Raw Confession: At nineteen, Profession Made out with me

I was nineteen and utterly reckless. I’d flirted with Professor Adams all semester — always the perfect student, sitting front row in a sheer blouse and tight skirt that rode up every time I crossed my legs. My small A‑cups pressed right against his podium as I handed back my paper; I saw his Adam’s apple bob when my nipples poked through the thin fabric.

One afternoon I stayed behind after class “to ask a question.” He closed the door and I wasted no time. I yanked my blouse open, braless, and leaned against his desk so my tits fell free. He stood, stunned, then cupped one breast, thumb flicking my hardened nipple before slurping it into his mouth. I grabbed the edge of his tie and pulled him closer so he could alternate between gentle sucks and little nips that made stars bloom between my legs.

When his mouth finally left my chest, he backed me against the wall of the empty women’s restroom. My skirt hitched to my waist as he knelt, tongue tracing the strip of lace where my panties met bare skin. He flicked my clit through the fabric, drawing low, desperate moans, then slipped two fingers inside — slow, exploratory strokes that curled perfectly against my spot. I braced my hands on the stall door, toes curling, while he ate me out like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted.