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The campus hums with late afternoon energy. Someone’s blasting jazz from a dorm window three floors up, and the quad smells like cheap weed and cut grass. You dodge a flying frisbee, give a half-hearted wave to your anthropology partner, and keep walking—fast—toward the old humanities building. The one that looks like it’s about to either collapse or be declared a historic landmark.
Professor Calderu’s office is on the third floor. No elevator. The stairs creak like they’re judging you.
You knock, knuckles tapping lightly on the frosted glass door that reads:
Dr. Lilia Calderu, Department of History — Office Hours by Appointment Only
...which, for you, apparently means “4:30 on a Thursday because she said so and you didn’t dare argue.”
“Come in,” calls that unmistakable voice—smoky, precise, somehow both amused and exhausted.
You step in.
And, as usual, her office looks like a wizard exploded in it. There are stacks of old books—some with titles in Latin, others just blank leather spines—everywhere. There’s incense curling from a holder shaped like a tiny gargoyle, a velvet throw draped dramatically over a chair she definitely doesn’t let students sit in, and a mug that says Hex the Patriarchy beside a bowl of hard candy you’ve never seen anyone take from.
Professor Lilia Calderu herself sits behind the desk, legs crossed, reading glasses perched low on her nose. She’s wearing a long, flowing blouse with swirling prints in crimson and indigo, sleeves that flutter when she turns a page. Her jewelry clinks softly as she moves—silver rings, chunky bangles, earrings that sparkle even in low light. Her lipstick’s a sharp berry-red, her gray hair is being worn so dramatically that you can't quite place whether it is a crown or a rebellion
She doesn’t look up.
Yet.
You hover awkwardly by the door, resisting the urge to shift your weight like a guilty middle schooler.
“You’re late,” she says.
“It’s 4:31.”
“Which is not 4:30.”
You could argue. You don’t.
Finally, she looks up. And her gaze pins you where you stand.
There’s something vaguely feline about the way she watches you. Leisurely. Dissecting. As if she already knows every reason you’re here, but she wants to hear you say it. Badly.
“Well?” she says, folding her hands over your essay—the one she digitally returned last week with comments like “uninspired” and “beneath your abilities.” (Which hurt more than you’d like to admit, especially since she’s usually never so surgical with her praise.)
“I’m here to talk about my grade,” you say, forcing confidence into your voice.
She leans back. “Are you?”
“I—yes?”
Lilia lifts a brow. “Interesting. Because your paper suggests you either didn’t read the material, or you were too distracted to care.”
That stings.
“I read it,” you say defensively. “Twice.”
“Mmm. And yet, here you are.” She gestures lazily to the seat across from her. “Sit. Let’s get to the root of the problem.”
You sit. (Because of course you do.)
She watches you, silent for a beat too long. Then:
“You’ve been distracted. In class. In your writing. Even now, you can barely keep still.”
You blink. “I’m just—tired. It’s midterms. Everyone’s tired.”
Lilia tuts. “Somehow, not everyone is turning in work that reads like a half-hearted blog post.”
You bristle. “It wasn’t that bad.”
She smirks. “Darling, if I wanted to be lied to, I’d go to a faculty meeting.”
(And there it is—that sharp, dry wit that makes your stomach flip in the worst/best way.)
Her eyes narrow slightly behind the glasses.
“Tell me,” she says slowly, “what is it that’s keeping your mind so… preoccupied?”
She already knows. Of course she does. But she wants to hear you say it. Wants to drag it out of you like a confession.
You shift in your seat. The cushion creaks under you. “I don’t know.”
Lilia hums, clearly not buying it. She rises from her chair in one fluid movement, shawl rippling behind her, and steps around the desk—slow, deliberate, dangerous. You don’t breathe.
“You don’t know?” she repeats, almost gently, coming to stand behind you. “That doesn’t sound like the clever little voice that won’t shut up in my class. The one who always has something to say—until now.”
You sit very still. She smells like smoke and sandalwood and something that doesn’t belong to this century. Her fingers drift lightly over the back of your chair. Not touching you. Yet.
“Is it stress?” she asks, low near your ear. “A bad grade? Boy troubles? Girl troubles? Hmm?”
You start to speak, but her hand finally does touch—fingertips grazing the back of your neck, feather-light.
You shiver.
“Oh,” she purrs, and you can hear the smirk in her voice. “It’s me , isn’t it?”
You tense. A heartbeat of silence.
“Say it,” she murmurs.
You open your mouth.
“No, wait,” she says, stepping in front of you now, leaning on the desk again, arms crossed so the sleeves of her blouse pull tight across her chest. She looks down at you like she’s grading your soul. “Let me guess. You don’t want to admit it. You’re embarrassed .”
You flush. “I’m not—”
“Please,” she interrupts smoothly. “You stare. You squirm. You bite your lip like you’re in a bad paperback novel. If I made a drinking game out of your distractions, I’d be in rehab.”
You don’t know what to do with your hands. Your voice comes out too quiet.
“It’s not my fault.”
Her head tilts. “Oh?”
“You walk into the room and everyone notices. You talk like you already know what people are going to say. You look at me like you see right through me. And—”
You stop. Too late.
“And?” she asks, with exquisite cruelty.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
Lilia steps closer, between your legs now, and you realize suddenly that she’s barefoot—silver rings on her toes, ankle bracelets that jingle softly. Her hand lifts and gently tilts your chin up.
Her voice is a whisper, but sharp enough to cut glass.
“And that makes it hard for you to concentrate?”
You nod. Once. Slowly.
“I see.” Her thumb drags over your lower lip. “And here I thought I’d lost my touch.”
You exhale—more like a tremble than a breath. She doesn’t move.
“I should report you,” she says. Not a threat. Just a thought spoken aloud. “You’re a distraction. A danger to decorum. But you know what, darling?” Her voice softens, grows silkier. “I think I like watching you struggle.”
You should be offended. You’re not.
“You come into my class pretending to be clever. But all it takes is a little pressure,” she presses her thumb a bit firmer against your lip, “and look how quickly you fall apart.”
You stare at her. You want to say something scathing. Something flirty. Something to take back an ounce of control.
All that comes out is a whisper: “Lilia.”
Her eyes glint like obsidian catching firelight.
She leans in, lips barely brushing your ear now, voice a dagger wrapped in velvet.
“Do you need me to help you focus, darling?”
Your breath catches in your throat. There’s no point pretending anymore.
“…Yes. Please.”
“Mmm,” Lilia hums, like she’s tasting the word on her tongue. “That’s what I thought.”
She straightens again, eyes raking over you, taking you in like an exam she already knows you’ll fail. “Up,” she says with a slight jerk of her chin, gesturing to the desk behind you.
You scramble, legs weak as you climb onto the edge of her cluttered workspace. The wood is cool against your thighs as your skirt bunches beneath you.
And her eyes—God, her eyes—don’t leave you for a second.
She steps forward until she’s standing between your knees. A hand lifts to brush over your shirt, fingering the hem with faux gentleness. “You dressed up for me, didn’t you?”
You blink. “What?”
Her fingers trail higher, grazing your side. “This little outfit. The skirt.” She tuts softly, almost fond. “So easy to peel off. So eager.”
You flush, pulse roaring in your ears.
Then she catches sight of the panties beneath your skirt—soft, barely-there lace in a plum color you didn’t even think twice about this morning.
Big mistake.
“Oh,” Lilia says, her voice bright with cruel delight. “You wore these ?” She leans in like she’s sharing a secret, lips brushing your cheek. “Aww. You wore them just for me, didn’t you?”
“I—I didn’t—”
“Oh hush, baby. Don’t lie. You’re not clever enough to lie to me.” Her tone is syrupy, edged with mockery. “You put these on and thought you could be subtle. That I wouldn’t notice ?”
Her hands slide up your thighs, slow and possessive. “You wanted this. All of this. Me. My attention. My fingers.”
You can’t breathe. You nod.
Lilia smiles like she’s won something.
Then she lifts your skirt higher, exposing you fully, and her expression turns downright sinful. “Soaked already,” she murmurs, voice low and reverent. “God, you’re a mess. All this from a little teasing?”
She grazes her fingers over your panties—delicate, teasing strokes that make your hips twitch.
And then she yanks them down.
“Lift,” she says, and you do. They slide down your legs and puddle on the floor. She doesn’t even look at them again.
Then her fingers are back—this time on your shirt, undoing the buttons one by one, each with devastating slowness.
“You should keep this on,” she says thoughtfully, brushing the fabric aside. “Just so I can see how ruined you look in it after. But no.”
She slides the shirt from your shoulders, watching as you squirm under the attention.
“I want to see everything .”
Her hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your lips. “You’re going to beg for me, aren’t you?”
You nod, already breathless.
“Then do it.”
“Please, Lilia,” you whisper. “I need you.”
She leans in, presses her mouth to your neck—warm lips, slightly parted, breath ghosting over your skin in hot little bursts. It sends a ripple down your spine, sharp and involuntary, like your body is answering her before your brain can catch up.
Her voice is low, a coiled thread of command wrapped in velvet.
“Say it right.”
You try. But your throat is dry, your chest tight. It’s not just what she’s saying—it’s how she says it. The deliberate cadence, the intimacy of her voice curling into your ear like it belongs there. Like she belongs there.
“I—” you start, but the word dies as her hand—those long, elegant fingers—glides up your inner thigh again, fingertips grazing your bare skin.
Her touch is cool at first. Her rings—several of them, thick and silver and heavy-looking—press cold into your flesh. It’s a delicious contrast: the burn of her breath, the sharp chill of metal, the heat building between your legs like an ache blooming outward.
“You’re trembling,” she murmurs against your skin, and she sounds almost... amused. “Is that fear, or anticipation?” Her lips trail higher, brushing the sensitive shell of your ear. “Or are they the same, when it comes to me?”
You can't answer. Everything is too much. The feel of her thigh pressed between your knees. The way her breath tickles the spot just beneath your jaw. The scent of her—rich, earthy, something spiced and faintly floral, like sandalwood and cardamom—and the faint rustle of her silky blouse as she shifts against you.
Her thumb drifts lazily over the hollow of your throat, and your pulse jumps beneath it. She feels it—of course she does—and chuckles softly.
“Your heart’s beating so fast, sweet thing.” She presses a kiss right there, where your skin pulses hardest. “I’ve barely started.”
You try again. Your voice is hoarse, needy. “Please, Professor. I want you.”
“Want what?” she asks, mockingly. Her hand moves higher, sliding between your legs again—fingertips now slicking through you with devastating ease. “My fingers?” Her touch is slow, torturously so, drawing a lazy circle around your clit that has your hips jerking against her without permission. “My mouth?”
You gasp, nails curling against the edge of the desk. The wood creaks under your grip. Your skin is buzzing, oversensitive, every nerve honed in on where she touches and where she isn’t touching yet. Her rings drag gently along your thigh, cold lines of pressure that make you flinch and squirm. She watches every reaction, eyes gleaming behind her reading glasses.
“Yes,” you whisper. “I want all of you. Please—”
“Such a messy little thing,” she sighs, like she’s disappointed, but her fingers press deeper, parting you with a practiced curl. “Falling apart just from a little teasing. Are you always this easy? Or is it just me ?”
“It’s you,” you admit, voice cracking with the truth. “It’s always been you.”
Lilia stills for a moment. Something shifts in her expression—not surprise, exactly, but something sharper. Darker. She cups your cheek, tilts your head toward her, forces your eyes to meet hers.
“Say it again.”
Your stomach flips. Your skin burns.
“It’s always been you.”
That smile— slow and wicked , like she’s been waiting for this—blooms across her lips. She brushes her thumb over your bottom lip, and the pressure makes you want to cry.
“There we are,” she whispers. “Good girl.”
And just like that, her fingers plunge in —no more teasing. The stretch is sudden and perfect, and you gasp, thighs clenching around her wrist. The cool of her rings inside you is almost too much, making you burn from the inside out.
She huffs a soft, pleased sound. “So tight,” she murmurs, dragging her fingers back out with deliberate slowness. “So wet. You’ve been aching for this, haven’t you? All those office visits. All that squirming in your chair.”
You nod frantically, legs starting to tremble again.
“Poor thing.” Her voice dips lower. “You couldn’t even focus without me. Do you see now? How much you need me?”
You moan as her thumb finds your clit again, circling with that maddening pressure— just right , just enough to push you closer, but never quite letting you fall.
“I could make you come right here,” she whispers, pressing kisses along your neck, slow and deliberate. “On my desk, legs spread, shirt unbuttoned like a little classroom slut. Is that what you want?”
You manage a broken, breathless, “Yes.”
Her tongue flicks against your pulse point. “Then beg for it.”
“I need to come,” you whisper, dizzy, grasping at her arm, her wrist, anything grounding. “Please, Professor. Please let me.”
Her fingers work inside you with calm, devastating precision—crooking just right, finding that spot deep inside that makes your whole body jolt and melt all at once. Her thumb stays steady on your clit, circling in rhythm, not too fast, not too slow—just enough to keep you dangling on the edge.
Lilia watches you. Eyes sharp behind her glasses, lips parted slightly like she’s drinking you in . There’s something cruel in how slowly she works you. Something reverent, too. Like she’s savoring the way you fall apart.
“You're so close, aren’t you?” she murmurs, mouth brushing your ear. “I can feel it. Your little cunt's clenching around me like she’s begging too.”
You moan, high and helpless.
Her voice turns syrupy, cruel. “What happened to the clever little student who argued with me over Hellenistic warfare last week, hm? Where is she now?”
“Gone,” you gasp. “God— please , I can’t—”
“Oh, you can .” Her fingers curl deeper. “You’re going to hold it until I say. That’s what good girls do, isn’t it?”
Your thighs tremble violently. Your back arches. Every muscle in your body is locked with tension, desperate, vibrating with restraint and heat and need. Your vision blurs at the edges.
Lilia presses her mouth to the corner of your lips, so soft it feels cruel. “You can come now, darling.”
And you do.
It crashes through you like a wave cresting at last—pleasure surging from the pit of your stomach outward, down your thighs, up your spine. You cry out, head falling back, mouth open as your whole body tenses then shudders , clenching around her fingers again and again. You can feel the wet sound of it, the way you’re soaking her hand, the way your skirt is still bunched up around your hips like some kind of obscene half-unwrapped present.
She watches you— of course she does—smirking like a queen who’s just conquered a nation. Her fingers slow gradually, then stop, still resting inside you while you tremble around them. Like she’s letting you feel the aftershocks.
She presses one final kiss to your cheek and murmurs, “There we are. Knew you’d make a mess of yourself.”
You can barely breathe. Can’t think. Your arms fall to your sides, useless.
And she—always composed—slips her fingers free and casually reaches for a tissue, dabbing them off with maddening calm.
“Feeling better, darling?” she asks sweetly, glancing up at you through her lashes. “A bit more… focused , perhaps?”
You groan and half-laugh, dazed and floating. “You’re—insufferable.”
She grins. “But effective.”
You sit up slowly, legs shaky but determined. Because there’s one thing you know with absolute certainty now—she may be the one in charge, but she wants to be wanted. Worshipped.
And you’re about to give her exactly that.
Without a word, you slide off the desk and kneel between her legs.
Lilia raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s this?”
You look up at her, hands settling on her thighs—parting her colorful skirt, bunching it up. Her eyes darken, and you feel the shift in the air, like static.
“I want to return the favor,” you murmur. “Unless you object?”
Lilia leans back against her desk, spreading her legs just enough. “Not at all,” she purrs, voice silky. “Let’s see if that tongue is as sharp here as it is in seminar.”
Lilia leans back against the desk, her thighs spreading wider in silent invitation. She watches you from above, arms loosely crossed under her chest, one eyebrow raised like this is a casual game she already knows she’ll win.
But that cocky expression falters just a little when your hands skim up her legs—slow, reverent, sliding beneath the riot of fabric that is her skirt.
“You don’t wear panties to class?” you murmur, grinning as your fingers meet bare skin.
Her smirk sharpens. “It’s a nuisance,” she replies coolly. “And I prefer the freedom.”
“Mm,” you hum, leaning in, “I prefer access .”
You nuzzle between her thighs, breathing in the warm, musky scent of her arousal—rich, earthy, spiced like the scent that clings to her scarf and clothes. She’s already wet, and your mouth waters at the sight. But you don’t dive in—not yet. You part her grey covered folds slowly, lovingly, with a feather-light touch that makes her hips twitch against the desk.
“You’re quiet now,” you whisper, tongue tracing the slick seam between her lips.
“Mm,” she breathes, low and warning. “Don’t get cheeky, darling. You wouldn’t want to start something you can’t finish.”
But there’s a crack in her tone now. Barely there. You press a soft kiss to her clit—just a flick, a tease—and her breath hitches.
You grin.
You work slowly, deliberately, licking her with languid strokes, pressing kisses where she’s softest, wettest. You curl your hands around her thighs, then slide them up to her hips, holding her steady while your mouth learns every reaction she gives. Her breath grows shallow. Her fingers curl around the desk behind her.
Then—just as her hips begin to rock forward—you pull back.
Lilia lets out a low growl of disbelief. “Darling,” she warns.
You look up at her, lips slick, and grin. “Something wrong, Professor?”
She bares her teeth in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, you’re playing with fire.”
But before she can move, you stand.
You tug at her silk blouse, start undoing the buttons one by one. She doesn’t stop you.
The fabric parts, revealing soft, full breasts framed in a deep red crochet brallete that looks handmade . You slide your hands under the cups and lift them free, marveling at how her breath catches, how her nipples harden in the cool air. You take one into your mouth, sucking gently, tongue circling. She hisses in pleasure, her hand instinctively flying to the back of your head.
“You like that?” you murmur, moving to the other breast. You kiss her there too, open-mouthed and wet.
Her nails tighten in your hair. “Don’t get used to it.”
But she’s flushed now. Unraveling. You can feel her thighs tense when you slide a hand between them again, rubbing slow circles against her swollen clit.
And when you sink to your knees again—this time with no pretense—you devour her.
Your tongue works faster now, lips tight around her, sucking her clit as your fingers push inside her, curling in a rhythm that makes her swear. Her thighs are trembling on either side of your head. Her blouse is open, her breasts rising and falling with ragged breath.
She’s so close—you can feel it. She’s gripping the desk with one hand and your hair with the other, biting her lip like it’s the only thing keeping her from breaking.
And just when she’s about to tip over the edge—you pull back again. Just enough.
A half-second of silence.
Then—
Her hand fisting in your hair tightens hard , dragging your face back up to hers.
Her voice is ice and honey. “ Remember who’s in control here, darling. ”
Her fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you closer. It’s not the forceful grip of someone trying to control, but more a desperate tug, as if she’s losing her grip on the very thing that keeps her composure intact. Her breath hitches sharply as your lips brush against her inner thighs—teasing her just enough to drive her mad.
She shifts in the edge of the table, her legs trembling slightly as you move closer, your tongue flicking out to taste her soft, wet skin. She’s already soaked, her arousal slick against your lips, but you take your time—gently exploring, savoring the moment, feeling her shudder with every light touch.
Lilia's hand, still in your hair, grips you harder, urging you closer, but there’s something more to it now. The desperation in her touch is unmistakable. She shifts again, trying to pull you closer, but you’re not moving fast enough for her.
Your lips ghost over her clit, just barely grazing it, and you feel the tremor in her body. She gasps, her fingers clenching around the armrests of the chair. "Fuck, you’re making me wait," she growls under her breath, her voice strained, the usual coolness cracking.
Your mouth lingers near her clit, teasing her just out of reach, feeling her body arch, trying to pull you closer with every inch. The quiet, desperate moans slipping past her lips are telling you everything you need to know—she’s losing control, and it drives you wild.
But you wait, just a moment longer.
And when you finally press your tongue to her, she inhales sharply, her body stiffening as her hips buck slightly beneath you. You could stay like this forever, listening to her falter, unravel, losing herself as you tease her—slow, deliberate strokes that make her pulse race.
She exhales a breathless laugh, a soft mockery of her usual composure. "You really are making me beg, aren't you?" Her voice wavers, but the edge of authority still lingers, demanding that you answer.
You don’t reply. Instead, you suck gently at her clit, your tongue pressing into her with slow, languid movements. Her hips respond instinctively, pushing forward to meet you as she exhales a broken sigh.
“ Please …” Her voice cracks, and it's the first time you hear it—raw, unguarded. “Please don’t tease me anymore.”
But you do tease her. You pull back again, just enough for her to whimper, her thighs shaking under the pressure. “What’s wrong, Professor?” you murmur, your voice dripping with mock concern. “I thought you had all the control.”
She bites her lip, trying to hold it together. She tries to maintain that unshakable control, but it’s slipping fast, and she knows it. “I told you not to get cocky,” she warns, her voice tight with frustration. “If you keep this up, I’m going to…”
“Going to what?” you tease, leaning in to kiss her again, your tongue tracing the edges of her folds. She squirms beneath you, her hips rocking against your mouth, desperate for more, but you pull back once again.
Her breathing comes in sharp gasps, her hands moving to your hair, fisting it tightly. “ Don’t stop ,” she whispers, her voice strained, but still that velvet-coated command. “I mean it.”
Your response is a slow, teasing smile, your voice almost mocking as you murmur against her. “You want it that badly, don’t you?”
Lilia doesn’t respond right away—only gasps sharply when you finally press your tongue back to her clit, sucking harder this time, deliberately pushing her closer to her peak.
“Say it,” you demand, your voice low and playful as you gently bite down on the sensitive flesh, just enough to make her whimper. “Say you want to come on my mouth.”
Lilia’s breath hitches. She’s barely holding it together, her composure slipping more with every lick, every teasing stroke of your tongue.
“Please,” she gasps, the word escaping her lips like it’s the only thing she can manage. “Please, don’t stop. I— I want to come, I need it .”
That’s all you needed. You press your lips to her once more, your tongue working in quick, urgent strokes as her body begins to tremble violently. Her hips push up to meet you, and you hear her voice break into a half-cry as she finally unravels in your mouth.
Her release is hot, sharp, and she lets out a deep, guttural groan that fills the air, her body trembling as she clutches at your hair, desperate for something to hold on to. You don’t stop. You keep going, savoring every second of it—her pleasure. The taste of her, the way she’s so vulnerable beneath your touch.
Finally, when the waves of her orgasm have passed, you pull back, your lips shining, your body thrumming with satisfaction.
Lilia, flushed and breathless, takes a moment to collect herself. She watches you with heavy-lidded eyes, her chest still rising and falling in shallow breaths.
“You did well,” she murmurs, voice rough, but the approval is clear. “Better than I expected.”
You smile up at her, eyes still dark with lust. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Lilia reaches down, running a finger through your hair, soft now, almost tender. She tilts your chin up, her gaze intense, and for a moment, there’s no trace of the professor—the command, the control. It’s just her .
“Next time,” she says quietly, “I’m not letting you get away with teasing me so long.”
You smirk, still breathless. “I can’t wait, Professor.”