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soaringcloud · 8 months

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I FEEL ASHAMED AT HOW DARK!JAVI MAKES ME FEEL OH GOD-

SO SO GOOD AGHHH <3

Exposed (javier peña x fem!reader) (18+)

pairing: dark!professor!javier peña x fem!student!reader summary: when you accidentally send a risqué picture to the wrong number, your worst nightmares are realized warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] heavy dubcon blowjob, power imbalance, blackmail, extortion, threat of revenge porn, age gap (unspecified, but Javi is in his 40s, reader is early 20s), overheard male masturbation (javi makes you listen to him jack off), brief mentions of drugs/drug use, degradation, pet names/derogatory terms (baby, sweetheart, whore, slut, etc), probably terrible Spanish word count: ~5.4k | ao3 a/n: my contribution to the haunted hoedown, because we know how I salivate over a taboo trope. Also s/o to my love Emma @walkintotheriveranddisappear for some deliciously depraved ideas that made it into this fic 😈

You knew the class was going to be small, but you didn’t expect it to be this small

You heard Professor Peña was hot, but you didn’t expect him to be this hot.

You had scored a spot in a highly coveted by-recommendation-only course, instructed by the notoriously attractive Professor Peña. You’re not strictly proud of the amount of groveling you had done to secure this class, but it had paid off regardless.

To approximately 15 students situated around a large round table, Professor Peña announces that this is a participation-heavy class and you each are expected to contribute vocally to every discussion. That and the couple of papers through the semester will cement your grade in the course. So you had better come prepared to talk.

He also does something no other professor in your three years at university has done—he recites his personal cell phone number for the class, inviting you to text him at any time with questions or concerns.

A bold choice, you think, considering his painfully good looks. You’re sure the female students throw themselves at him constantly, begging for higher grades with juicy red lips and flimsy dresses. Shit, any gender probably tries shooting their shot with him on the regular.

He’s got those pouty lips under a finely manicured mustache that definitely shouldn’t work in this day and age—much more at home in, what, the 80s?—and that adorable furrow in his brow that students would trip over themselves to smooth over. And those fucking biceps. You can practically hear the stitchings on his button-up sleeves screaming for their lives every class.

The real question is how often does this guy give in? He comes off fairly good-natured if not a bit of a prick. Very sure of himself and his knowledge. But as the lessons have gone by, you haven’t noticed him delving out any special treatment to anyone in particular. He drills each student pretty equally, offering counterpoints and playful “devil’s advocate” takes to stoke the fire of the lecture.

All in all, he’s a decent professor. Intense, but thoughtful. Not afraid to argue, but not afraid to step down or consider a point he hadn’t before with an upside-down grin and a nod of his head.

And he looks, but he doesn’t linger. The low-cut tops catch his eye, that much is obvious, but he’s well practiced in disguising it. You’d only notice if you were looking for it.

And maybe you were. Maybe you were looking for it. Not seriously. Just for fun. Just to scavenge for a weak spot in his tenured armor. The more you search for the throat-clears, the wiping of invisible dirt from his nose, the easier they are to spot. The man is clearly not immune to temptation.

His gaze tends to slide over you like butter, only dropping briefly to your chest after he’s done with his line of questioning and moving on to another student.

Very smooth. Near undetectable.

But he treats you with respect, like an intellectual. Values your insights, praises your observations. Makes you feel respected.

Which is why you don’t have an issue texting him a couple of days before a deadline, politely asking for a short extension.

However, what you should have been much more careful about was who else you were texting at the time. Some frat boy who had a nice dick and no qualms about a “friends with benefits” situation.

A boy who was currently baiting you for “something sexy” for him to get off to tonight.

Well, you definitely sent something. To someone.

And when said boy doesn’t respond after a few minutes, and you double-check your work, you think your soul might ascend from your fucking body.

Wrong text thread.

WRONG FUCKING TEXT THREAD.

Your fingers type as furiously as they ever have before, frantically attempting damage control.

OH MY GOD PROFESSOR IM SO FUCKING SORRY

PLEASE DONT LOOKNAT THAT

PLEASE DELETE IT IM SOSORRY THAT WAS NOT MEANT FOR YOU

You’re sweating. In nothing but the panties you were wearing in that godforsaken picture you just sent. To your fucking professor.

Who hasn’t fucking responded yet.

The minutes tick past, and your heart rate is not slowing. What the fuck do you do in a situation like this? You’re not even a faceless student in a sea of seven hundred and fifty in a lecture hall. He is keenly aware of you as a student. He sits right next to you during class sometimes.

Your phone lights up next to you: Professor Peña

Oh, fuck.

You don’t give him a chance to speak first before you’re hitting accept and word-vomiting all over him. “Professor I am so fucking sorry, that was so inappropriate, I cannot believe I did that, I am so fucking sorr—”

“Hey, slow down.”

His voice is disturbingly calm and firm.

“Take a deep breath.”

You do as instructed, inhaling as deeply as you can through your nose and cascading it out through your mouth.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not—”

He says your name softly, “It’s okay. It was a mistake, right?”

“Yes, a huge, massive mistake. I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

“Not very focused on that paper you just asked for an extension for, huh?”

The smirk in his voice is…alarming to say the least. Very disarming. You can’t help but let out a harried laugh.

“Um, not at this very moment, no.”

“Or prior to this very moment, clearly.”

He’s making a joke. He’s making light of this to take the stress off. You know this. Then why does he sound so…

No. Of course not. There’s no way.

“I should have been more careful, I deeply apologize.”

“No more apologies needed. You’re…” You hear him sigh over the line, “You’re a very beautiful woman.”

Fuck.

No no nononono.

“Professor, I—”

“I mean I’d have to be blind, right? To not appreciate a beautiful young woman like you. Those…gorgeous tits…”

Those last words have your mind stumbling over itself. Yeah, okay, you’ve fantasized about this man more than once. Even about him saying those exact words. But this is reality. Your professor—your actual, real-life professor—commenting on your bare tits.

“Professor Peña, I know what I just did, but I think this is very inappropriate,” You say shakily, suddenly feeling exceedingly uncomfortable in your own skin. You grab the throw blanket from the edge of your bed and wrap it around yourself as if he can see you through the phone.

“Am I just supposed to ignore what I’m seeing? Right now, clear as day on my screen? God, you really are…radiant.”

“Please delete it.”

He pushes out a short laugh. “Well, now, I’m not so sure about that. Looks to me like this might be attached to that little favor you just asked me.”

Your eyes grow wide as the full implication of his words settles into your skin. “No, no, this is not a—a bribe, or anything like that, it was a mistake.”

You hear him make a tchk tchk sound with the side of his mouth. “Sure looks like a bribe from where I’m sitting.”

He can’t possibly think that. Do you come off as that desperate? No way. He even just confirmed that it was a mistake. He knows it’s not on purpose. Maybe he’s had students do that to him before. That’s all it is. Surely.

“Professor. That is so far off base from what’s happening here, I…I would never…”

Maybe your ears are deceiving you, but it sounds like his voice dips a little deeper. “And what if I were to consider that bribe? You willing to sweeten the pot a little?”

Holy shit. This cannot be real. The absolute fucking audacity of this man.

“Professor…I’m not…whoring myself out for a deadline extension,” You bite back with wavering determination. “And how fucking dare you even insinuate that.”

“No, of course not,” he posits, adding on almost as a throwaway, “Just whoring yourself out to every dim-witted frat boy on campus, then.”

What the fuck? Did he really just say that to you? Does he honestly feel like he has any place to judge you for sending one single spicy picture to a guy who, for all he knows, could have been your boyfriend? He’s not your boyfriend, but still. The balls this guy has on him to assume that, while he’s dropping sexual comments about a student’s body?

“Who the fuck do you think you are, professor? Talking to me like this? I will report your ass so fucking fast,” You snap back at him, already mentally compiling all the shit you’re about to send to the school.

His tone remains cool, verging on entertained. “And tell them what, exactly? That you’re asking for extensions and sending nudes to professors? Cause that seems to be all you have at this juncture.”

“That you’re sexualizing your students, maybe?”

“Again, with what evidence, sweetheart?”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“You have none, sweetheart. Now what you do have, is a delectable little body. And if you share a bit more of it with me, we could just…forget all about that pesky paper. How about that?”

This cannot be happening to you. This man, who instructs one of the most desired courses on campus, dangling a pass on a high-value assignment in front of you in exchange for you further degrading yourself for him. How many other girls has he done this to? Or are you just special? Fucking ew.

“I’m not sending your pervy ass any more of my body.”

“Okay. Fair enough,” He says dismissively. “You’ve shown me enough to make a splash, so I guess that’s all that really matters here.”

You hesitate. “What…what is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, it may not cause too much of an impact, since I’m sure every backwards-capped, trust fund with a cock has already seen what you’ve got. But I’m sure I could still do some damage.”

Your gut twists inside you. Holy shit. Would he really do that? Would he distribute your nudes to campus? Maybe an even wider range than that? He could bulldoze your career before it even starts. Tarnish your reputation before…before you’ve even really lived.

“You wanna leak my picture? You’re literally blackmailing me for nudes?”

He sounds as blasé as ever, like he’s picking grime from under his nails while casually threatening your future. “I’m just trying to facilitate your extension request. That’s all.”

“This is so fucked up,” You mumble clutching the blanket closer around you.

“It’s very simple, sweetheart. Send me what I want, and this goes away. The paper goes away. No one needs to know.”

There it is. The most hackle-raising black-and-white scenario that’s ever been foisted upon your sinking shoulders. Either way, this man wins. It’s really just a matter of who knows he won. Just the two of you, or…fucking everyone.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and take the bait.

“No one else will know?”

“Not a single goddamn soul.”

“You swear on your fucking life?”

“Swear on my life, sweetheart.”

You scrub your face with your hand, groaning at the ludicrous circumstances you’ve found yourself in tonight. Who the fuck doesn’t double-check where they’re sending their fucking nudes?

Your voice comes out small, defeated. “Fine. What do you want?”

You hear an inhale and then a measured exhale. “I want the last piece of that puzzle, baby. Show me what’s under those panties.”

You crinkle your nose at the lasciviousness smothering his words. “God, you’re fucking sick, you know that?”

“Is that a no? Cause I can—-”

“Fuck. No, it’s not a no. Just fucking—hold on. Jesus. Trying to wrap my head around selling my fucking soul here. This is not how I imagined my night going.”

“Aww, was that naughty pic just a prelude for what was to come for some lucky Freshman in the dorms?”

“Shut up,” You mumble, your fingers tossing off the throw blanket and dancing indecisively at the band of your underwear. “Like I’d denigrate myself with a Freshman.”

“No, you’re just stripping down for a professor right now. Much more respectable.”

“Shut up,” You shout back again, hearing a laugh through the phone.

“Make sure to spread those legs for me, sweetheart. I want a front-row seat. That paper’s worth a lot of points.”

“Don’t fucking—I’m doing it, okay? Fuck.”

Before you can mull over it too much, you rid yourself of the final piece of clothing on your body. You flop onto your back and spread as directed, aiming the front-facing camera toward your exposed folds. Taking one more steadying breath, you hit the shutter button.

What sucks is you do have a fucking nice pussy. One that you’re very proud of. One that deserves to be appreciated. Just not like this.

The photo automatically attaches to your text thread, awaiting your final approval. Your face doesn’t show, on purpose. You want at least a sliver of plausible deniability in this shitshow. The previous one showing your entire fucking face, up on spread knees with your tits on full display in the mirror’s reflection was plenty.

You hit “send” before you psych yourself out.

You hear him groan and swear. “Jesus fucking Christ, baby. That’s one pretty pussy.”

“Prettier than you fucking deserve,” You mutter back, snatching the blanket and covering yourself up again.

His next words are a bit muffled, the sound drowned out by him rustling the phone, but you make them out, “This is very nice, baby, thank you.”

Then your professor emits a prolonged sigh, curtailed with a moan at the end. Then another. And another…

“Jesus, are—are you jerking off right now?” You whisper accusingly, face scrunching in utter disgust.

“What else—fuck—what else would I be doing with these pretty pictures, baby?”

You mimic a gagging motion to yourself. “God, ok, we’re so fucking done here—”

“Don’t you fucking go anywhere, sweetheart,” He barks at you, and it does what he intends, making you stop. “You stay right—shit—right fucking here. You drop this call, the deal’s off.”

“Jesus, why?” You beg, face still pinched in distaste.

“‘Cause I fucking said so.”

You groan and throw your phone down, your room filling with the sounds of your fucking professor choking his cock.

“Fuck, that’s a sweet little pussy, baby. Just begging for my cock inside it. Ohhh fuck, shit I’m close,” He groans, almost whimpering with it. “God, wanna come right on those beautiful tits, baby. Oh fuck,” His voice breaks a bit at the end as it splits into a loud moan and an excess of panting breaths.

You have nothing to fucking say. Your brain is reeling from all the shit that just happened. You just listened to Professor Peña jack off to naked photos of you. How the fuck do you reconcile that with the man you’ve known in the classroom these past several weeks?

How do you reconcile the blatant fucking blackmailing that just solidified itself over the span of this call?

“Shit. Haven’t come that fast in a minute,” He huffs out, quieter than he was a minute ago as if he threw the phone aside and put it on speaker. “Body like a goddess, putita.”

You snatch up your phone with fury in your veins. “I know what that means. Don't ever fucking call me that, you sick pervert,” You spit out at him. “You’re the one extorting college girls for their fucking nudes. Who’s the real slut in this scenario?”

“Woah, woah, extorting? Who’s extorting here? I don’t see me begging anywhere in these texts. I see una putita,” He emphasizes the insult with relish, “throwing her pussy at me in hopes of some academic leniency. Now, what do you think the dean of students would make of that?” He remarks in feigned concern.

“You swore.”

“I did indeed. And as long as you keep that pretty little mouth shut, we shouldn’t have a problem. Should we?”

You rest your face in your palm, rubbing at your temples with your thumb and finger. You give a resolved sigh. “No, professor. No problem here. Let’s just…pretend it never fucking happened. Okay?”

You can hear his grin over the phone. “Never fucking happened. That’s right. Have a good night, sweetheart.”

The line goes dead and you pelt your phone into your sheets. All at once, the tears hit you like a fucking truck, and you fall apart into heaving sobs.

—

There’s no Buzzfeed article on how to girlboss your way through a college course after accidentally sending your professor nudes and having him blackmail you for more.

You know, you’ve checked.

It’s been several days since your encounter with Professor Peña, and this morning is your first class with him since. You’re choosier than you’ve ever been about your outfit of the day. Everything you own seems to be revealing in some way, and you’re trying to find something more…nun-chic. The last thing you want to do is give Professor Peña an excuse to ogle you throughout class, now that he knows what’s underneath.

Boyfriend jeans and a t-shirt it is, then.

The indecision makes you later than usual. Still on time, but barely. The only seat left is directly across from him. Of fucking course.

He doesn’t double-take or stare excessively, just a cordial nod acknowledging your presence as he begins the discussion. The banality of his reaction is almost worse than the idea of the opposite.

It’s like he really doesn’t give a shit about what he did the other night. Like it was a run-of-the-mill Thursday night for him. Get home, pour out some Jim Beam, grade some papers, stroke one out to your student’s nudes while on the phone with her, go to bed.

Jesus, for all you know, it might be normal for him.

Your mind is out to the fucking races, and it’s embarrassingly obvious when he puts you on the spot with a question or request for comment. You muddle your way through with the most lackluster answers you can conjure up in that second, just to get the heat off you.

When he’s done with his final inquisition toward you, he gives you a fleeting look up and down. Not in a manner someone would immediately pin as sexual, but there must be an element of it there all the same given the circumstance.

“Disappointing answers today. I expect you to be more prepared next time.”

He leaves it at that and launches into another talking point.

You want to disintegrate into a fucking puddle on the linoleum floor. Astral project your consciousness anywhere the fuck else than here, in this room, getting an “I’m disappointed in you” lecture in front of a dozen other students, from the king of all covert skeeves.

Verbally retaliating would just cause a scene, so you take your lumps and retract in on yourself, swearing under your breath. For the rest of class, you sit with your forehead resting on your hand, scribbling nonsense notes.

Professor Peña dismisses class, and you compile your shit like it’s revving up to run for its life. When you hear him call your name, you cringe.

You chance a look and he’s tapping to align his papers on the table, a stern expression fixed on you from beneath his lashes.

“Stick around for a moment, please.”

In the corner of your eye, you can see other students offering everything from looks of pity to secondhand fear to just plain yikes.

With a curt nod, you fall back into your seat, rhythmically rapping your pen on your notebook and well on your way to championing “eye contact avoidance” into an Olympic sport.

Professor Peña follows the last student to the door at your back, closing it after them. He doesn’t reappear in your line of sight, and when he breaks the silence, his voice comes from behind you.

“You know, that was a very lovely paper you wrote. But that doesn’t excuse you from interacting in class. You don’t get a pass to just coast through the rest of the semester.”

You snort, chucking your pen down on the table. “Oh, please.”

A large hand lands flat on the table next to your books, and a prickling awakens on the back of your neck at his proximity. You could work up a sweat just from the heat radiating off his body.

“I’m not loving the attitude here. Particularly from someone who couldn’t form cohesive sentences in response to rather simple questions today.”

“Oh, fuck off,” You snap at him, turning your body in your chair to face him.

He leers down at you with a raised eyebrow and his tongue poised between his teeth and the inside of his lip.

“I’m thinking you need to meet with me during my office hours.” He rolls his eyes up in thought and then nods. “Yup, I just decided. I expect to see you in my office this evening.”

“What? There’s literally no reason for—”

“You clearly aren’t coming prepared for lecture, and now you’re giving me attitude. I think we need to have a larger discussion about your future in this class.”

“I don’t need–”

“This is not a request.”

“That’s such bullshit, professor,” You glare back at him.

He shrugs with a frown, propelling himself back from the table with his hand and readjusting the strap of his leather messenger bag. “Between five and eight PM. If I don’t see you…” He pauses with his hand on the door handle and drops his gaze to your covered tits for a brief moment before giving a small tilt of his head, “Well, I guess we’ll both see.”

He swings open the door and leaves without another word.

—

You float the idea of not showing up. His threat is already beginning to wear thin to you. So what if he leaks your nudes? Not the end of the world. It’s an awkward conversation to have with your parents, to be sure, but that’s if it even came to that. His threats could be hollow. He could be nothing more than a sad, lonely man scrounging for women to wield power over. All bravado, no balls.

You ultimately came because he might be able to be reasoned with in person.

His voice beckons you in when you knock.

“Close it,” He orders from his desk when you enter.

“I prefer it stay open.”

He looks up with austerity from the document he’s studying. “I said close it.”

You stay put in front of the ajar door, staring him down.

He shakes his head and pushes himself up from his desk, stalking over and reaching past you to yank the door closed with an irritable eyebrow quirk. You hear the lock click in the deafening silence.

He throws his head in the direction of his desk and the chair in front of it. “Take a seat. And don’t fucking argue.”

You roll your eyes behind him but follow him over.

As you sit, Professor Peña situates himself at the front of his desk, his ass indenting against the protruding edge and his hands gripping it on either side of him. Your knees don’t quite touch, but they’re daring to.

He delivers an appraising look up your body, which is still clad in the same jeans and t-shirt.

“Jesus, you really do look better with nothing on if this is the shit you’re choosing to wear.”

“Oh, so you do remember the bullshit you pulled the other night,” You say with a nod, “Was starting to think maybe you forgot.”

His brow furrows. “Why the hell would I forget? What, did you think I was gonna whip my dick out in the classroom the second I saw you?”

You shrug. “How am I supposed to know the depth of your depravity? Anyway, why the fuck am I here?”

“Well,” Professor Peña sighs, looping a thumb over his black leather belt, “since it seems to me that you’re having trouble opening your mouth in class and filling it with anything of substance…” He slides his hand to the silver buckle and gives it a small tug, “Thought maybe I’d offer you a private lesson.”

Your eyes dart from his belt to his face, which is rich with smug satisfaction that you want to smack right off.

“Not a fucking chance in hell, dude,” You respond, leaning back in your chair.

His smirk only creeps wider as he leans forward in response, caging you into your seat with his hands on your armrests. “Funny, I’m not really presenting this as a suggestion.”

You glower back at him, slamming your hands down on top of his and digging your nails into his flesh. “Back the fuck off, old man.”

The motherfucker barely blinks. “It appears you might be forgetting that I’m the one with the power here.”

“Are you? Because I’ve decided I don’t give a fuck if you share my pictures, dude. Go ahead and fucking do it. It’s not like they can kick me off campus for being the victim of revenge porn, and I can deal with the blowback. You don’t fucking scare me.”

That has him retracting his hands from your chair and reclining against his desk again, a swell of pride burning inside you when you see half-moon indents in his skin. He looks up at the ceiling in thought, tapping his fingers against the desk. “Maybe the pictures aren’t what you should be worried about.”

He doesn’t expound any further, and after several beats of silence you prod, “Fine, I’ll bite. What should I be worried about, professor?”

He lifts a hand to his chin, rubbing it with his fingers. “Didn’t I see you snorting coke on campus the other day? Before class?”

The accusation takes you aback. Your eyes narrow on him, studying his face. “What the fuck are you talking about? I barely even smoke weed.”

Professor Peña shifts his weight, crossing his arms on his broad chest. “Mmm, no, I’m pretty sure I saw you in possession of illegal stimulants on campus. Sure enough to report it, too.”

He squints his eyes in further thought, making a slight pout with his lips. “Could probably back it up with evidence, as well. I’d hate to find a dime bag on you after our next class.”

This fucker. This two-faced, sadistic fucker.

“You fucking wouldn’t.”

He winces as if in pity, baring his teeth in a faux-pained expression. “I would, actually. I’m mandated to report illegal drug possession for the safety of the campus.”

“Dean Hansen would never believe that—”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Baby, I’ve got Dean Hansen in my back fucking pocket,” He brags. “Not to mention having her in the backseat of my car, having on her knees in her own goddamn office. Where the fuck do you think I get it in between bimbo college sluts like you?”

You scoff incredulously, rolling your eyes. “You are not sleeping with Dean Hansen.”

“I’ve got the bitch on speed dial, sweetheart. Should we find out?” He rounds his desk and takes his own seat, lifting the phone off its hook.

You leap out of your seat and extend a hand, “Please don’t.”

He pauses with his finger above the keypad. He makes a single tilt of his head toward his crotch.

Your eyes follow his indication and your resolve begins to shudder. “Please…don’t. Don’t make me do this.”

Without taking his eyes off you, he presses a button on his speed dial and leans back in his chair with the phone cradled at his ear. Tangible silence flows between you as you both wait.

Then his face alights. “Hey, Deb. Javi.”

“Shit,” You whisper, practically diving around his desk and onto your knees, looking up at him with pleading desperation.

His head dips, gesturing toward his crotch again. He chuckles into the phone. “No, for once I am not calling for that. It’s actually concerning a student of mine.”

His eyes stay locked on yours, waiting.

A string of curse words color the inside of your head as your hands find his belt, fingers fumbling over themselves as you undo the buckle and fastenings of his pants.

“I’m fairly certain I caught her doing drugs in an alcove inside the Whitmore Building a few days ago.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” You chant under your breath as you jerk down his boxers to reveal his cock, hard and thick against his thigh. You wrap a hand around him without preamble, stroking him rapidly. “Please hang up.”

He ignores your request entirely.

“On top of that, she’s been acting increasingly erratic in my class.” He reclines slightly in his chair and mimes licking his palm as he glances down at you. You huff and spit into your own, immediately returning to his length with a more acceptable glide.

He muffles the bottom of the phone, pulling it away from his face and whispering, “That’s a girl. Now put it in your mouth.”

So we’re really doing this, you think. This is what we’ve been reduced to.

You don’t allow yourself to spiral. Not now, not with him on the phone with the fucking dean of students. You ground yourself with a solid breath and lean in.

You encapsulate the head with wet suction, rubbing your tongue up against the underside and teasing the slit with his precome dribbling out. He stares down at you with hooded eyes, working his free hand into your hair to hold it.

“Right now I think I’ll just keep my eye on her. Don’t wanna get her in trouble if I’m mistaken, after all.” He rolls his hips up, pushing more of him into your mouth as you open for him. “She seems like a good girl. Wouldn’t wanna ruin her.”

You gag on him as quietly as you can manage, his movements making your eyes water and your mouth salivate.

“Maybe I’ll call you later, Deb,” He offers noncommittally into the phone, saying a final goodbye and hanging up. He lets out a heavy sigh and readjusts his grip on your hair. “See? You do as I ask, no harm done.”

You whimper around him as his eyes slide shut, allowing himself to feel you around him as he rocks his hips into you.

“Such filthy head from a filthy whore. If I gave you enough incentive you’d probably let me buy and sell you like fucking cattle to the rest of the faculty, baby.”

He eases your head off his cock, spit clinging to the tip. He slaps the head against your lips wetly before rubbing it over the heated skin of your cheek and then poises it back at your mouth.

“And you know what the best part is?” He smirks as he bends over, using his grip on your hair to tilt your face up to him. “That wasn’t even the dean.”

The surprise on your features is still evident as he thrusts back into your mouth with a grunt, using you to fulfill his pleasure.

“Down on your knees, whoring yourself over an empty phone line. How does that make you feel, sweetheart?” He asks, fully aware your ability to answer is being hindered by his own doing. His own cock stretching your lips and stuffing your mouth.

His head presses into the back of his cushioned chair as he invades your mouth, his jaw hanging open as he thrusts and mutters in Spanish, “Sucia puta. Así.”

The closer he gets, the harder he grabs at your scalp, pressing you down into his lap. He finally comes with a prolonged groan and a flurry of Spanish you don’t quite catch. He doesn’t warn you, just shoots every drop of himself into your overflowing mouth and straight down your throat, forcing you to swallow.

You cough as he releases you, falling onto your hands and knees and wiping all manner of fluid from your face with your sleeve. He’s the picture of bliss above you, panting with a smug smile teasing his lips.

“You’re fucking sick. Out of your fucking mind,” You grit out at him.

He shrugs, balancing his elbows on his thighs. “And you’ll keep doing what I say, when I say it, until I decide I’m done with you.”

Your eyes mist over as the thought of your new normal trickles through your brain. “Why are you doing this to me? Like, truly, why?” You plead.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he placates, cupping your jaw in his hand and looking deep into your eyes with the most devastating quasi-sympathy from his endless molten brown ones.

“Because I can.”

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