**Note: Professor/student, teasing, sadism, CMNF, cunnilingus ahead. Enjoy!**
I do my nails every so-often: cuticle oil, filing, base coat, color, top coat, correcting tiny smudges with a Q-tip dipped in polish remover. It takes longer than shaving, hair, and makeup combined. If I match the color to my underwear then it wasn’t you who decided to have sex tonight. There’s something relaxing about spending an hour on idleness, listening to a podcast while I doll myself up for you. And yet I hate being told to do it—so my reaction when you text is exactly what you’d imagine.
*I don’t recall my obedience being part of this arrangement.*
Relative to recent sexual history, I’ve been shockingly obedient with you. Downright subservient even. You inspire a quiet curiosity with little room for brattiness. And on the occasions I do feel like being bratty?
My timing is impeccable. You have class in ten minutes and you’re typically fifteen minutes early. To avoid any untoward disasters, I send my photo five minutes before class starts. The white underwear you picked out, tugged down so that my tattoo is visible. The red bows, partially hidden by two nail polish bottles.
*But could I get your opinion on colors, please?*
I picture you at your desk and wonder how you react. Do you flip your phone over in a panic? Do you cough to distract from your facial expression, maybe look out the window? I’d never distract you in class—too risky, learning is important, etcetera—but I like the thought. I contemplate sending a second, more risqué text just before class starts. Luckily you respond before I do anything impulsive.
*Red, but leave two unpainted. Remove your underwear.*
Two minutes before class starts. Three little dots appear then disappear on my phone as you type.
*I’ll call on the way home.*
It’s strange hearing your voice outside the classroom. Weird hearing the road noise as your phone connects to car Bluetooth, weirder still hearing your wife’s *tell her I say hello* in the background. I haven’t told a soul. I’ve been good. You were professional while I was your student, now I’m not and here we are. I wonder whether you have my real name saved in your phone. I wonder if you think about classroom-me when bedroom-me wears the same clothes in your home. I wonder if I’ll finally get what I want this week, instead of half measures that are starting to piss me off.
I spend a long lunch break painting my nails as instructed. They’ve been dry for hours by the time you call.
*Is now a good time?*
*You caught me before dinner and before last-minute preparation, so, sure.*
*Wonderful. I wanted to let you know that the house will be free tomorrow evening. Elizabeth is free to hear you speak, though we’ll need to also visit the other presentations for propriety’s sake.*
*Please don’t ask me any questions.*
I hear your smile when you answer.
*Interesting that you focus on that, rather than the implications of spending the night.*
I look at my two unpainted nails, debate stamping them with a design you’ll appreciate. I look at the underwear I removed after lunch.
Your bait is sufficiently tempting.
*Implications meaning that you’ll finish what you started this weekend? Maybe you’ll stop holding yourself out as a candidate for sainthood?*
*Something like that, yes. I told you to do your nails a certain way for a reason. Which ones did you leave unpainted?*
*Right index and middle.*
*Good girl. If you want to come over with your nail polish tomorrow morning, the house will be empty after 8 am. I’m sure you have checkin and whatnot, so of course I—*
*I’d love to.*
My libido speaks before my brain catches up. I’m an idiot. Nothing could possibly guarantee a worse presentation than fucking you hours before I have to face you, in public, while we both pretend to be wholly absorbed in my research. There aren’t enough drugs in existence to cover my anxiety or enough concealer to mask my blush. This is dumb. I am dumb. My heart feels ready to leap from my throat as I repeat myself.
*I’d love to. My presentation isn’t until 11, figure 30 minutes to campus, that’s plenty of time for whatever you have in mind.*
*Or for what you have in mind. You’re a capable adult, clearly very creative, I’m sure you have ideas.*
My smothered laugh comes out sounding more like a wry cough. I have ideas—and you don’t know the half of it, yet.
*Uber drop off a few doors down, let myself in with the porch key, the usual?*
*It would be appreciated.*
*Appreciated, because you don’t want the neighbors to know you’re screwing someone after your wife leaves for work?*
*Elizabeth will be home; my daughter will not. You can do with that information what you will.*
*I will be…louder than your wife and loud enough that your hand over my mouth won’t be much good.*
I take a risk with my teasing, because you’re taking plenty risks as-is. The road noise stills. I can’t tell if you’re pulling into your driveway or stopped at a light. Did I overstep? But you answer, and I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
*Perfect. That’s what I want to hear. I’ll see you tomorrow just after 8 then.*
*See you.*
*Oh, and one more thing. Send me a photo of your underwear stuffed into your cunt before you go to bed. Touch yourself as much as you want beforehand. If you don’t feel comfortable doing that, I want you to let me know so that I’m not—*
*Message received, professor. You’ll get the photo before bed.*
I hang up before you can scold me for interrupting. I am going to *break* you the second I convince you to stop treating me with excess caution.
When I send you the photo with accompanying text, I turn my phone off immediately afterwards. If there’s fallout, if my extremely-educated guess was poorly calculated: I don’t want to know until I’m at your door tomorrow.
*Maybe if you fuck me properly tomorrow, these won’t end up in your mouth with bondage tape to keep them there.*
**********
Your response the next morning shows that my gamble paid off:
*You seemed to enjoy yourself the other week, even if I didn’t fuck you “properly” by the textbook definition.*
A second text, sent three minutes after the first:
*Perhaps that’s for the best. We could have been caught.*
I almost regret turning off my phone. There was another text, followed by a call:
*But watching you clamp a hand over your mouth so nobody heard you moan was the singular most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. I want you to be louder for me tomorrow morning. Can you do that?*
My response, sent as I’m minutes away from your front door:
*Yes.*
The weather has been intermittently hot and cold, so it isn’t out of place for me to wear a long coat. Underneath the coat I wear the lingerie you chose, plus stockings from my own collection, plus heels just tall enough to be inappropriate for a professional conference. The main thing keeping me away from a shot of tequila for liquid courage is the knowledge that you’ll want me sober. I can picture it with an uncanny clarity, you telling me you want me to remember everything you’ll do to me.
My cheeks flush as if I had a quick shot or three, regardless. My whole body is on pins and needles; the scratchy coat fabric feels like steel wool against my lingerie. I see your neighborhood entrance and panic acts like an ice bath over my brain. What was I thinking? I should have worn something under this. I shouldn’t be here at all. I should turn around, go home, cancel the Uber, we’ll agree to never speak of this again. This was stupid. I’m being a naïve little girl who got in over her head, and when I unlock your front door that’s exactly what I’ll say.
Only then I see you, closing the door behind me, and my momentary panic is as good as buried.
*You look stunning. Would you like me to call Elizabeth?*
I shake my head.
*She can come later, or hear—I mean. I just want to stop thinking. I’m tired of thinking and overanalyzing and planning and writing and—*
You hang my coat on a staircase bannister. Gesturing and seeing my nod, you pick me up and carry me into the office. I recognize the desk and mirror behind it from Zoom calls. A shoe falls off when you place me on the desk edge. The other one, you kiss and gently set aside.
*You brought the nail polish?*
I hand it to you, as well as a clear top coat.
*Take off your underwear and keep your hands on your thighs. If you move or smudge, we’ll have to start over. Understood?*
I nod. You still haven’t seen me completely naked—or I you, for that matter. Someone really should put you up for sainthood. You hold out a hand for my underwear and pocket it once removed.
*Spread your legs and fingers wider. You don’t want the paint to accidentally smudge, so if you give me more room to work in we can avoid having to start over.*
Having to remain still for two nails, let alone a full set, seems an impossibility to me. I try to hold my breath as your calm, steady hands paint my right index finger.
*Alea iacta est.*
You paint my right middle finger. I swear I see new galaxies when I clench my eyes shut willing my body to stillness.
*When you were in my office…*
You move my hand back to my thigh, blowing softly on the wet polish. I feel the echo of your breath against my cunt and desperately want to cross my legs. Too much. Not enough. Same as Friday.
*You held your breath as long as you could. When you exhaled, your whine was so pitiful that it almost made me take you right there. I could have made a comically foolish decision simply because I liked the sounds you made.*
If I’d known you were doing this, I’d have brought my quick-dry nail treatment. *Blow faster*, I want to say, but my mouth is too dry to do anything but stammer.
You shush me.
*I’m not done. You put your hand over your mouth when your breathing grew faster—*
You move my dry left hand over my mouth. Any remaining strength leaves my body as I slump against the mirror.
*Posture.*
You straighten my back with one hand, flicking open my bra clasp as you do so. Your clothes are still on and I’d claw your button-down to shreds if it wouldn’t ruin my manicure.
*Where was I? Oh yes, your hand over your mouth. The look of shock before you threw your head back. The way I had to hold your thighs down because you would have flung yourself out of that chair otherwise. Biting down on your own hand hard enough to leave marks so that my colleagues didn’t hear.*
You paint a clear top coat on the two newly-painted nails, then move my hand far out to the side.
*Or maybe I should remind you of the Friday before that. Would you like that?*
*Yes* comes out as a squeak while you move a hand just outside my cunt.
*You were able to ask for what you wanted then. You were brave, willing to take the risk in asking politely. It would have been more prudent to never speak of Friday’s office incident again. But you wanted more. You asked, knowing full well I could say no. It took quite a lot of discipline to turn someone down for something it’s normally a pleasure to give. Your reading of me was correct.*
You dig your nails into my hips; I startle. My hands flutter off the desk when you finally kiss my inner thigh, then just a little bit closer and…
*Posture.*
My head bangs against the mirror and it’s unbearably, unreasonably hard not to tangle my hands through your hair. Your left hand forces my right hand against the desk; your right hand clenches my thigh hard enough to bruise me. I moan behind my own hand but I’m not dumb enough to move it. YOU put it there, so there my hand stays.
You continue long enough for me to appreciate the strength of the hand that pins my wrist. When I look at you, I remember why I was brave enough to ask for what I wanted the other week.
You look at me like I’m the only thing keeping you from drowning. Like the sound of my moans is the voice that urged Orpheus, and you go willingly. You look at me with a challenge, with encouragement, with a curiosity that drives me stark raving mad in my desire to answer it. You look at me with hunger and it makes me feel just a little bit drunk on power.
Let’s not forget who we are.
But you stop, abruptly, before I can twist my wrist from your grip.
*I think we can both agree that you begged, by any definition of the word. And I liked hearing it. But when you said “fuck me properly” last night, it threw me for a loop. I need you to be more specific.*
*Areyoukiddingme.*
One breath, exasperation streaming out of every pore.
You move your fingers slightly and the movement makes my eyelids flutter.
*I’m quite serious. I want you to ask for whatever it is you want. But I won’t feel comfortable crossing that particular line until tonight.*
*You’re literally the devil.*
At that, you laugh and resume what you were doing with your fingers…albeit slow enough that I have space to collect my thoughts.
*Given the context, I think I’ll take that as a compliment.*
I feel your kiss and then your teeth against my thigh again. A quick glance at my right hand shows that the polish is seemingly dry.
*Tell me what you want tonight.*
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/12oktyg/im_20sf_finally_getting_closer_to_convincing_my