SWEET DESIRES

CHAPTER 12: PROFESSOR PRICE PT 3

Professor Vaughn did not ask. He sent a short message on Thursday evening that read only, “You will spend the weekend at my country house. Pack lightly. I will collect you after your last class on Friday.” Camila read the order twice, felt the last campus constraints fall away, and answered with the single word he expected.

He drove her north in silence. The house sat alone at the end of a long gravel road, surrounded by trees and distance. Once the door locked behind them the isolation became complete. Vaughn set her bag down in the entryway and spoke in the same measured tone he used in his office.

“Days will follow a private curriculum. Mornings are for study and oral examination. Afternoons are for physical conditioning and endurance. Evenings I will use you at length while I work on my manuscript. Breeding is now an explicit goal. I have tracked your cycle. I am adjusting your contraceptive regimen beginning tonight. I intend to impregnate you before the term ends.”

Camila’s breath caught, but she nodded. “I understand.”

The first morning began at six. He placed a dense theoretical text in front of her at the kitchen table and required her to read, annotate, and then defend the central arguments aloud while she sat naked on the hard wooden chair. Cool air touched her bare skin. Every imprecise answer earned a corrective strike across the insides of her thighs—sharp, measured, leaving bright heat that made her shift on the unforgiving wood. When she finally produced a coherent defense he gave a single word of rare praise—“Adequate”—and moved her to the next chapter.

Afternoons were physical. He directed her through prolonged stress positions, controlled breathing exercises, and endurance holds that left her muscles shaking. Failure to maintain the required posture brought additional measured punishment. He spoke while he corrected her body.

“You will learn to keep this form even when you are tired. The same precision I demand of your mind applies to every part of you.”

Evenings belonged to extended use. On the first night Vaughn sat at the large desk in the study with his manuscript open. He ordered Camila to bend over the edge of the desk, wrists crossed behind her back. He lifted the hem of the thin dress he had instructed her to wear and found her already bare underneath, as required. The blunt head of his c**k pressed against her entrance. He pushed inside in one long, controlled thrust, stretching her open around the thick heat of him until he was buried to the hilt. A broken moan escaped her throat.

“Quiet,” he said, though his voice remained even. He began to f**k her slowly and thoroughly, each stroke deliberate, the wet sound of her cunt taking him loud in the quiet room. His fingers typed steadily on the keyboard even as his hips rolled forward, filling her again and again. Camila gripped the far edge of the desk. Every deep thrust forced soft, involuntary sounds past her lips—low moans that she tried and failed to swallow. When he angled his hips and dragged against the sensitive place inside her, a filthier noise tore free.

“f**k—Professor—”

He did not stop. He f****d her through the rising heat, the slick walls of her cunt clenching around his c**k with every withdrawal. The breeding intention was explicit in the way he held himself deep at the end of each stroke, grinding against her cervix as if to force his seed as far inside her as possible. When he finally came it was with several hard, precise thrusts that flooded her her completely. Hot pulses flooded her. He remained buried while the last spurts emptied into her, then withdrew and immediately ordered her onto her knees between his legs.

She took him into her mouth while he was still half-hard and tasting of her own arousal mixed with his release. He continued typing with one hand and guided her head with the other, sliding his c**k between her lips until she gagged softly around the length. Soft, wet sounds filled the study. When he hardened fully again he pulled her up, turned her, and bent her back over the desk. This time he f****d her harder, the slap of his hips against her ass sharp and rhythmic. Camila’s moans grew louder, less controlled. Her cunt dripped around him, the earlier load of c*m leaking down her thighs with every thrust. He finished inside her a second time, holding her hips tight while he pumped every drop deep.

Between sessions he made her swallow the new contraceptive pills he had chosen, explaining the dosage and the schedule in clinical detail.

“You will take these exactly as instructed until I decide otherwise,” he said. “Any deviation is a breach.”

Psychological pressure deepened with the journal requirement. Each night before sleep he ordered her to write a clinical account of the day’s sessions—what had been said, what positions she had held, how her body had responded, where she had failed. In the morning he read the entries, annotated them in red ink, and returned the notebook with corrective comments that were precise and often humiliating. Praise appeared only once, a short margin note that read, “Improved focus under strain.” Most pages carried longer remarks about insufficient detail or lingering resistance.

Camila’s dual existence began to strain even inside the isolation of the house. She would catch herself rehearsing seminar arguments in the same mental voice she used when reciting passages while he was inside her. Brief moments of rebellion still surfaced. On the second afternoon she hesitated when he ordered her into a particularly demanding stress position. Vaughn did not raise his voice. He simply extended the hold by twenty minutes and added an extra evening session that left her too sore to sit comfortably during the next morning’s oral examination. The measured consequence extinguished the resistance and reinforced compliance more effectively than anger would have.

That extra evening session began with her on her back across the desk, knees held open by his hands. He entered her without preamble, the thick stretch of his c**k forcing a raw moan from her throat. He f****d her with the same controlled intensity he brought to every academic correction, each deep thrust accompanied by a quiet instruction.

“Stay open. Do not close your legs. Argue the counter-claim from this morning while I use you.”

She tried. The words came out broken between gasps and moans. Every time her reasoning faltered he drove into her harder, the wet slap of his body meeting hers filling the study. Her cunt clenched and fluttered around him. Filthy, helpless sounds spilled from her lips—“Please… f**k… Professor, I can’t—”—until he ordered silence and simply used her body until she came with a choked cry, walls pulsing around his c**k. He continued through her climax and finished deep inside her once more, grinding against her as the heat of his release flooded the already-slick channel.

By Sunday evening the weekend intensive had rewritten the boundaries of the arrangement. Vaughn used her one final time across the desk while he finished a difficult paragraph of his manuscript. He bent her forward, pushed inside her still-tender cunt, and f****d her with slow, thorough strokes that forced soft, continuous moans from her throat. The wetness of the earlier loads made every thrust obscenely slick. He came with a final, deep push and held himself there, letting the last pulses empty into her while his free hand continued typing.

Then he allowed her to dress. He drove her back to campus in the same silence that had marked the outward journey. When he stopped the car near her building he looked at her for a long moment.

“You are carrying physical evidence of the weekend. Do not clean yourself until morning. New standing order: you will report any change in your body to me immediately—soreness, cycle shifts, any sign that the breeding may have taken. Delay is not permitted.”

Camila met his eyes and answered in a quiet, steady voice. “I will report every change immediately.”

She stepped out of the car with the residual wetness still between her thighs, the faint marks of the afternoon conditioning still visible under her clothes, and the annotated journal heavy in her bag. The campus lights looked ordinary and distant. Tuition remained paid. The stipend continued. Her grades were rising. Yet the private curriculum of the country house had followed her back, and the new standing order made clear that her body was no longer entirely her own to observe in private. She walked toward her dormitory already calculating how she would balance the brilliant student who appeared in daytime classes with the property who now belonged to Professor Vaughn across every remaining week of the term.