Chapter 1: Office Hours Turned Sinful
The air in Professor Nicholson’s office hung thick and still, smelling of old paper, dust, and the faint, expensive spice of her perfume. Outside the high, narrow window, campus had long since fallen quiet. Brenda shifted her weight, the worn leather of the visitor’s chair groaning softly beneath her. She clutched the printed essay in her lap, the crisp edges crumpled under her damp palms. A giant, red ‘F’ glared from the top page like a fresh wound.
"Professor Nicholson, please," Brenda’s voice was tight, straining against the oppressive quiet. "I know it wasn't my best work, but an F? It feels… excessive." She hated the tremor she heard.
Lucinda Nicholson didn’t look up immediately. She was meticulously aligning a stack of journals, her movements precise, economical. She wore a deep plum silk blouse, unbuttoned just low enough to hint at collarbones, the sleeves rolled up her forearms. The single desk lamp cast a pool of golden light, etching sharp angles on her face and making her dark eyes seem fathomless. When she finally lifted her gaze, it was like being pinned.
"Excessive, Ms. Walsh?" Lucinda’s voice was smooth, low, carrying an undercurrent Brenda couldn’t quite name. She leaned back, steepling her fingers. "Your analysis of Marquez’s use of magical realism didn't just miss the mark; it disregarded the fundamental socio-political context entirely. It read like… sparknotes filtered through wishful thinking."
Brenda felt heat crawl up her neck. "I understand that. Honestly, I do. Things were… hectic. I can do better." She leaned forward, urgency cracking her composure. "I need this grade. It’s not just a class. It’s…" She trailed off, unwilling to spill her messy personal life onto the Persian rug.
"It’s what?" Lucinda prompted, her head tilting slightly. The lamplight caught a strand of dark hair escaping her chignon. "A prerequisite? A scholarship requirement? Tell me why this matters so much that you’re haunting my office past ten on a Thursday, Brenda."
Hearing her first name, said in that low, almost intimate tone, sent an unexpected jolt through Brenda. She met the professor’s gaze, seeing not just the sharp intellect, but a flicker of intense curiosity. Or was it challenge? "It matters," Brenda said simply, holding that gaze. "To me."
A beat of silence stretched, thick with the unsaid. Lucinda sighed, a soft exhalation that seemed to soften the sharp lines of her posture for a fraction of a second. "Give it here." She extended a hand, long fingers beckoning.
Brenda stood quickly, her knee bumping the heavy oak desk. She handed over the essay, the pages fluttering slightly. Instead of taking it, Lucinda indicated the space beside her. "Sit. Show me where you think the injustice lies."
Brenda hesitated, then rounded the desk. The space between Lucinda’s chair and the desk was narrow. Brenda perched on the edge of the guest chair Lucinda had nudged closer with her foot, their shoulders almost touching. The scent of her perfume – sandalwood and something deeper, smoky – was suddenly overwhelming this close.
Lucinda pulled the essay towards her, turning pages. Her red pen hovered. "See here," she began, her voice dropping to a near murmur, resonant in the small space. The tip of the pen touched the paper, a vivid crimson dot. "This assertion about solitude being purely romantic? It ignores the crushing weight of political oppression framing the entire narrative. The magical elements aren't whimsy; they're survival." She underlined a passage, her knuckles brushing the back of Brenda’s hand resting on the desk.
Brenda flinched at the contact, a tiny spark igniting where skin met skin. She didn't pull away. Lucinda didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she simply didn't care. The pen moved down the page, leaving a trail of concise, damning notes. Brenda tried to focus on the words, the critique, but her senses were hijacked. The warmth radiating from Lucinda’s arm beside hers. The faint, clean scent of her soap beneath the perfume. The focused intensity carved onto her profile in the lamplight.
"And here," Lucinda continued, her voice still that low, intent murmur. The red pen glided across Brenda’s sentence about forbidden love. "Superficial. You skim the surface, ignoring the raw, destabilizing power of it. How it consumes, how it obliterates the old self." She paused, the pen tip resting heavily on the period. Slowly, deliberately, she drew a long, wavy line through the sentence.
But she didn’t lift the pen. Instead, her hand shifted. The side of her index finger, holding the pen, slid slowly, deliberately, along the edge of Brenda’s own hand resting on the desk. Not an accident. A slow, deliberate stroke. The sensation was scalding. It traveled from Brenda’s knuckles up her wrist, a line of fire searing through her skin.
Brenda froze. Her breath hitched, caught in her throat like a trapped bird. Her entire world narrowed to that single point of contact – the surprisingly soft skin of Lucinda’s finger, the slight pressure, the lingering drag. She could feel the faint ridge of a knuckle, the warmth sinking deep. Time warped. The dusty books, the ticking clock, the distant hum of the building faded into a muffled haze. There was only the desk lamp’s glow, the scent of sandalwood, the thunder of her own pulse, and that devastatingly slow stroke along her skin.
Lucinda didn’t look at her. Her gaze remained fixed on the essay, her expression unreadable – a mask of academic focus. But the tension in her arm, the absolute stillness except for that one, slow-moving finger, screamed intention. It wasn't correction. It wasn't accident. It was a silent, potent question, asked in the language of touch.
The pen finally lifted, leaving Brenda’s skin feeling suddenly cold and exposed. Lucinda turned her head. Just slightly. Enough for Brenda to see the dark intensity in her eyes, now focused entirely on her. Not on the essay. On her. A faint, almost imperceptible flush high on Lucinda’s cheekbones belied the cool control.
"Does that clarify my objection, Brenda?" Lucinda asked, her voice a low vibration that seemed to resonate in Brenda’s bones. It held no trace of the previous critique. It was intimate, charged, acknowledging the silent detonation that had just occurred.
Brenda couldn’t speak. Her tongue felt thick, useless. She stared into those dark eyes, seeing the reflection of the lamp, seeing something raw and dangerous flickering beneath the surface. The air crackled. Every nerve ending screamed. She saw the slight part of Lucinda's lips as she waited for an answer Brenda couldn't form.
This wasn't about a grade anymore. This was something else. Something vast, terrifying, and utterly magnetic, igniting in the hushed, book-lined sanctuary of the office. The red pen lay abandoned on the page, its ink stark against the white paper – a silent testament to the moment everything shifted. Brenda could only feel the ghost of that touch burning on her skin, and the terrifying, exhilarating plunge into uncharted territory reflected in her professor’s eyes.
The ghost of Lucinda’s touch still burned on Brenda’s skin. That deliberate, scalding stroke along her hand. The air crackled, thick with old paper, expensive perfume, and something infinitely more dangerous. Brenda couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Lucinda’s dark eyes held her captive, reflecting the low lamplight and something raw, something Brenda had never seen before, not directed at her.
"Does that clarify my objection, Brenda?" Lucinda repeated, her voice a low thrum vibrating deep in Brenda’s chest. It wasn’t a question about Marquez anymore.
Brenda’s lips parted. A soundless gasp. Her throat was desert-dry. She managed a tiny, jerky shake of her head. No. Nothing was clear. Everything was chaos.
Lucinda’s gaze dropped, slow, deliberate, tracing the frantic pulse point fluttering in Brenda’s throat. A predator assessing its prey. Then, with agonizing slowness, her eyes lifted back to Brenda’s. A challenge. An invitation. Brenda felt pinned, dissected, utterly exposed under that intense scrutiny. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird trying to escape.
Lucinda leaned forward, just a fraction. The space between them vanished. Brenda smelled the clean, sharp scent beneath the sandalwood, felt the warmth radiating from Lucinda’s body. The professor’s hand, the one that had held the pen, lifted. Not towards the essay this time. Hovering, for a breathless second, near Brenda’s jaw.
Brenda flinched. A tiny, involuntary recoil from the sheer force of the tension. Her own hand, resting on the desk beside Lucinda’s abandoned red pen, twitched violently.
BRENDA DROPS PEN
Her fingers spasmed, knocking the heavy pen. It rolled off the edge of the polished oak desk, clattering loudly onto the worn Persian rug below. The sound was jarring, impossibly loud in the thick silence, shattering the fragile tension like glass.
Lucinda didn’t even glance at the fallen pen. Her eyes, dark and fathomless, remained locked on Brenda’s. A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips. Not warm. Not friendly. Feral. Triumphant.
"Clumsy," Lucinda murmured, the word a velvet caress that felt like a brand. Her hovering hand didn’t retreat. Instead, it moved. Not towards Brenda’s face. Down. Fingertips brushed the bare skin of Brenda’s forearm, exposed below the sleeve of her t-shirt. That same deliberate, slow stroke. Up, then down. Lingering.
A whimper escaped Brenda’s lips before she could stifle it. She was frozen, trembling, every nerve ending screaming. The heat from Lucinda’s touch spread like wildfire under her skin.
"Look at you," Lucinda breathed, leaning impossibly closer. Her lips were inches from Brenda’s ear. Her breath, warm and smelling faintly of mint and coffee, ghosted over Brenda’s skin, making her shiver violently. "Shaking like a leaf. Is it fear, Brenda? Or anticipation?"
Brenda tried to pull her arm away, a feeble instinct of self-preservation kicking in. Lucinda’s grip tightened instantly. Not painfully, but implacable. Iron wrapped in silk. Her other hand came up, fingers sliding into Brenda’s hair, tangling in the strands near her temple. A possessiveness that stole Brenda’s breath.
"Tell me," Lucinda commanded, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. Her thumb traced the shell of Brenda’s ear, sending jolts of electricity down her spine. "What do you want right now? Your grade? Or…" Her lips brushed the sensitive spot just below Brenda’s earlobe. "...something else?"
Brenda’s mind fragmented. Rational thought dissolved into pure, blinding sensation. The heat. The touch. The overwhelming scent of her. The terrifying power radiating from the woman holding her. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Only feel. A raw, desperate need clawed its way up from the pit of her stomach, primal and undeniable.
Lucinda didn’t wait for an answer Brenda couldn’t give. That faint, predatory smile returned. "I thought so," she murmured, her voice thick with certainty. Her hand in Brenda’s hair tightened, guiding Brenda’s head back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. Lucinda’s lips trailed a scorching path down her neck, teeth grazing the frantic pulse.
Brenda cried out, a ragged sound torn from her chest. Her hips jerked forward involuntarily, pressing against the solid wood of the desk’s edge. Her free hand scrabbled uselessly on the polished surface, finding nothing but smooth oak. Lucinda’s hand slid from her hair, down her neck, over the curve of her shoulder. Fingers hooked into the wide neckline of Brenda’s t-shirt.
A single, sharp tug.
The worn cotton ripped. Not dramatically, but enough. The neckline gaped, exposing Brenda’s collarbone and the swell of one small breast, barely contained by a simple cotton bra. The sudden cool air on her skin was a shock, instantly replaced by the searing heat of Lucinda’s mouth descending on the exposed flesh. Sucking, tasting, biting lightly.
"Oh god," Brenda gasped, her head falling back further. Resistance was ash. She was molten, liquid heat pooling low in her belly, dampness spreading between her thighs. Her hands finally moved, clumsy and desperate, finding purchase on Lucinda’s shoulders, clinging as the world tilted.
Lucinda lifted her head, her lips glistening. Her eyes, dark as midnight, burned with an intensity that stole Brenda’s breath. "God has nothing to do with this," she stated, her voice rough. Her hand, still gripping the torn neckline, moved lower. Fingertips skimmed the top of Brenda’s breast, tracing the lace edge of her bra, dipping beneath the fabric. Brenda arched, a sob catching in her throat, as Lucinda’s thumb found her nipple, already hard and aching, and circled it with agonizing slowness.
"Fuck," Brenda moaned, the obscenity ripped from her. It felt raw, real. Her fingers dug into the silk of Lucinda’s blouse.
Lucinda’s gaze dropped to Brenda’s mouth. "Eloquent," she murmured, but there was no mockery now. Only hunger. Stark, undeniable hunger. Her thumb pressed harder on the sensitized peak, making Brenda buck against the desk.
"Please," Brenda choked out. She didn’t know what she was begging for. More.Less. An end. A beginning.
Lucinda’s answer was to lean in again. Not to her neck, not to her breast. To her mouth. She captured Brenda’s lips in a kiss that was nothing like Brenda had ever known. It wasn't tentative or sweet. It was possession. A claiming. Lucinda’s tongue demanded entry, sweeping past Brenda’s lips with fierce insistence, tasting her, dominating her. Brenda surrendered completely, opening to the onslaught, her own tongue meeting Lucinda’s in a frantic, messy tangle. The taste of her professor – mint, coffee, something uniquely her – flooded Brenda’s senses. She kissed back with a desperation that shocked her, her hands fisting in Lucinda’s hair now, pulling her closer.
Lucinda groaned, a low, vibrating sound deep in her chest that Brenda felt more than heard. The hand on Brenda’s breast moved, sliding down her ribs, over the curve of her hip. Strong fingers dug into the denim of her jeans, pulling Brenda’s hips forward, grinding her against the hard edge of the desk. Friction ignited a fresh wave of blinding need. Brenda whimpered into the devouring kiss, her body moving instinctively against the pressure.
Breaking the kiss abruptly, Lucinda pulled back just enough to look at her, chest heaving. Her lips were swollen, dark, her eyes wild. "Stand up," she commanded, her voice ragged with want.
Brenda obeyed, shaky legs pushing her up from the chair. She stood before Lucinda, the torn t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Lucinda’s gaze raked over her, a visual caress that left Brenda feeling utterly naked. Then Lucinda’s hands were at the button of Brenda’s jeans. Quick, efficient tugs. The zipper rasped down.
Brenda watched, mesmerized, as Lucinda sank smoothly to her knees on the Persian rug, right beside the forgotten red pen. The sight – her powerful, enigmatic professor kneeling before her – was dizzying. Lucinda’s hands pushed the denim and Brenda’s cotton panties down her hips in one fluid motion. They pooled around Brenda’s ankles, leaving her exposed from the waist down. The cool office air kissed her bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Lucinda’s gaze fixed between her legs.
"Open," Lucinda ordered, her voice thick, looking up at Brenda. Her eyes were pure flame.
Brenda trembled, spreading her feet wider, bracing herself against the desk. She felt slick, swollen, utterly wanton. Lucinda’s hands settled on Brenda’s bare thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin. Then she leaned forward, burying her face in the apex of Brenda’s thighs without preamble.
The first hot, wet stroke of Lucinda’s tongue against her clit was an electric shock. Brenda cried out, her head snapping back, hitting the bookshelf behind her with a dull thud she barely registered. Stars exploded behind her eyelids. Lucinda’s tongue was relentless, circling the swollen bud with firm, deliberate pressure, then flattening against it, licking broad, wet stripes.
"Oh fuck! Jesus!" Brenda gasped, her hands flying back to tangle in Lucinda’s dark hair, holding on for dear life as her knees threatened to buckle. Lucinda moaned against her, the vibration sending fresh jolts of pleasure-pain radiating through Brenda’s core. Lucinda’s hands tightened on her thighs, fingers digging in, holding her open, holding her in place for the onslaught.
Lucinda didn’t tease. She feasted. Her tongue delved lower, lapping at Brenda’s entrance, gathering the wetness there, before sliding back up to torment her clit again. She sucked, hard, making Brenda shriek and buck wildly against her mouth. Lucinda held her down, her grip unyielding. She alternated – sharp flicks of her tongue-tip, broad, wet strokes, sucking the sensitive flesh into her mouth. Her nose pressed against Brenda’s mound, breathing her in.
Brenda was incoherent. Pleasure, white-hot and relentless, coiled tighter and tighter in her belly. She babbled, words tumbling out: "Yes! God, yes! Just like that! Don't stop! Fuck!" Her hips moved in frantic little circles, grinding herself against Lucinda’s mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. Lucinda responded, increasing the intensity, her mouth working Brenda with a skill that felt devastating. She slid two fingers inside Brenda, deep and hard, curling them upwards as she sucked ruthlessly on her clit.
The orgasm detonated. It ripped through Brenda with the force of a lightning strike, blinding and absolute. Her body arched violently, a strangled scream tearing from her throat as wave after wave of pure, ecstatic sensation crashed over her. She convulsed, clenching hard around Lucinda’s fingers, her vision whiting out, her entire body rigid with the force of it. Distantly, she felt Lucinda drinking her in, her tongue still working, drawing out the spasms until Brenda was a shuddering, gasping mess, held upright only by Lucinda’s hands and the desk behind her.
Slowly, Lucinda withdrew her fingers. Gently, she eased Brenda’s jeans and panties up her trembling legs, fastening the button with surprising care. She rose, fluidly, wiping her glistening lips with the back of her hand, her eyes never leaving Brenda’s face. Brenda slumped back against the desk, her legs like jelly, her breathing ragged, her mind utterly blank except for the echoing aftershocks of pleasure.
Lucinda stepped close again, her own breathing still uneven. She cupped Brenda’s face, tilting it up. Brenda stared into those dark, unreadable eyes, still drowning in the aftermath. Lucinda leaned in. Her kiss this time was different. Softer, lingering, tasting herself on Brenda’s skin. A possessive seal. She pulled back just enough to speak, her voice a low, satisfied murmur that vibrated against Brenda’s bruised lips.
"Now that's a persuasive argument."
Brenda trembled, the cold, smooth wood of the desk the only solid thing in a world turned liquid and raw. The taste of her own arousal, sharp and metallic, still coated her tongue, mingling with the phantom pressure of Lucinda’s lips, her teeth, her devastating tongue. "Persuasive argument." The words echoed, thick with Lucinda’s satisfaction, a professor admiring a particularly sharp thesis defense. Except this defense had left Brenda shaking, exposed, the ragged tear in her t-shirt a visceral counterpoint to the slick heat between her thighs.
Lucinda’s thumb traced Brenda’s swollen bottom lip, the touch possessive. Her dark eyes, still burning with that unnerving intensity, scanned Brenda’s face – the dilated pupils, the flush high on her cheekbones, the rapid pulse fluttering in her throat. "Speechless?" Lucinda murmured, a trace of that predatory amusement back in her voice. "Good."
She stepped back, the sudden loss of proximity making Brenda sway. Lucinda’s gaze drifted down, lingering on the damp patch darkening the front of her own plum silk trousers. A slow, self-satisfied smile touched her lips. She unbuttoned the trousers with deliberate, unhurried movements, the silk sighing as it slid down her hips. She stepped out of them, kicking them carelessly aside onto the rug next to her discarded heels. Beneath, she wore nothing but sheer black lace panties, already darkened.
Brenda’s breath hitched. The professor stood before her, powerful and half-naked in the lamplit sanctuary, the lines of authority irrevocably blurred, replaced by something primal and demanding. Lucinda hooked her thumbs into the sides of the delicate lace.
"These," she stated, her voice low and thick, "are ruined." She peeled the panties down, revealing neatly trimmed dark curls and the glistening evidence of her own arousal. The scent of her, muskier and deeper than Brenda’s own, bloomed in the small space, layered over dust and old paper. Lucinda let the scrap of lace fall, adding to the pile on the rug. She stood fully naked from the waist down, her silk blouse an incongruous banner of authority over the raw intimacy below.
She moved back towards Brenda, stopping inches away. Her scent enveloped her. "Look at me," Lucinda commanded.
Brenda forced her gaze up from the hypnotic triangle of dark curls, past the flat plane of the professor’s stomach, the silk blouse clinging to her small, high breasts, to meet those fathomless eyes. The hunger there was undimmed, edged now with an expectation that felt like a physical weight.
"You wanted a better grade," Lucinda said, her voice dropping to a husky rasp. Her hand lifted, not to touch Brenda, but to gesture vaguely towards her own exposed sex. "Show me how much you want it now."
The implication hung in the air, thick and undeniable. Brenda’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear, shame, and a terrifying, coiling excitement that tightened her stomach. This wasn’t just submission; it was an offering demanded. Payment rendered in flesh and sensation.
Lucinda’s gaze didn’t waver. It pinned Brenda, stripped her bare more effectively than the torn t-shirt. "Kneel," Lucinda breathed, the word a soft command that vibrated in the silence.
BRENDA DROPS TO KNEES
Her legs gave way. Not gracefully, but heavily, joints cracking softly against the dense pile of the Persian rug. The rough wool scratched her bare knees. She caught herself on her hands, the position instantly subservient, vulnerable. Her face was level with Lucinda’s hips, the dark thatch of curls, the glistening folds beneath. The musky, intimate scent was overwhelming this close, earthy and potent. She could see the slickness gathering, the slight tremor in Lucinda’s thigh muscles.
She stared, frozen for a heartbeat, the reality crashing over her. Professor Nicholson. Kneeling before her nakedness. The absurdity warred with the sheer, terrifying power radiating from the woman above her.
Lucinda’s hand tangled in Brenda’s hair again, not gently. Fingers tightened, guiding her head forward. The tips of Brenda’s hair brushed against Lucinda’s inner thigh. "Go on," Lucinda urged, her voice rough. "Taste what you do to me."
Brenda closed her eyes for a second, swallowing hard. Then, driven by a mix of desperate obedience and a dark, burgeoning need she couldn't deny, she leaned in. Her nose bumped the coarse curls. She inhaled deeply, the scent flooding her senses. Tentatively, hesitantly, she extended her tongue. The first touch was a hot, wet shock against the soft outer lip. Salty, musky, profoundly female.
A sharp intake of breath above her. Lucinda’s grip tightened almost painfully. "Yes," she hissed. "Like that. Don't be shy now."
Brenda pressed forward, her tongue finding the slick, swollen folds. She traced the shape of them, the heat incredible. She lapped tentatively, finding the source of the wetness. The taste was complex, salty-tangy, completely unfamiliar and yet deeply instinctive. Lucinda moaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through Brenda’s skull where her hand was fisted in her hair. The sound spurred her on.
She explored with her tongue, driven by instinct and Lucinda’s reactions. A firmer stroke along the length of the slit made Lucinda’s hips jerk forward. Brenda opened her mouth wider, taking more of that hot flesh against her lips and tongue. She found the hard little nub at the top, slick and protruding. She circled it cautiously with the flat of her tongue.
"Fuck! Yes, there," Lucinda gasped, her thighs tensing. "Use your tongue-tip. Flick it."
Brenda obeyed, focusing on the clit, flicking it rapidly, the way Lucinda had done to her. Lucinda cried out, her free hand bracing hard against the desk beside Brenda, her knuckles white. "Harder! Jesus, harder!"
Brenda increased the pressure, sucking the sensitive bud into her mouth, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of her tongue while applying suction. Lucinda bucked against her face, her movements becoming less controlled, more frantic. The scent, the taste, the desperate sounds falling from Lucinda’s lips – they ignited a fierce answering heat deep in Brenda’s own core. She moaned against Lucinda’s flesh, the vibration making the professor shudder violently.
"Fingers," Lucinda gasped, her voice ragged, almost a sob. "Inside. Now."
Brenda hesitated for only a second. Her hand, trembling, moved from bracing herself on the rug. She slid her fingers through the slickness coating Lucinda’s inner thighs, gathering the wetness, before pressing two fingers against Lucinda’s entrance. It was hot, incredibly tight, and yielded with a slick, obscene sound as she pushed inside, deep. The walls clenched around her fingers instantly, gripping like velvet heat.
Lucinda threw her head back, a strangled cry ripping from her throat. "Oh GOD! Fuck! Yes!" Her hips began to piston against Brenda’s face and hand, fucking herself on Brenda’s fingers while grinding her clit ruthlessly against Brenda’s mouth. Brenda kept sucking, kept flicking her tongue, kept thrusting her fingers deep, curling them slightly, finding a rhythm that matched the frantic bucking of Lucinda’s hips. The sounds were filthy: wet sucking, panting breaths, the slap of skin on skin, Lucinda’s guttural moans rising in pitch.
"Don't stop! Don't you fucking stop! I'm so close! So fucking close!" Lucinda chanted, her voice breaking.
Brenda redoubled her efforts, driven by the raw power of reducing this formidable woman to a trembling, begging mess. She plunged her fingers harder, deeper, her mouth a relentless suction on Lucinda’s clit. Lucinda’s body locked. A high, keening wail tore from her. Her thighs clamped viselike around Brenda’s head. She convulsed, her inner muscles clamping down on Brenda’s fingers in rapid, powerful pulses. Wetness gushed over Brenda’s chin, hot and abundant.
Lucinda cried out again, a raw, shattered sound, as the orgasm tore through her. Her hand in Brenda’s hair went rigid, pulling hard enough to bring tears to Brenda’s eyes. She rode the waves, hips jerking erratically as Brenda kept her mouth and fingers working, drawing out the spasms until Lucinda finally sagged, collapsing back against the desk with a gasp, her grip on Brenda’s hair loosening to a trembling caress.
Brenda slowly withdrew her fingers, slick and glistening. She sat back on her heels, breathing hard, her lips swollen and wet, her chin slick. She looked up. Lucinda was leaning heavily on the desk, her chest heaving, her face flushed, eyes closed, a sheen of sweat on her brow. The powerful professor looked utterly ravaged.