. He raises one blonde eyebrow.

"What can I do?" I say.

His face reveals nothing. His lips part and he utters one question, "What do you want to do?"

"I don't understand."

Professor Magnusson looks down at my hands. "Is that," he says tapping the crisp white paper. It sounds like a snare drum. "... what you want to do?" I hold my paper up, my eyes locking on his red circle. His eyes hover above the paper and watch me. I glance up. He doesn't look away.

It's suddenly hot. I can't tell if the heat I feel is my embarrassment or the radiator ticking to life behind him. He's wearing just as many layers as I am, though his tweed jacket is open. Beneath it, the fit of his shirt hints at a man who takes care of his body. It's a weird thing to say, but I like a long torso on a man.

Could I really fuck my professor? The last thing I want to be is a headline. I certainly don't want that for him. He's a nice guy. Stern, but until now, always professional.

"You're blushing again."

"If anyone found-"

"This has nothing to do with your grade." I cock my head to the side, suddenly confused. "I'm asking if what you wrote is what you want."

It's definitely warm in here. I want to take off my sweater, but worry about the message that would send at this moment. I'm wearing an old, and revealing, cami underneath. With the snow falling outside, I hadn't planned on getting hot.

"I write a lot of things."

"Let me be clear. I think by now I know you. Or I thought so. Did you include this to try to get a better grade?"

"What? No!"

He yanks the paper from my hand and then proceeds to read my illicit words.

"I tell Ragnar that he can use me however he wants. He bends me over his desk. I look over my shoulder and tell him I only need one thing -- his come."

"That could be anyone," I say.

"My first name is Ragnar."

"Lucky guess?"

The look on his face says "Try again."

"Fine. I write erotica for fun. And yes, I wrote a story inspired by you. I never intended for you to see it. I must have mixed up the files. I feel so stupid."

"So, it's just a story."

"Just a story."

"And you picked me as the male character because?"

"Because I have a thing for competent men."

"Explain," he says, crossing his arms and leaning back against his desk. "Please."

I sigh. Still blushing, I try to collect my thoughts.

"Ugh. I can't believe I'm about to say this." I'll just say it. I take a deep breath. "I suspect they know their way around a woman's body. That they know how to handle me."

My belly flutters at the absurdity of this moment. His face is impassive. His arms stay folded. There's just one shift in his body, one tell revealing his thoughts -- the outline of his cock is suddenly visibly running down the inside of the leg. The pants don't hide the fact that I can see it growing.

"You're looking."

I nod, biting my lower lip.

"Tell me why."

"I think you know why," I say.

"I want to hear it from your lips. Talk like you write."

I inhale deeply. He watches my chest rise. Then fall. I know this sweater hugs my breasts. I know what he was looking at. Neither of us is hiding much right now.

But he wants the words.

"I see the shape of your cock, and what I see is soaking my panties."

His mouth drops open. For the first time, Professor Magnusson is the one who stumbles. His cock twitches, straining against his pants, practically begging for room to grow.

I step toward him and plant a foot on either side of his legs. The sweet woody scent of him rises to meet me and I have a sudden urge to lick it from his skin.

I put both palms against his bulge.

"Sam," he says.

"I'm twenty-one. I can make my own decisions."

He nods.

I fumble with his belt, pulling the leather loose, then the metal clasp clangs. I slip it from his pants and drop it to the floor with a soft thump. One hand slides the zipper down, the other works his button free. Both hands slip inside his boxers, searching for him. He's still trapped in his pants leg, so I yank them down.

I kneel down. Eyes up. He looks down at me. I grip his boxers.

"This might be my favorite part," I say.

The reveal.

I slide his boxers down slowly, savoring the sight of more of his skin, of those v-shaped muscles that begin to show, urging my eyes to follow down to the prize where those lines end. I go until there is resistance -- until I know the last hurdle is the elastic band -- and pull it away from his body and then down.

His cock springs free, bounces once, and then settles in its firm arc. He is rock hard and looks fucking delicious. I like how a thick cock looks when it slopes downward. Just enough to show that it's straining against its own weight. Perfection.

I wrap both hands around his red hot shaft, studying the girth in my palms. I pull, watching the skin spill over the tip, a drop of clear fluid spill from his opening. It falls onto my wrist. I lean forward and lick it off. He tastes of sugar and salt.

I pump him back to the base of his shaft and then stroke him once more, this time squeezing him. He groans and one thigh shakes. Another drop. I'm ready now. Not wanting it to fall, I move to him and lick the drop before it can. My lips slip around his tip and I suck, aiming to get that precum out of him. My cheeks cave in at the pressure and as I pull it from him, his balls shift upward -- as though they're not quite as heavy now. I drink it down until it stops.

Then, I stand, step back, and go back to the office door. Locking it -- better late than never -- I lift my heavy brown sweater up and over my head.

Slide the cami's straps off of my shoulders.

Reach behind my back and undo my bra.

Toss it onto a pile of books on his desk.

Strip out of everything. The thrill I get when he sees all of me is something I wish I could bottle for later. I love how his gaze feels.

Then, I push him back onto the desk so that he's lying down. I climb up beside and straddle him, unbuttoning his shirt, inching my hips up his long torso, leaving a trail of my wetness as I make my way up his chest. Each rib my pussy lips slip over sends an electric shock through my body. I use the shape of him to feel good while I pull his shirt off.

It's only as we both are naked that I feel the weight of the moment. This man, my professor, is naked beneath me. The heat and scent of our bodies mix together. I'll never be able to tell another person about what we did. For his sake. For mine. And to top it off, I should probably ask for a condom.

But fuck it.

I sucked all the precum out. I tell myself a few more times as I slide back down him. Reaching between my legs, I shift my hips and steer our bodies to meet. Just the tip against my wet folds is enough to make my already-sensitive clit throb even harder.

"Sam," he says, with a finger on my chin, thumb on my cheek. "Are you sure?"

I know what he means. Here. Unprotected. With him. All of it.

I smile, and then push onto his tip, parting my lips, and then further down until the girth of his shaft forces a gasp from me. I cover my mouth with one hand.

"Fuck," I say against my sweaty palm.

Ragnar takes my hips in his grip and slowly thrusts up. I breathe through taking more of him, folds stretching to their max, until his tip kisses my cervix. I stifle another gasp. With one hand, he moves my hand from my mouth.

"Don't. I want to hear your words."

I huff a laugh. "When I said I wanted a competent man, I should have said a colossal man."

"It's not the cock. It's another C-word. Connection."

He sits up and our lips meet. A growl of hunger rolls through his chest and I feel the echo of it through my soft breasts. I open my mouth as his tongue slides between my lips. With his cock filling my body, his tongue dwarfs my own and tastes like Earl Grey tea -- in other words, it is divine.

I pull back, needing to breathe.

"But the cock helps," I say, smirking.

He laughs and then leans forward and stands. He holds me on him, still buried to the hilt in me, and walks us to the wall.

My bare back kisses the cold blue-painted wall and sends a shiver through me. He braces my legs with each arm and presses me more firmly against the solid wall and again, we kiss.

He pulls out, leaving my pussy empty. Gaping for him. Aching for him.

Then, without any guidance, lines himself up and pushes deep in me.

Again.

A tear rolls down my cheek. I want it. All of it. I want to feel his balls slap my ass, his mouth on mine, his fingers digging into my skin, his throbbing cock as deep as I can take it as he comes apart inside me. I want it so bad.

I wrap my arms around his back and drag my nails down his shoulder blades, which seems to make him feral. His thrusts become harder. More erratic. Wilder.

My body is tensing, fighting the building pressure. I break our kiss and look in his eyes. There's a gentle glimmer of light in them.

I don't want gentle though.

"I want your come. Come and I'll come," I say.

"Say it the way you wrote it."

"Please. I want it. I want your come." My voice shakes.

He grunts as sweat drips from his forehead and lands on my belly. I wipe his face with one hand. I'm intoxicated by the scent of his efforts, of his pheromones, of my juices on his shaft as it slips out of me.

He gives me three more thrusts and then buries his cock deep, holding it at my cervix. He buries his face at my neck, lips sucking at my skin. Then, a steady throbbing beat rises from the depths. He moans against my neck as his cock pulses, and immediately my lower belly fills with warmth.

"Fuck," I gasp.

The heat spreads through me at another pulse. I clench my pussy on his cock just as his third pulse hits and the timing breaks me. The wave rolls through my belly. My pussy clamps down on him, milking him for all he has, my body desperate for every drop. And then, like a rubber band, I snap and come undone.

We catch our breath. I can't help but giggle as he pulls out. His come falls in pools on his hardwood floor. I don't want it there. I don't know why but I want to keep it in me.

He sets me down.

We dress quietly.

He looks at me.

I look at him.

"It was a good paper," he says.

I smile, then open the door and walk back to my apartment.