I Want You, Professor

Her voice hitched suddenly, a tender sigh escaping after that last word. "And I don't want you to spread your legs for me. I want you to close them on me. I want to enjoy the friction of your skin and the warmth of your pussy. I want to know what it feels like to begin my seduction thinking I'm invading you, then end up being powerless and imprisoned by you."

Her voice, which had kept dropping in tone throughout the conversation, was at its lowest point now, and its volume nothing but a mere whisper. The raspiness became more apparent, the crackles more frequent, and the pauses less deliberate and more erratic.

Her face, her looks, her gestures, everything else betrayed the gradual loss of control. She had dived far enough into the fantasy that she couldn't pretend commanding it anymore. I relaxed, enjoying the show even more now that she wasn't premeditating every word and movement.

"I want the strength of your hunger to weaken me. I want you to grab me so hard that I stop thinking about myself and start doing everything for you. I want to forget all that I am and become nothing but the body you're holding, the mouth you're kissing, and the hand you're fucking."

I flinched. The verb caught me off guard. I wasn't used to hearing it in person, not in this context at least. My thighs squeezed as a reflex, unbearably anxious for a release. She noticed the involuntary movement and smiled.

"See this?" She waved her hovering finger above my thighs, which were now pressing so hard into each other that they could almost blend together. "I fantasize about sticking my hand in this delicious sandwich." She moaned again and retreated her hand, then readjusted her posture. I glimpsed a shadow of fear on her face. Was she unable to control her impulse to touch me anymore? Did she have to put some distance between us?

"I want you to hold me so close that I lose track of where my freedom ends and your will begins. I want your tongue to be so far in my mouth that when you groan, I feel the vibrations in my own throat. And I want your pussy to squeeze my hand so tightly that it starts moving my finger in and out by itself."

"I want you. I want all of you. Your moans, your shivers, your saliva, and your juices." She paused to wet her lips. "I want to feel your pleasure so deep within me that it becomes stronger than my own."

A long sigh whistled through her lips. Every second had been a battle of wills between us, an oscillating balance of craving, surrender, patience, and dominance. And it was all about to come to an end.

She stopped talking for a few seconds. Her palms had found refuge on the border of the desk, the knuckles white from the strength of her squeeze. Her eyes roamed freely across my body, not afraid of the places or durations they stopped for. There wasn't a grin, a smile, or a smirk on her lips anymore, just a small wrinkle that betrayed her desire.

She finally raised her eyes to meet mine. I stared back. In the silence and the paralysis of the moment, we both agreed.

She stood up and took a step toward me. She placed a leg on each side and lowered herself to sit in my lap. Her hand snaked between us and stopped at the lower hem of my shirt. Her mouth lingered a few inches away from mine.

"You've been awfully quiet, but I need you to answer this question," she paused briefly to clarify her demand, "aloud, with words." Her glare penetrated my eyes, reaching into my soul. This was the ultimate battle of power. I couldn't stay silent and avoid actively participating anymore. Would I lose the war and win her, or win the war and lose her?

As if I had a choice! My mouth went dry, the liquids finding another outlet to lubricate.

"You know how much I want you, but the question is can I have you, Professor?"

"Yes."