A Slút For My Professor (12)
“Want me to go lower, Ms. Thorne?” Cassian’s voice wraps around me like velvet dipped in sin. His fingers keep drumming on the inside of my thigh, each tap a promise of torment.
I try to answer, but the gag muffles everything except a needy moan. My body’s already screaming yes. He knows it. He always knows it.
He doesn’t wait for permission. His hand slides up between my thighs, fingers spreading me open like he’s flipping through pages of a book he already owns. He studies me like I’m art he’s ready to ruin. My pússy throbs for him, wet and aching, and I push forward instinctively, grinding for more.
But he pulls back.
Slap.
The sharp sound slices the air. My entire body jolts. The sting explodes through my clít and blooms outward.
“God,” I scream into
