The nipple dragged against the bra cup with every motion, a friction that sent sharp little shocks down through her stomach and into the place where his fingers were still moving — three fingers now, a slow pumping that had stopped being exploratory and started being purposeful.

’He’s—’

He crooked them.

Inside her. Upward. Finding the specific place that turned her thoughts to static.

"’Nnngh—!’"

The moan broke through the kiss.

She clapped her own hand over her mouth.

Her eyes were streaming — not from sadness, not from grief, from the specific overwhelming wrongness-that-felt-right of being pinned to a garden floor with her panty pulled aside while a twenty-year-old student finger-fucked her and sucked her tongue and squeezed her tit and made her body completely forget the seventeen years of professional architecture she’d built to keep exactly this from happening.

’I’m a professor.’

His fingers thrust.

’I am a professor and I am on the ground and—’

He sucked her lower lip into his mouth — drawing it between his teeth with slow, filthy intention, his tongue dragging across it, saliva pulling at the corners — and simultaneously drove his fingers in to the knuckle with more force than he’d used yet, the wet slick sound of it obscene and close and entirely audible to her own ears.

Her hips bucked off the ground.

His palm pressed her back down.

’Don’t.’

’Don’t.’

’Don’t make a sound.’

She made sounds.

Muffled behind her own palm, behind his mouth when he descended on her again — broken little cries that had no language in them, just sensation, just her body reporting what was happening to it without consulting her first. Her thighs shook against his hips. Her free hand had found the back of his head, fingers knotted in his dark hair, pressing his mouth harder against hers like she could somehow manage the situation from that angle.

She could not manage the situation from any angle.

He fucked his fingers into her — steady, rhythmic, the wet slap of his palm against her inner thigh marking the pace — and his thumb kept its slow circle at her clit, never accelerating, never relieving the pressure, just maintaining it at the precise level of too much and not enough simultaneously.

’I can’t—’

Her other breast was pressed flat against his chest where his body leaned over hers, the heavy weight of it smashed warm and aching against him. She could feel her own heartbeat in her nipples.

’I’m going to—’

His fingers crooked again.

"’MMPHHH—’"

She turned her face sideways, pressing into the grass, her hand mashing over her mouth with both palms now, and she felt it arriving with the particular inevitability of something that had been building for seventeen days and had simply been waiting for his fingers — specifically his fingers — to unlock it.

Her thighs snapped inward, gripping his wrist.

Her back arched — fully, violently — her hips lifting off the ground while her shoulders pressed into his jacket, her spine a long curve from neck to tailbone, her heavy breasts jiggling with the force of the spasm as they pulled free of his chest.

The flood came in waves.

She felt the slick rush of herself against his palm, heard the obscene wet sound of it, felt the involuntary pulse of her inner walls clenching and releasing around his fingers in rhythms she had absolutely no control over.

Her voice escaped.

Not contained. Not muffled behind her hands.

Just — out.

"’ANNNGHHHH—!!’"

It tore through the garden air like something that had been held in a closed fist for a very long time.

The students on the path didn’t look.

The ward held.

She didn’t know any of that. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

She was arching into the grass with tears running sideways into her hair and her thighs shaking against his wrist and her pussy clenching in the aftershocks of the longest, most humiliating, most thorough orgasm she had experienced in her adult life, while a student she had spent seventeen days trying not to think about watched her face come apart from six inches away with an expression of complete, unhurried satisfaction.

She went limp.

The grass was cool against her spine.

The oak above her held its branches open against the night sky.

Distantly, footsteps on the garden path. Two voices discussing a midterm.

She stared up at the canopy and breathed.

He didn’t move.

His fingers were still inside her — still, just resting, feeling the last flutter of her walls calming — and his other hand was still curved around her breast, thumb tracing idle, slow circles against the bra cup.

Like he was in absolutely no hurry.

She closed her eyes.

One tear ran into her hairline.

"I hate you," she said.

Her voice was completely destroyed. Hoarse, thin, thoroughly unconvincing.

"I know," he said.

His fingers moved.

Just a slow, single curl.

Her breath caught all over again.

"’—Stop,’" she whispered.

His mouth found her jaw. Her temple. The wet line at the corner of her eye.

Not mocking.

Just present.

"Ask properly," he murmured against her skin, "and I might... just think of melting you away."

’!!?!’

She turned her flushed face sideways, pressing her cheek into the damp grass, her hands mashing firmly over her mouth with both palms now. She felt the climax arriving with the particular, terrifying inevitability of something that had been building like a pressure cooker for seventeen days and had simply been waiting for his fingers—specifically his thick fingers—to finally unlock it.

Her shaking thighs snapped inward, gripping his thick wrist like a vice.

Her back arched—fully, violently—her hips lifting completely off the ground while her shoulders pressed hard into his jacket. Her spine formed a long, taut curve from neck to tailbone, her heavy, constrained breasts jiggling visibly with the force of the spasm as they pulled free of his chest.

The flood came in massive, uncontrollable waves.

She physically felt the slick, hot rush of her own fluids gushing against his palm, heard the obscene, squelching wet sound of it soaking his hand. She felt the involuntary, rapid pulse of her inner vaginal walls clenching and releasing spasmodically around his buried fingers in tight rhythms she had absolutely zero control over.

Her voice finally escaped.

Not contained. Not muffled behind her hands anymore.

Just—out.

"ANNNGHHHH—!!"

The loud, feral cry tore through the quiet garden air like something wild that had been held in a tightly closed fist for a very long time and was finally set free.

Out on the path, the two students paused mid-step.

"Hey, did you hear some words?" a young man’s voice drifted through the trees.

"What? From where?" a girl replied, sounding confused.

"I see... I think it must be over there behind that oak."

"So? How?"

Suddenly, Marla trembled violently. The creeping realization that the people were actually coming closer hit her like a bucket of ice water. Her eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated horror.

She instantly threw her hands up, covering her flushed, tear-streaked face.

’I said no. Move,’ she screamed internally, her limbs completely frozen.

As the two people stepped off the path and looked directly toward the dark shadows beneath the tree, she was consumed by a burning embarrassment. At the same time, her heart thumped painfully against her ribs as the reality of her exposed position set in.

’No, no, no, no, no!!!!’