The yellow blanket was already damp under my ass when I cracked the spine of that thick novel again. My left hand stayed cupped under my right tit, thumb lazily circling the stiff nipple while the other hand held the book open across my spread thighs. Page 178 stared up at me, some dense paragraph about forbidden desire in 19th-century prose, but all I could think about was the way Professor Harrington’s voice would sound reading it out loud while I sat like this in his office.

I kept my knees wide, pussy completely bare and already glistening. Every time I shifted, the lips parted a little more and the cool air kissed the wetness. I imagined him walking in, seeing me exactly like this—naked college coed with an open literature textbook, fingers still pinching her own nipple, cunt on full display. Would he clear his throat and pretend to discuss symbolism, or would he drop to his knees and bury his face between my legs before the door even clicked shut?

His wife is the problem. That dried-up, bitter cunt who shows up to faculty mixers in high-necked blouses like she’s allergic to being fucked. I hate the way she looks at him, all possessive and pinched, as if she still has any claim on the cock that clearly hasn’t been properly used in years. I bet her pussy is as tight and joyless as her smile. I bet she hasn’t squirted once in her entire miserable marriage. The thought of her makes me grind down harder against the blanket, spreading my lips with two fingers so I can feel how soaked I already am just picturing her husband tasting me instead.

I flipped another page without reading a single word. My clit was throbbing now, fat and swollen, begging for attention. I dragged the wetness up from my hole and circled it slowly, still holding the book open with my other hand like a good student. Literature professor questions swirled in my head, the ones I’d never dare ask in class:

Would you grade me higher if I came on your tongue during office hours?
Does your wife ever let you fuck her throat the way I would?
Can I sit on your desk with my legs spread and make you forget she exists?

The Filthiest Questions I Want to Ask Him

I slid two fingers inside myself while I kept reading the same useless paragraph. The wet sound was loud in the quiet room. I fucked myself slow and deep, curling against that spot that always makes my thighs shake, still pinching my nipple hard enough to hurt. Every thrust made my tits bounce a little. I pictured him standing over me, still wearing that tweed jacket, watching my fingers disappear into my cunt while I asked the real questions.

“Professor… does she ever get this wet for you? Or is her pussy as dry and dead as her personality?” My voice came out husky even though I was alone. “Would you rather stretch my tight college coed hole than try to get hard for that frozen bitch again?”

I added a third finger and started pumping harder. The book slipped sideways but I didn’t care. My free hand left my breast and reached down to spread myself wider, showing off every shiny fold. I wanted him to see how pink and ready I was. I wanted him to compare me to the woman who shares his bed—the one who probably lies there like a corpse while he politely finishes. I hate her. I hate the idea of her getting even a fraction of the cock I crave. I’d ruin her marriage in a single afternoon if he let me. I’d ride him right on top of the essays she probably proofreads for him, leave my cream all over the pages, and make sure he smells me on his fingers when he goes home to her.

My orgasm hit hard. I clamped down around my fingers and ground my clit against my palm, legs shaking, a broken moan spilling out while the open book pressed against my hip. Cum dripped down onto the yellow fabric in messy streaks. I kept rubbing through it, oversensitive and greedy, still whispering filthy questions into the empty room.

When the aftershocks finally faded I pulled my shiny fingers free and wiped them across the page, leaving wet streaks over the printed words. Let the literature professor see exactly what his lectures do to me. Let him wonder if his wife has ever marked a book the same way. Spoiler: she hasn’t. That sad, sexless woman could never soak a page the way a desperate, naked college girl can.

I closed the book, still naked, still dripping, and started composing the email I’d never send. Subject line: Questions for My Literature Professor. Body: every nasty, honest thought I’d just fucked myself to. Including the part where I tell him his wife is a dried-up obstacle I can’t wait to step over on my way to his cock.