Freshman year. Eighteen. Heart pounding with dreams. I stride to the amphitheater, heels clicking on polished marble floors. Door swings open. Nearly collides. Face to face with him. Inches apart. His deep, shadowy eyes lock mine. Heat surges. His breath grazes my lips. Cologne wafts—sandalwood, leather, power. Fingertips itch to touch. ‘Sorry, sir,’ I murmur. ‘No harm, miss,’ his velvet baritone replies. Charming smile. He steps aside.
Inside, I sink into velvet-upholstered seats. Mind races. Who is he? Professor enters. That voice booms from the mic. Him. My enigma. Dandy charm: crisp shirt unbuttoned at the collar, silver cufflinks glinting, Patek Philippe watch. Timeless rebel.
The Privilege
Months blur. I thrive. But he’s my muse. Tutoiement intimate. Talks veer: philosophy, sex. Allusions simmer. Provocations tease. One evening, he shrugs on cashmere coat. Audacity strikes. ‘May I fix something?’ Malicious grin. ‘If it’s a kiss, glasses off first.’ Humor sparks. ‘Then remove them.’ Silence thickens. I approach. Bodies brush. Tension crackles. Arms around his neck. I straighten his collar. ‘Better.’ Wink. Tease denied.
Summer break looms. Reunion fever builds. Second year. He stands at amphitheater doors, Rolex gleaming under crystal chandeliers. Eyes meet. Tenderness? He pulls me aside. ‘My favorite student. Thought of you all summer.’ Post-class: ‘Follow me.’ Corridors empty. His office: mahogany desk, leather armchair, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking manicured campus estates. Crystal decanter whispers Scotch.
He hands an envelope. Words sear: ‘Raw diamond. Shine without fear.’ Tears well. He cups my face. Thumbs wipe them. Eyes drown in his—love. Lips part. First kiss: satin mouths, velvet tongues. Endless. Bodies crush. My fingers tangle in his thick hair. His hands trace my waist, dip to ass curves under silk blouse.
He trails kisses down my neck. Goosebumps. Throat hollow. Cleavage. Soft moans escape. Pause. My eyes devour: raw hunger. He knows. Crushes me to the leather desk edge. I arch back, pulling him atop. Heart hammers. Nineteen tomorrow. He’s making me a woman.
The Excess
The Excess consumes. Shirts rip open. Buttons scatter on Persian rug. His chest: sculpted, dusted hair. I taste salt skin, like aged bourbon. Hands yank my skirt. Thighs part. Lace panties soaked. He growls, fingers plunge. Wet heat yields. ‘So tight.’ Tongue invades: flicks clit merciless. Legs quake. I buck. Orgasm rips—first real one.
He stands. Zipper rasps. Cock springs: thick, veined, throbbing. Eyes widen. ‘Ready?’ Nod frantic. Guides me. Tip breaches. Inch by inch. Stretch burns exquisite. Full. He thrusts. Deep. Leather creaks under me. Desk shakes. Papers fly. I claw his back. Nails dig. ‘Fuck me harder.’ He obeys. Pounding relentless. Sweat slicks. Balls slap. G-spot hammered. Scream builds. He pins wrists. Dominates. Cum floods. Pulsing jets fill me. Collapse. Panting. Marked.
The Discretion seals it. He cradles me in leather armchair. Windows tint privacy mode—city lights blur beyond. Wipes us with monogrammed silk handkerchief. Champagne from mini-fridge: bubbles fizz, crisp pear notes. Sips shared. Lips brush. ‘Our secret.’ Summer blazes: hotel suites, his Riviera yacht. Passion unbound. Teaches positions, oral arts. Body awakens.
Parting at the station: tears. Heart rends. Thursday last, February 12th. Back in that office. Unchanged. Testimonial for freshmen. Eyes lock. Deeper now. Hands brush. Spark reignites. He forever owns a chamber in my elite heart. Discreet walls guard our eternal flame.
