Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
His hands slide up my thighs, hot and shaking. The skirt bunches around my hips, exposing the white cotton thong I wore just for him. He groans, low, and digs his fingers into my skin.
“God, Simone, you have no idea what you do to me.”
He peels my shirt up, impatient, and my tits spill out, nipples already hard from the cold and the thrill. He palms them, rough, sucking one into his mouth with a wet, obscene sound. I arch into him, wanting more, and run my fingers through his hair, tugging until he gasps.
“Oooh yes,” I moan throatily, watching as he tongues the pink tips. “Mmmm!”
“You’re my little slut, aren’t you? You’re Daddy’s fuckslut who comes begging for it after class.”
Oh my god, his words are so wrong, but I don’t care because he’s sinking to his knees, spreading me wider, and I nearly break the desk with how hard I grip the edge.
“That’s it, my little fuckslut,” he says in a dark voice. “You’re getting it now.”
Then, he licks the inside of my thigh, slow, then bites down, hard enough to leave a mark. “Oh shit,” he growls, before burying his face in my pussy.
I let out a whimper that bounces off every cinderblock wall, every empty chair. His tongue is magic, all harsh licks and soft teasing, moving between sucking my clit and slipping inside me. I can barely breathe.
“Oh my god, Professor,” I moan, louder than I mean to, but I don’t care. The risk is part of the turn-on. I can feel the wet, slick mess I’m making, the heat building and building. “Mmm, suck me harder!”
He looks up, mouth shiny, and says, “If you call me Professor again, I’ll spank you in front of the whole class.”
I nearly come just from the threat.
His fingers find my clit, rubbing fast, and he latches on with his mouth, sucking hard. I can feel myself losing control, my back arching as my fingers scrabble uselessly at the surface of the desk. Then, the orgasm hits like a car crash. I cry out, not even trying to be quiet, the sound echoing off the blackboards and bare linoleum. My back arches, head thrown against a pile of student essays. For a second, the whole world is just him, his mouth, the scent of sex and chalk and old wood.
“Mmmmm!” I scream. “Yes Daddy!”
He continues to suck my clit, then forces his tongue into my pulsing cunt as I gush gallons of cream all over his face. But Liam doesn’t care, swallowing it like it’s the sweetest nectar he’s ever tasted.
“Yes, my little whore,” he rasps. “Come on Daddy’s face. Give me that sweet goodness.”
I scream again, the sound reverberating through the classroom. Oh my god, someone’s going to hear, but neither Liam nor I care. He continues to kneel before me, sucking, licking and kissing my pussy as I arch and moan, my folds quivering with release.
Finally, the tremors subside somewhat but Liam’s not done yet. He’s huge and gorgeous with a devilish look in those blue eyes. He wipes his mouth, and kisses me again, this time slow and greedy, like he can’t get enough.
I cling to his shirt, panting, the aftershocks turning my bones to pudding.
“I missed you,” I say, and it’s so raw I almost want to take it back.
He cups my face, thumb stroking my jaw. “I missed you too, Simone. But I’m not done with you yet, sweet girl.”
He turns, bends to grab something from the battered messenger bag next to the desk. He comes up holding a carrot—no, not a carrot, but a Carrot, capital C, the kind of root vegetable you could club a baby seal with. It’s as long as my forearm, thick and bright orange, still with a sprig of green at the top. He rolls it in his palm like he’s showing off a trophy.
“You ever eat one of these whole?” he says, brandishing it.
I choke out a laugh. “Not lately.”
He sets the carrot down and rifles for a paring knife from his lunch kit—serrated, with a handle he probably stole from the campus cafeteria. He peels off the dirt, drops the curls of orange skin into a paper towel, all while never taking his eyes off me.
“You know what’s wrong with men?” he says, slicing the leafy crown off with a crack. “They chop everything down. Make it small, bite-sized. Easy to swallow. Like they can’t handle the real thing.”
He wipes the carrot clean on his sleeve. “I get a CSA box every week. Ex-wife’s idea. Still paying for it even years after the divorce, and I still hate every fucking radish that comes with it. But these—” He breaks the carrot in half, then holds the longer piece up. “I never cut them. I eat them whole. Like a fucking animal.”