Jake Sim, my university’s physics professor has a reputation amongst the female students and faculty that he is a king at eating pussy. It is known that his female students will come during his office hours waiting outside the door in a line with their knees shaking and pussy leaking from the pornographic screams and moans coming from the ladies inside his office getting their pussy ate by Jake. I am no stranger to these rumors, as it has been going around campus for quite some time now. Now that I’m in his class, I can’t wait to visit Jake during his office hours as I’ve never been touched by another man before. Only touching myself to perversive fantasies about Jake and riding his tongue, his nose, his face, and squirting a fountain on him every night. I want to make a mess of his face as I feverishly grind against his sexy face. Now, here I am in his office, breathing heavily as my pussy throbs at the thought of making my fantasy come to reality. Jake is sitting on his chair, his hair amess, and his head wet and dribbling from the other students before me. He looks even hotter looking like that. His shirt is unbuttoned and soaked, his tie loosened. He seduces me and we start the pussy eating session. I experience bliss and the best orgasms I’ve ever had with Jake’s mouth, even making me squirt multiple times during our session from me riding and bouncing on his mouth, then on his nose, and then just grinding on his face like an animal. It seems we take longer than expected as the rest of the women waiting outside grew impatient and horny that they let themselves in and we all took turns abusing Jake’s face until it was well past office hours and nearing midnight. Jake looked like he had showered by the end of it and everyone had gotten overstimulated and twitching by taking advantage of the pussy eater king. (Everyone in this story is over 18+)

Chapter 2: The Aftermath

The air in Alice’s dorm room was thick and stale, carrying the sweet, musky scent of spent arousal. It was Thursday afternoon. She hadn’t been to a single class. The blinds were drawn, casting the small space in a perpetual, drowsy gloom. The only light came from the stark glow of her laptop screen, balanced on her stomach as she lay in the ruin of her bed.

The sheets were a damp, tangled nightmare beneath her. They were cold in some spots, crusty in others, mapping the frantic geography of the last eighteen hours. She’d lost count of how many times she’d come. Her clit was a swollen, over-sensitized nub, screaming in protest every time she touched it, which was constantly.

On the screen, frozen, was a frame from the video. Professor Sim’s face, glistening and utterly focused, buried between her own splayed thighs. His eyes were closed. Her back was arched in a perfect, desperate curve.

She hit play.

The sound flooded the room—her own choked sob, the wet, rhythmic slurping that was somehow both delicate and obscenely greedy. She watched her own hips stutter and grind against his mouth. Her hand slid down her stomach, past the waistband of her panties, which were already soaked through and shoved to the side. Two fingers plunged into her cunt, which was so wet and open it offered no resistance.

“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice ragged.

She synced her fingers to the motion on screen, fucking herself in time with the memory of his tongue. She was chasing the feeling, trying to recapture the specific, devastating pressure of his nose inside her, the way his lips had sealed around her clit. It was a poor facsimile. Her own touch was just a frantic, hollow imitation.

The video reached the peak. Her on-screen self let out a shattered, raw scream. “I’m coming! Oh god, I’m squirting!”

And then it happened. A visible gush, a translucent arc that caught the dusty sunlight as it splashed across Professor Sim’s forehead, his closed eyelids, his cheeks. He didn’t flinch. He drank it, his throat working as he swallowed, his tongue still lapping at her through the flow.

Alice’s body convulsed. A thin, hot stream ejaculated from her, soaking her wrist and the already-wrecked sheets beneath her hips. It wasn’t the powerful gush from the video. It was a drained, pathetic trickle. A dry heave of her exhausted cunt.

She whimpered, her hips falling still. She’d come again, but it felt like nothing. A phantom itch scratched by a ghost.

She dragged the video’s progress bar back. Thirty seconds before the squirting. Play. Sob. Slurp. Squirt. Back. Play. Sob. Slurp. Squirt.

Her phone, lying screen-up on the pillow, buzzed constantly. Notifications from the “Physics 302 Help” group chat piled up, one after another.

Megan: gonna go see him again today. my pussy’s been aching since yesterday.

Chloe: i heard from Sarah in poli-sci that like six girls from her dept are trying to get added to the queue. sim’s a campus resource now lol.

Priya: I can’t stop thinking about it.

Sarah: it’s all anyone is talking about in the union. some guys are pissed. they call him the cunt maestro.

Megan: accurate.

Unknown Number: hey is this the group for the sim session? a friend forwarded the vid. how do i get a spot?

Alice ignored them. She stared at the frozen image of her own release on the professor’s face. A possessive, ugly heat flared in her gut. That was hers. That moment. That look of total absorption on his face. It was for her.

But the video proved it wasn’t. It was for Megan, and Chloe, and Priya, and Sarah, and the six girls from poli-sci, and the unknown number texting the group chat. It was a service he provided. A lecture in applied pleasure.

A lecture in applied pleasure.

Her phone erupted. The quiet buzz became a persistent, insectile vibrato against the cotton pillowcase. The “Physics 302 Help” chat, usually a tomb for unanswered questions about Schrödinger’s equation, was combusting.

Megan sent a photo first. It was a picture of Professor Sim from some university function, a donor dinner maybe. He was in a suit, holding a glass of wine, his smile polite but detached. Megan had drawn a crude, glowing pink circle around his mouth. The caption read: reserved for my pussy.

Chloe fired back immediately with a stolen candid. Jake Sim leaning against his car in the faculty lot, wearing a tight grey t-shirt. The fabric strained across his chest and clung to the sweat-damp outline of his abs. The angle was low, secretive. Fuck. I’d ride those until I chafed, Chloe typed. Imagine those abs flexing while he eats you out.

Then Sarah: a yearbook photo from his own undergraduate days, younger, softer, but with the same devastating eyes. Baby genius. Bet he was a freak even then.

The images became a torrent. A screenshot from a departmental website of him at a whiteboard, his arm raised, the sleeve of his button-down pulled taut around a thick bicep. Priya, shy Priya, circled the muscle and wrote: I want to squeeze it while I sit on his face.

Someone, maybe the unknown number, posted a zoomed-in, slightly blurred picture of the front of his trousers, a noticeable bulge outlined against the fabric. The chat went silent for a full minute.

Then it exploded.

OMG.

Is that real?

Fuck me. I need to see that.

I want to taste him.

I want him to fuck me with that after he’s done.

I’d let him wreck me.

Alice’s breath grew shallow. She minimized the video on her laptop, the frozen image of her own ecstasy replaced by the live, scrolling feed of collective lust. Her fingers, still sticky, scrolled up, devouring each message, each pixelated image. The possessive heat in her gut twisted, merging with a deep, grinding need. They all wanted him. They were all taking him, piece by piece, in this digital space.

She opened the video again. Hit play. Let her own recorded moans fill the room as her eyes scanned the new pictures. On screen, Jake Sim’s tongue worked. On her phone, a girl fantasized about his cock. The two realities spliced together in her head, a dissonant, filthy symphony.

She looked from the screen to the photo of his abs, then back to the screen where his face was buried in her. Her hand slid back down. This time, she didn’t imitate his tongue. She imagined something else. She imagined that outlined bulge, hard and impatient, pressing against her thigh. She pictured his hips, not his face, moving.

Her fingers moved faster, a brutal, clumsy rhythm. She wasn’t chasing the memory of his mouth anymore. She was chasing the fantasy of his entire body, claimed and dissected in the group chat. She pictured riding those abs, grinding her wet cunt against the rigid muscle until she came. She imagined wrapping her lips around that thick bicep, sucking the skin.

The messages kept coming. More photos. More desires. Each one was a match tossed on the gasoline pool of her arousal.

On the laptop, the video reached its climax. Her on-screen self screamed, gushing.

In her damp bed, Alice’s back arched clean off the mattress. A sound tore from her throat, a raw, jagged thing that was nothing like the sob in the recording. Her hips pistoned against her own hand as a devastating orgasm locked every muscle. It wasn't a squirting gush this time; it was a deep, internal convulsion, a silent quake that left her shuddering, seeing flashes of light behind her closed eyelids.

It felt like emptying out. It felt like hate.

She collapsed, spent. The video ended. The group chat, finally, grew quiet. The momentum of their shared mania had peaked and faded, leaving a blank, hollow silence.

She stared at the last image on her phone. It was the picture of the bulge in his trousers. Her own release, warm and tacky, cooled on her inner thighs. The jealousy was a cold stone in her chest now, heavy and precise. They could have their pictures. They could have their chat. They could line up in that hallway.

But she had been the one to record it. She had his face, his focus, his swallowed proof, saved in a two-hour-and-seventeen-minute file. That was a different kind of claim. It wasn't enough.