I.

Your blood turns ice cold as you glance toward his figure in the window. He's dressed in night clothes. His glasses glare as his eyes lock with yours before he jerks his gaze away.

Shit.

He saw you. There's no doubt. You quickly pull the loose night shirt over your head and close the curtains. You can feel your heart racing. He probably thinks you're a creep. A slut. Just parading your body openly for anyone to see. Didn't you have the decency to consider the lingering male gazes that romped around the neighborhood? Gazes from husbands with wives who would certainly tear into your character had they known their sweethearts' eyes had been glued to your nude body without care.

Did he have a wife? You find yourself wondering. It's a small apartment, you think. You'd never seen a woman enter his unit. You're almost certain he had children. You'd seen the teens and young adults entering the unit before. You'd even heard the laughter coming from his driveway as he embraced them in hugs.

It’s intriguing. It should be horrifying. You just unintentionally flashed your neighbor, you should want to crawl under your soft sheets and never be seen again. But instead, you find yourself wanting to know more about his mundane life.

II.

He's peaked your interest. You're not sure if he'd like to hear that. He's decently older than you. Old enough to have children in their late teens, but it doesn't stop your gaze from falling on him through your bedroom window as he walks to the set of mailboxes outside the complex.

You practically memorized his routine. Not that you meant to. It's just hard not to. It hardly changes. He goes to work at the same time, returns home at the same time, checks his mail at the same time. So after weeks of watching you decide to switch things up for yourself. It wouldn't hurt to visit the mailbox a little later in the day.

So you do. And just as you expected, he did too. It's awkward. He says nothing, only smiles in your direction. You smile back. He's handsome up close. The scent of his cologne tickles your nose in the best way possible. You break the silence, introducing yourself.

"I live in the building unit across the way from yours."

A blush rises to his cheeks. He's flustered and you figure it's because of the incident from weeks ago. But he's polite. He doesn't chastise you and instead acts as if he had no idea of your mistake.

"I'm Burt. It's nice to meet you. I don't normally have time to converse with neighbors."

You stare at your feet. You can't even think of what to say after that. The tension lays thick in the air between you two, but he's a gentleman. Perhaps you should...

"I'm sorry for..."

He swallows thickly.

"Um-I'm sorry for not introducing myself sooner, Burt. It's very nice to finally meet you."

You outstretch a soft hand for him to shake and he does. He has slightly calloused palms and a firm grip that feel so nice against yours.

You don’t keep him long. Better to ease into it, you think. You feel a little giddy as you walk quietly back to your own unit.

III.

It makes your heart race the next time you catch his gaze through the window. You're starting to pull the curtains shut, but his gaze causes you to hesitate and pause briefly, one hand still fisting the coarse fabric of the curtain.

He simply stares up at you. And you're sure he sees you staring right back. Suddenly there's a spark in your stomach that makes you giddy. You leave the gap in the curtains and turn to instead peel your shirt over your head. You face away from him at first. The burning in your cheeks and the flush on the tips of your ears prevents you from meeting his gaze or checking to see if he had even kept watching you.

You pull your skirt and tights down the length of your legs. You're bare with only under garments covering your goose-bumped skin. It's cold in the room. Something inside you longs to feel warm calloused hands rubbing the lengths of your body. Taking care of you.

You turn to face him.

He stares right back at you.

His expression is focused, but in particular you notice that his hand have remained at his sides. As if you were a piece of art in a museum, and he is satisfied to view you from a distance without letting hands wander where they shouldn't.

You can't help but give him a smile as you place a hand on the glass of the window.

You turn to display the way that your fingers work the clasps of your bra open, excited to show off for him but, when you turn you find that he has pulled the curtain shut. You can't find it in yourself to be hurt. Instead you grin and pull your curtain shut as well.

What a gentleman.

IV.

He still doesn't make an effort to speak to you. It's not that you think he doesn't like you or is possibly annoyed by your late night "shenanigans," he just goes about his day as if nothing had happened. Still only a friendly neighbor whom you spot leaving every day work.

He was driving you insane. You had dreams of him lately. Dreams in which he had actually touched you. Dreams in which he had kissed your flesh and caressed you with haste. You'd always wake up feeling sweaty and needy.

So you decide you're done waiting around. You've never been a perfect baker, but the cookies you make are good enough to be given to him, and it gives you an excuse to talk to him. Actually talk to him.

You take a deep breath before you knock on his apartment door. It takes a moment, but he eventually comes to the door. He's still dressed in work clothes: dress pants, a crisp shirt, and nice tie. You swallow sharply before speaking.

"I made cookies. I was wondering if you were busy."

It comes out so fast he looks almost stunned as he tries to decode your intentions. "You...want to come in?" You're practically bouncing on your heels. "Yes! Yeah. I thought it be nice to...get to know each other."

He smiles softly and steps back, letting his front door open a little wider for you to slip into the apartment with him. It's nice. Tidy. Although not thoroughly decorated. He seems to be a logical man, not quite one to put so much thought into the creative expression of interior decorating.

You gently sit the tin of cookies on the table and turn to face him. "I..I hope you're not opposed to chocolate chip." He laughs airy and soft and shakes his head. "Chocolate chip is good."

He pauses for a moment and hesitates before speaking, "It's good to speak to you again." You already feel the flush pulsing into your cheeks and you smile.

"I wanted to speak to you more. I see you a lot. But we never speak."

He raises a brow as he listens to you speak. Oh you see each other. He knows exactly what you're alluding to, but neither one of you can bring it up explicitly. He sits in the chair across from you and gestures for you to do the same.

"You have kids?" You gesture at a photo of Burt and a boy, no older than a teenager. Burt smiles. "Yes. He's my son, Sammy. I have daughters too." You nod and smile. "They seem like good kids. I see them when they come here sometimes. Just from across the yard. They always looks so happy to see you."

He nods. "I sure would hope so. They are good kids." Silence falls between the two of you for a moment. There's an awkward tension. You can see it clearly now, he's not wearing a wedding ring. But the issue still seems like a giant elephant in the room. "And a wife?"

It comes out a low whisper, and he gives a confused look. "I'm sorry, what was that?" You clear your throat and prepare yourself for the potential embarrassment. "Uh...A wife? Do you have a wife?" He raises his brows and his mouth opens slightly. He seems slightly shocked that you had asked, and you can only hope he isn't completely offended at the prying question.

"No. Not anymore."

It's clearly a sore subject for him. You can see it in the way his mouth forms a straight line. You can only whisper. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry like that." He shakes his head and places a hand on top of yours where it rests on the tabletop. "It's okay, really."

He's looking right at you and you feel the pressure of his stare immediately. Paired with the warmth and softness of his hand, you almost feel your brain short circuit. But you stare back at him with wide eyes. Suddenly you're thinking of his gaze through the window and the way he had taken in the sight of your body. Your cheeks are burning hot.

"I've not overstepped a boundary these past couple of nights have I?"

You blink at him, shocked that he would even allude to the previous nights. You shake your head slowly and practically gasp in an inhale. "No. Have I?" He chuckles and smiles. You feel his thumb caress the meat of your hand. "Not at all."

You can't even believe that the two of you are speaking about this. A little part inside of you expected you both to ignore it and pretend you can't done anything, especially something so voyeuristic. His hand moves from your hand to your cheek, brushing a small piece of hair out of your face. His touch lights your skin on fire.

You quickly stand from where you had been sitting across from him. He looks stunned, shocked, maybe even nervous. You walk closer to him, closer and closer, filling the space until your shins hit his. "Is everything okay?" You hardly let him get the question out before you're leaning down to kiss him.

You feel almost childish and overly bold. But his skin against yours lit a fire in you where he had already placed a spark through the window days prior. You're thankful that he's quick to kiss you back. Thankful he doesn't push you away.

You place yourself onto his lap, legs dangling off the side of his thigh and an arm wrapped around his shoulders to hold yourself upright. You feel his hands fall onto you hips and you can't help but smile into the kiss.

When you pull away slowly, his eyes are locked onto yours. You can practically see his gears turning as his mouth remains slightly ajar. He says nothing, just continues to grip the meat of your hip. You break the silence,

"I want you to kiss me more. Is that alright?"

As if he received a sudden burst of strength and energy, he raises from his seat, picking you up off his lap and placing you down onto the table in front of the two of you.

He towers over you as he kisses you, feverishly, starved like a man who hasn't felt this sort of affection in years. You let your hands grip his arms as he ravishes you. It's everything you wanted and could've ever imagined. Your kind, reserved neighbor whom you've wanted so bad finally reaching a breaking point in his lust for you.

You smile into the kiss, secretly feeling a bit of accomplishment wash over you. His hand is traveling up, up, up your skirt, caressing your thigh and resting his fingers dangerously close to your aching core. You gasp into his mouth.

"This is okay?"

His inquiry is soft and whispered and his eyes are pleading. You nod your head quickly. He furrows his brows and closes his eyes as his forehead rests against yours, "I need you to tell me. Tell me you want me." It sends lightning bolts of arousal straight to your core. You're sure your underwear are ruined. You nod quickly, "I want you, Burt. Please..."

The last word strains out into a whine from you. You sound pathetic, and you hope he will take mercy on you just this once. His fingers inch closer to your soaked underwear, the pads of his fingers brushing your clit through the fabric. Your nails dig into the wood of the table.

He's staring at you, intense, the slightest bit of intrigue behind his eyes. "There?" His question comes as he makes loose circles around the clothed bud. You squeeze your eyes closed and nod.

He continues his light touches on your clit until you can no longer hold back a choked off moan. It seems to spur something in him as his hands are quick to move to grip the waistband of your underwear at your hips, slowly sliding the soiled fabric down your legs.

He brushes his fingers over your folds, spreading them slightly, as if he's observing the science of it all. "So perfect..." It's a whisper and, it leaves a shiver running down your spine. A finger prods at your entrance. Your eyes squeeze shut and you can't help the whine that escapes your mouth as his finger slides deeper into you.

It doesn't feel real. Even after the absolute show you had put on for him at your window, you could've never imagined having his hands on you in such an intimate way. But you love it. He touches you like it's a totally new experience. Like you're something for him to pick apart and figure out.

The fog of your thoughts clears immediately as his finger curls upwards and into the most sensitive spot inside you. The gasp you let out is pathetic, but you hope the blissed out smile on your face is enough to comfort any worry he may have. "Burt-"

He cuts you off as he works his finger against that spongy tissue, "I'll take care of you. Let me take care of you..." His lips are so close to yours once again, but he holds your face with his free hand. You nod your head, "Yes..."

You can feel that tension deep within you. A rubber band ready to snap at any moment. But you're desperate to hold it back. You haven't even touched him yet. You reach a hand around the back of his neck, reaching up till your finger tangle in short, neat hair. 

"Wanna touch- wanna touch you." It comes out broken with a whine. 

He responds quickly and wordlessly, letting his free hand fall to his belt. You close your eyes, the desperation and anticipation becoming too much for you. He moves his hips closer to yours. You let your knees rest on the sides of his hips as he finally pulls his cock free. Its vulgar. In the privacy of his own home, yet displayed for him on his own kitchen table. His eyes are dark with lust, but his hands are careful as they touch you.

You let your hand wrap around his cock. You revel in the gasp he lets out as your skin makes contact. He's soft and warm, and you never want this to end. You're desperate to make him finish before you inevitably give into the lighting strikes his fingers are brining to your core. 

You had been so open through the window, beginning to not care what other's would think if they had saw you, but you find the thought daunting in this moment. Burt and yourself panting over each other on his kitchen table. A divorced father, and a younger neighbor who had so openly given themselves to him. 

It washes away when his lips meet yours again. It's not hurried. Not rushed or sloppy. It's deep, with a sense of care that makes you shiver. He's not some college guy, willing to fuck and immediately kick you out. You're reminding of what had drawn you to Burt in the first place. Older, yes, but with a sense of care for the things that he held close. You could see it in the way that he so graciously greeted his children, and in the way that he kept his house neat even while living alone.

He liked to figure out how things worked. What makes the world tick. You can see it in his eyes as he brushes different spots inside you and glances back to you with a curious eye. You know he gets his satisfaction from understanding the inner working of the things he surrounds himself with. You can see it in his eyes as you gush around his fingers, and the way he gasps with wide eyes as you helplessly drip onto the table and floor. You can’t help the way your legs tremble through your orgasm. You feel pathetic.

You cannot help the blood that rushes to your cheeks. It’s embarrassment. But he doesn’t seem to see it that way as his cock twitches in your hand and spurts hot finish over your knuckles. He leans down to kiss you but can only gasp and groan into your mouth.

You’re already shaking under him. Sticky and damp. Debauched. Fear strikes through you again. This is a not a dream, not a playful glance through a pane of glass. You’re covered in each other.

“I-I’m sorry…”

You half expect him to hastily forgive you, usher you to redress, and push you right out the door, never to speak of it again. But he doesn’t.

He groans as he teases at your entrance, wettening his hardness with your arousal, “You look absolutely gorgeous like this, sweetheart.”

You look at him with the most innocent eyes you could muster, “Thank you, Daddy.”

Burt tuts, slowly entering you, “If only you knew how easily you get me riled up by saying that…”

You definitely knew, why else would you say it?

Your eyes flutter shut as he seats himself fully inside, stretching you perfectly. It didn’t matter how many times the two of you ‘made love,’ as he so often called it, you would never get used to just how thick he was.

“God, you’re so big,” you breathe out, locking lidded eyes with Burt through the reflection. “You fill me up so good, Daddy.”

He somehow pushes deeper against your cervix, causing you to moan louder than you expected, “I know I do, baby. It’s like you were made for me, right?”

Nodding, you resist rocking back against him for fear of him stopping, but you don’t have to relent for long as Burt finally begins to thrust. His hands grip tightly at your hips, and you so desperately want him to move them back onto his length like you were a toy.

Continuing to stretch you open, his eyes fall on the way your breasts bounce in this position– he can’t resist reaching under to grip one. Mewling at the touch of his rough hand, Burt speeds up his thrusts.

“Look at how pretty you look, honey,” he squeezes particularly hard to emphasize his words, “Taking me so well like the good girl you are.”

Biting your lip, you nod again, “Thank you so much…”

“Always so good at using her manners for Daddy, too.”

Burt moves his hand to grip your hair, pulling you back gently to look properly at the reflection. From this angle at which your back arches, you feel his length bumping right against your cervix in a way you’d never felt before. He lifts you up fully so you’re flush against his chest as he fucks up into you, not once leaving your warmth.

He kisses your neck, whispering, while still looking at you in the mirror, “Touch yourself for me, baby. Let Daddy watch you make yourself feel good, okay?”

One of your hands wraps behind Burt’s back for purchase while the other begins to circle your already sensitive clit. With a moan, you throw your head back against his chest, overwhelmed with the pleasure of it all.

“Daddy, it feels too good… please!”

“Keep your eyes on me in the mirror,” he groans, out of breath, “Be the good girl I know you are, come on, baby.”

You follow his directions to meet his gaze, and your ministrations only increase in speed. Burt’s thrusts were deep and hard, the two of you were close. It was like a race to see who could come first, but no one wanted to win– the desire of wanting to see the other finish first was far too great.

His mouth falls open with a moan as you squeeze around him, your release just on the edge, “Come for me, I know you can do it. Let me see you do it, please…”

“Daddy, oh my God, Daddy–!”

Your body trembles in his embrace as you orgasm, the only thing holding you up is him inside you and his arm wrapping around your waist. Burt curses under his breath as his thrusts become even more desperate as he watches you fall apart– it was beyond perfect.

His eyes stayed on your body, watching you shake and convulse as he continued to chase his own orgasm, “Perfect little doll, God, look at you…”

His voice is even. And soft. It reminds you of satin. Your stomach flutters at the mere sight of his lips moving; the way you just barely catch a glimpse of his tongue. Head tilting as you chew on the end of your pencil, your gaze shifts towards Professor Fabelman's hands. They make you think of limbs reaching across sheets and intertwining together. Then there's the enthusiasm and eagerness that comes with exploration. He speaks with his hands quite a lot, you've noticed.

It's another thing that makes you smile: the fact that he's probably taught this biology course a dozen times before, yet he explains the material with the fervency of a first time.

"Miss L/N. Since you seem so focused on the lecture, can you tell me where IgA antibodies can be found?" Professor Fabelman's voice pierces the rosy haze of your admiration.

The material. Shoot. What's the material even about?

You replay the lilting melody of his voice, trying to remember the lyrics. Anything at all that would break the terrible silence that filled the room as your peers waited for your response. Hell, you would take even a wrong answer to calm the dread that fills your chest the longer he stares at you with those squinted eyes, stubbornly set with a furrowed brow.

But even then, you can only fixate on his pursed lips. The soft heart of his Cupid's bow, sloping into the corners of his mouth. You want to kiss them. You want to place delicate kisses across all of his features. And before you know it, your own lips part dumbly, no words able to come out.

Professor Fabelman nods once, "That would be: human excretions; saliva, for one. Perhaps it would serve your best interests if you paid more attention in my class; we both know the state your grade is in," You catch a few snickers at that. "Please see me at the end of the day," He concludes. It's a firm command, not a mere suggestion.

It's a small assertion that flings you back into the throes of misery. The small emphasis of the world saliva didn't escape your notice either. God, it made you salivate.

How could you have gotten yourself in this position? You almost didn't take the course this semester. But it was required for the general education standards and you figured you'd get it out of the way as quickly as possible. You were merely buying yourself time to finalize your major and figure out what you wanted to do with the rest of your life.

You figured it out pretty quickly the second you sat in Fabelman's classroom and watched him straighten his tie before introducing himself to the room. You wanted to spend the rest of your life being around him.

Observing him was an art form; a mental documentation of his form and the way it moved. He reminded you of the little wooden mannequins in your drawing class. Stiff, but still movable. Something about the softness of his joints told you that he could be suggestible, pliable.

Fabelman became both the reason why you wanted to drop out without a single explanation and also why you were tempted to go into the field of science just to get closer to him. It wouldn't be easy, being a woman...but you believed in yourself enough that you were sure you could make it happen.

Then came the catch that shattered your romantic visions. He had a professionally shot, framed, black and white photograph standing up on his desk. It faced the class instead of him, like he already seemed aware of his affect; like it was his attempt at warding off someone like you.

So for the first few weeks, you got a front row view of his lovely wife. You studied that woman better than anything Fabelman could possibly jot down on the chalkboard. Her hair was in a bob and her lips were outlined and painted precisely. Even in the monochromatic hues, she looked like she was in vivid color; a technicolor dream long before Hollywood had come along. Her smile could've lit up the darkest cavern, could've been imbued with some sort of glittering quality that made her seem something like a silver screen starlet. Larger than life, her sparkling gaze seemed to loom over you every time you ogled her husband.

No wonder he married her, you couldn't help but think bitterly, she's a star.

Yet you never noticed a wedding ring on his finger. That had sparked a little bit of hope in your mind. It was a long shot that it actually meant anything, but banishing that hurdle made it far easier to watch him without guilt. He’s the type of man that can make any action look good. Even when he stands at the front with his hands on his hips, expression stern as he waits for the room to calm down before beginning the lesson, you feel insane with want. It was starting to become obscene how much your mind loved to settle into the groove of objectifying him the moment you sat down.

The most shocking part: you'd never been caught before. Until now, of course. Sure, you might be completely failing his class due to your lack of attention on the actual subject. There are more important things to pay attention to. Those important things seem to escape you now though.

Standing in his office though, you have a hard time keeping your focus on him. Your steps were quiet and careful when you stepped through the door with his name painted on the frosted glass window. The authoritative edges of each letter seemed to emphasize your doom.

Not that you would mind Professor Fabelman chastising you; there's something about the thought of him doting on you that makes you want to keep zoning out in class, keep getting called back to his office. Maybe you'd fail his class altogether so you could take it again and repeat the pattern. Because you were sure that, just like him, no matter how many times you listened to him talk about antibodies and bacteria and cell cycles, you'd never get sick of it. Not if he was talking about them, at least.

You stood in the doorway for a few seconds, watching him mark up some paper. Trying not the thing of how much of a privilege it would be to know what he was thinking, you slowly shut the door behind you.

Before you have the chance to second guess how presumptuous the action was, Burt's chin snaps up in your direction at the sound of the door closing. You'd tried to be quiet with it. But he stares at you with that look at his face. The one where he looks all scrunched up and subtly frustrated with you. It makes a flushed mixture of embarrassment and want bloom over the tips of your ears. As much as you hate getting his attention this way, it's better than no attention, you suppose.

"Oh goodness, you scared me," Professor Fabelman states plainly, "You'll have to be careful. At my age, one little fright and that might be my one way ticket to having a heart attack."

You sniff at his dry humor and insist, "I'm sure you're not that old, Professor. If you are, then it certainly doesn’t show." And you mean that sentiment entirely. His face is round, cheeks soft and puffy. The curve of his jawline alludes to a time where his features were sharper, younger. You'd like to believe that you wish you'd known him when he looked like that. However, he was probably like all the other boys your age: immature and utterly foolish.

You liked knowing him now; when the soft waves of time had begun to wash his expression with a tide of wrinkles and soft flesh that only age can capture. He's beautiful, in every way possibly, you think.

"That's quite kind of you. Now, sit, Miss L/N." You catch the tiniest smirk hidden in the corner of your professor's perfectly pink lips and internally cheer yourself on. You can do this. You can make it through one meeting. He'll tell you to pay attention in class and you'll leave. Then you'll think about those lips being–

"Sit," Fabelman repeats himself. And just like that, you follow the instruction without sparing another second. You bastard. You know what you're doing.

Perhaps that's the most heartbreaking part: he doesn't. 

"You remember why I called you in here, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," you add the name at the end without really thinking of it. But now that you are...you don't think you'll be able to get it out of your head now. Not unless Fabelman were to lobotomize you on his desk within the next few minutes.

"Tell me again..." he trails off, waiting for your reply.

You can easily do that. "Yes, sir," you say once more. This time your eyes are wide, head bowed slightly, like a dog looking to its owner.

"That's not what I meant," Fabelman's brow crinkles with disapproval as he corrects you. "Tell me what I called you in for."

Cheeks beginning to scorch, you stare directly past his severe gaze. You can't look him in the eye ever again, you try to keep your urge to cringe trapped inside. "I was...spaced out," you decide on the simple excuse.

For some reason, you're still shocked when Fabelman pushes back, "I'm afraid you were far more than spaced out. You weren't even listening in the first place. You were disrespecting the time of your peers. And you were disrespecting my time."

His tone scrambles the contents of your already muddled head. "I'm sorry," you barely manage to squeak out the apology. "I've just been a little distracted lately."

"I would think you'd have at least a bit of interest in your own education." The gravity of his words hit you as gracefully as if he were to throw a pebble from the top of a skyscraper. The force of the tiny hit is enough to completely knock the breath from your lungs. You suddenly become all too aware of your position. Being on a campus like this is a privilege for someone like you; too many women saddle themselves with a high school sweetheart and get spiked with that white picket fence.

You should have better dreams for yourself, not visions of your college professor tutoring you through his class and watching you graduate in a few years; eyes squinting out of adoration when you kiss his cheeks and that goofy smile sprawling across his face when he spins you in his embrace. That dream sounds better than any other one you've had. 

Your professor continues, "And I'm merely worried that I have a student slipping through the cracks. We don't want that now, do we?" There's softness and a genuine care as he reaches forward. His fingertips slightly brush yours which are folded stubbornly on your side of his desk. He stares at where your skin meets his over the dark wood as if he'd expected you to flinch away from him. Instead, you exercise a bit more bravery and shift your hand, laying it over his own. Your pointer finger smoothes over the face of the old watch on his wrist. And it's the sight of goosebumps sprouting over the flesh of his arms that makes you say it.

"How many people do you ask to come back to your office, Professor?" you wonder distantly, eyes still fixed on the tiny hands on his watch. 4:17 PM; just past his office hours. The sun is already starting to set through the window of his office, casting golden light that reflects beautifully off his watch. You lazily trace the worn leather of the watch band. Knowing a man like him, the accessory is probably something he got for an anniversary or a birthday a decade ago and he'd put it on every morning since then. It scares you how easily you could already see yourself disrupting that routine by pulling him back to you in bed for a few minutes longer before he could fasten the buckle.

That's when Burt pulls his arm back. "Plenty. Plenty of students just like yourself that just need a little advice. And that's all." The subdued bite in his voice doesn't escape your notice. Like he'd offered you a single treat and put the box of milk bones away with the simple assertion of, and that's all. That couldn't be all he'd be willing to give you. You'd hate yourself if you didn't at least try.

You say suddenly, "What if I don't just want your advice? What if I wanted more?” His brow quirks. “What if I told you...that the reason I struggle so much in your class is that you're just so...handsome…that I just can't help but look at you?" an unsettling level of calm fills your veins as you bare your shame to him. "What if I said that I have the biggest crush on you, Professor Fabelman, and that I have no clue what to do with it?"

When you look back up at him, you realize that now he's looking just past your head too. Before you have the chance to be proud of the way you've flustered him, he replies evenly, "Then...then I'd tell you to speak to someone in the administration building. I'm not sure if you'll be able to drop my class without some sort of penalty, but, it's clear you're not receiving any sort of benefits from my teaching. Have a lovely rest of your day, Miss L/N. I wish you the best of luck on your academic journey."

You stand suddenly, making the man before you jump once more. Suddenly you are a wild thing, unafraid to look raving mad with desperation. "No, Burt!" His first name falls past your lips without hesitation. "Don't make me drop your class. Please," you plead.

Burt swallows hard. He still won't look at you, still won't let the burgeoning warmth creeping up around the collar of his polo become visible and contrast against his harsh expression. "I-I can't have you causing a distraction in my classroom." He asserts, though his tone is already nervous.

You begin to babble, "I'll drop the entire crush and the staring and the spacing out and we can forget all about this. I promise, Professor. Just– please, don't make me drop your class."

The sound of your whine seems to aggravate him slightly. Because his eye finally meets yours, tingled with fiery frustration, "You might be able to forget about all of this but I certainly won't."

"You teach dozens of students every semester, before you know it, I'll fade into the rest of them and you'll completely forget about me," You reason with him.

His hands raise and he gestures with them in a stern way that matches his tone. "That might be true but you're the only student who's ever presented this dilemma. You're the only one who's ever–"

The only one. Those are the only words you need to hear before you circle back around to feeling far too much for him. Because somewhere underneath his adherence to the rules and protocol, there's something else. Something that longs just as much as you do.

"I'm the only one who's ever liked you, Professor?" You murmur.

His voice wobbles, "Why, in my fifteen years of teaching, I have nev–

"When was the last time someone fell terribly in love with you?"

You wait for him to lose his patience. He should have the second you touched his hand the way you did. He shouldn't have craved that little bit of contact and shouldn't have felt that flicker in his belly when you looked at him with lidded eyes. Based on the darkness under your eyes that your makeup is beginning to fail to conceal, he deduces that you're tired. How much sleep had you lost over him? Guilt strikes him hard even though he knows he hasn't done a thing to bring this tension into fruition. But, for some reason, he can't gather the willpower to admonish you again.

His answer is small but a massive admission; a surrender.

"Twenty years ago."

You inch around his desk, approaching him carefully. "That long? Who was it?"

"...my wife," He wants to curse his loose lips. Yet, he can't help it. No one has spoken this tenderly to him in so long. At his core...he's a simple man; a weak one. He'd been called that word plenty of times. And just this once, he begins to believe this nature of his is a blessing in disguise. 

"Does she still love you?"

"Probably not. Considering we've been divorced for a few years now."

"Why?"

"I was...I was holding her back, I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"Why else would someone you love tell you that they deserved better?"

"From where I stand, Burt...you deserved better than that too,” you say softly.

The man ruminates on the statement. You're pretty. Gorgeous. He thinks back to how many times he glanced back at you out of the corner of his eye. How many times he caught yours glued to him like your life revolved around him. Every professor likes to think that their class is the single most important thing in a student's life. But the way you watched him made him believe it.

That flutter returns when he imagines you salivating in your seat. You pressing your thighs together when he rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing his tanned and freckled forearms. You imagining his hands holding your legs open as he laps up at that precious mound you hide under your clothing. Your tender fingers knitting their way through his slicked back hair and obliterating every moral code he thought he'd held. It's more than a flutter now. It's a slow but scouring burn that makes him twitch.

With a suddenly dry mouth, he warns you softly, "You should leave before someone walks in."

He doesn’t fully realize how close you are until your hand wraps around the tail of his tie and you use it to pull him towards you. So close that your chest is almost touching his. He's sure that you can hear his heart pounding against his ribs.

You whisper, "But it's after your office hours."

"If you don't go, we'll...we'll do things. Things that you'll regret,” he replies grimly.

It warms your heart that even in this moment, he worries about you. Your lips are moments away from quieting him but you still mumble, "You could give me everything you have and I would never regret it. Ever."

You're shocked when Burt closes the distance between your body and his first. The fervency he exercises as he pushes you back against his desk nearly makes you falter. Your knees buckle and you're forced to sit on the dark wood surface, desperately attempting to meet the intensity with which he unravels you with his tongue. You thought you'd known everything about your professor. But this new facet made warmth erupt in your lungs, in your belly, in your core. It flourished, consuming any rationality that might've been clinging onto the ridges of your brain. 

Burt's tongue brushing at the part of your lips clears all of those foolish principles that you're both supposed to follow. The way his strong hand darts up to hold your jaw so he can stay on track keeps you together in a way you thought wasn't possible. And before you fully realize it, Burt wedges his soft body between your legs. You yelp as his abdomen grazes your core, feeling shivers make waves over your entire body.

He flies away before you have a chance to recover, still holding your face. "Are you alright?" This time Burt's thumb strokes your chin; it reaches towards your bottom lip and drags it down slightly. He observes the plush pillow snap back in place when he lets go of it like he hadn't witnessed a movement like it before.

He'd read about the human body before, probably hundreds of times in his whole career. But the way yours moves, particularly when it's at his mercy, is fascinating; an art form of its own. He marvels that atoms could collect themselves in such a glorious array. And the fact that those atoms could come together to brew chemicals that made him feel so smitten that it could make him dizzy...seemed to be a welcome reprieve from the monotony and mathematics of his field. It's here, while watching you consider his words carefully, that he decides he can find meaning in his life.

It had been difficult to find that in the years since the divorce. The prospect of romance seemed hopeless without the woman he'd spent entire decades with. Until now. Until you looked at him and decided that he was worth taking the risk on. 

"I'm more than alright, Burt," You press your lips to his again, softer this time, allowing yourself to become acquainted with the cracks and grooves of his needy mouth. Because when you said you wanted more, you meant it . So you open your mouth once more and place your hand on his chest, right over his beating heart. You swallow the resulting groan that comes from your hand wandering lower and lower down his torso. 

Fingers finding the edge of his trousers where the stark white button-up tucks into, you fumble for the button and then the zipper. You think of one of the dissections you'd done in his class a few weeks ago. Remembering how much your hands had trembled holding the scalpel, you're surprised that there's no apprehension in your movements. And Burt shows no resistance. Though your stomach churns, you're glad he lets you undo his pants on your own. You wouldn't have the heart to make him continue if there was even an inkling of opposition to this new form of vulnerability.

His shirt untucks and reveals a bit of his pudgy belly. Before going any further, you run your fingers over his stomach and feel him shiver, feel the shaky breath beginning to form in his chest.

"Do you like that? Do you like when I touch you?"

The entangled guilt and worry has vanished, replaced by a need for your gentle touch and adoring mouth. Burt's response comes with a groan and sounds close to breathless. "So much...so much."

You venture deeper with another question, "Do you want me to touch you?"

"Yes, please, I want–" His tongue sweeps over his lips nervously before he affirms, "I want you."

Your fingertips contemplate the hem of his underwear, contemplate the position that you're putting both him and yourself in. Voice smaller now, you continue, "You know that I really do want this, don't you? I'm not just...trying to get a better grade or anything. I just want you to like me."

"Oh, sweetheart, I know," he coaxes you, using his hands on your hips to pull you flush to him again. This time, you can really feel him. Despite the fact that his cock is straining against his dark pants, he still speaks with that deep, throaty voice that makes you ache everywhere, "I do like you. Only I have no idea how a thing like you could want an old man like me," he chuckles warmly.

"I just do, Burt," you gasp as if it's a fact that he should've known already. Your feelings for his are as certain as a statistic and as thorough as a good peer review. All the experts in your mind agree, being with him is the right thing. Damn the rules and the ethics, you need him.

So you're glad when one of his large hands moves to your knee and travels it's way up your thigh. Finally, his fingers reach the high waistband of your underwear beneath your knee-length skirt. Careful not to gain any contact with your skin, he keeps his touches restricted to the thin cotton fabric.

His jaw goes slack when he reaches the delicate lace that lines the elastic leg bands. "Do you...wear these often?" he marvels quietly. You giggle at the blank expression on his face; he can't even see them, but just knowing that you've had the underwear on throughout the day seems to make his brain short circuit. 

You grin cheekily before pressing a kiss to his lips, "All the time. They're my favorite to wear on days when I'm in your class." You lean over to his ear, "You like the color blue, right?"

Burt's pupils grow so wide that his green eyes are finally clouded with an undeniable arousal. He still feigns politeness, never breaching the elastic confines of the laced garment. His fingers instead choose to trace the slit between your legs, feeling the damp spot that's already soaked through the center. He groans at the wetness that immediately covers his fingers but continues on, searching for the spot that he had once been so well acquainted with.

When he finds your clit, your hand flies to his shoulder. You brace yourself by bunching up the shoulder of his button up in your fist. Using the pads of two fingers, he softly circles the bud, sending you closer to the edge as he whispers tenderly, "There you go, dear, you've got it."

It is then that you determine that it must not have been an unskillful hand in bed that led to the downfall of his marriage. You would stay with him for however long he wanted you to, as long as he used that same pressure with his slightly calloused fingertips that still managed to stay gentle with you.

You'd heard him talk about a chemistry class he'd taught years ago, heard him talk about how important it was to observe lab safety. And you wonder if he'd ever burned those fingertips; you wonder if the fire building inside you is more searing than those of a Bunsen burner, if the dull ache of this connection could leave more of a burn. Because these flames are just past third degree. They make your skin seem to melt as a thin layer of sweat forms over your already trembling thighs.

It's his words that snap you back to reality. "Will you be a good girl for me?"

Your breath goes ragged as you remember Burt's sorely neglected flesh. Letting go of his shirt, you plunge your hand below his waistband and take him a bit too eagerly. He jumps at the contact but doesn't stop you. He lets you have your way, lets you be his very good girl.

Deep down, you wonder how long it's been for him since he's been touched like this. The thought to tease him with his sensitivity arises in your mind but you push it down, too lost in your own arousal and unwilling to break the heavy atmosphere. You keep your voice down, terrified that if you were a little too loud, it might knock some sense into Burt; might make him think a little too much about the way your fist gently drags along his cock and the way his hips involuntarily start to thrust into the movement. All you need is his jagged breathing and his throaty groans making vibrations on your neck as he gives delicate kisses.

He keeps his lips anchored on the warm thrum of your pulse and holds back the urge to bite and suck and soothe your skin, knowing full well that to mark you up would be a mistake. Instead, he grinds his teeth through the pleasure that begins to bubble in his belly; tries to ignore how every one of his muscles tense in anticipation of the release.

"Are you close?" Burt asks hurriedly. It may have been years since he'd done this, but he knows that it wouldn't be courteous to finish before you and leave you high and dry. That's what this is: a pleasantry. He hasn't been touched like this in God knows how long but that didn't mean that this was a meaningful entanglement. It's a working relationship; you offer your professor some relief and he’ll guide you through this crush. Because you don't love him. You don't, he assures himself.

But, goodness, he wishes you did when you whine, "Yes, yes, yes, I'm gonna– Fuck, Burt, I'm gonna–"

If he were in his right mind, Burt would've chastised your language. But he's never been in this wrong of a state of mind in his life. Because when your hand gets faster and sloppier, he fucks into your fist with even more of a reckless abandon and chases the overwhelming high.

His struggle to stay consistent with his speed and pressure on your puffy and aching clit proves to have been worth it because you crash into the wall at practically the same time as him. You can't be bothered to suppress the trembling, breathy whine that slips through your windpipe. But you do keep the sob afterwards that nearly chokes you. To let him know the extent of what he'd just done to you would change everything.

Because now all you want is his name on your underwear. Even though you're exhausted and gasping through the comedown, you're already picturing his soft face between your legs and the surprise that would blow his pupils wide open when he sees the cursive lettering of his own name over your abdomen.

Because when you imagine him clicking his tongue and teasing you with a, Oh, darling, all this just for me? you want to cry. You want chest pains and tear soaked cheeks and him to hold you through all of it and make it make some sort of sense. He’s been around for a while, he’d know how to cure this feeling, wouldn’t he?

“Is it bad that I want to go all the way with you?” you mutter weakly, the tension in your chest feeling unbearable. 

“You want me to be inside you?” he asks as his lips inch closer to yours. An intense shock thrashes throughout your body, causing tension in every muscle. Your ears are ringing at the crude words that just fell from his lips, and they repeat in your head. “Do you?” he asks again, and you instantly nod your head rapidly, humming a “mhm.” Gently taking your hand, he helps you stand before leading you to his bedroom. Despite how fast you were trying to go earlier, this move caught you way off guard. Him initiating something so intimate felt disorienting. 

Flicking on the lamp next to the bed, he lets you sit. Slowly, you eased into the mattress as you looked up at him, hovering over you. It was intimidating, the way he leaned forward, gazing down at you with gentle, hooded eyes. His hands came to cup your face, before he slowly came in for a kiss. It was gentle and innocent, the way his soft, puckered lips explored yours, and his fingers laced through your hair. It didn’t matter how gentle he was with you, your body couldn’t help but tremor like a leaf. 

“Please, I want to know your feelings for me” he asks, lips keeping in proximity with yours. 

“I think I’m in love with you. I’m sorry,” you whisper timidly. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he kisses you again, with more passion. He pushes you back slowly, putting his knees on the bed, between your spread legs. “We’ll figure these feelings out,” he assures, then leaves sweet kisses on your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck. “-because I think I’m falling for you too.”

“But why? I don’t get it,” you whine, feeling his nose and lips nuzzle into the dip of your neck. 

“What’s there not to get? You’re wonderful.”

“You probably wouldn’t think that if you got to know me better.”

“If you let me, I can prove you wrong,” you revel in the deepness of his bassy voice, sounding warm and sweet, resonating against your skin as he softly nips at your neck. “I want to know every part of you,” he continues, breath heavy on your neck. Your head falls into the bed, and your back arches, leaning your body into his. Your arms tightly wrap around him, gripping the back of his shirt. His hands slide up your arms, tightly gripping your shoulders as his kisses trail down to your collarbone. He pulls back, looking down at you as his fingers graze the neckline of your shirt, feeling your upper chest rise and fall rapidly. You’re unable to keep yourself from fixating on his hands. So many times in the past you had to scold yourself for staring at his fingers with lewd intent. He begins unbuttoning your top, and you pay attention to the way he carefully moves down your torso, parting the fabric, revealing your chest and stomach. His palms run over hips, waist, and ribs. You can tell he’s fixated on your chest, covered with nothing but a bra. Being exposed to him felt embarrassing, but you were obsessed with the feeling of him looking at you. Grabbing your breasts, he gives them a gentle squeeze, massaging them. 

“Mmh, Burt,” his name falls from your lips in a lazy moan.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he coos as he stares deep into your eyes, yearningly. 

“It feels so good,” you whine, arching your back, pushing yourself into him. 

“Yeah?” his lips descend to your collarbone one again, kissing and licking the skin, moving down to your cleavage as he continues groping your chest. He sucks on the soft, supple skin on your upper breast, leaving hickies. He pulls you by your hips onto his lap, elevating your pelvis as your upper half lays back on the bed. He leans over you, pulling your bra down, exposing your nipples. He pinches them, rolling them between his fingers as he looks up into your eyes to watch how you react. He revels in every moan and whimper that comes from your mouth. His tongue delicately flicks at one of your hardened nipples, before his lips latch onto your breast, sucking and swirling his tongue. His mouth sinks into your breast as he pleases you, one hand still playing with the other. You whine as you can’t help but rub yourself into his lap, legs wrapping tightly around his waist. Pulling his lips from your tit with a pop, he moves to the other, sucking on it just as feverishly. You feel one of his hands move down your stomach to your crotch, fingers rubbing you over your skirt. You squeal slightly. 

“You like when I touch you here?” he asks as you grind yourself against his hand. He sits up, looking down at you squirm against the bed in delight. 

“Yes,” you squeak. He pulls down your pants, sliding it off each leg before tossing them aside. He notices the wet spot forming between your legs, and he slides his finger against your slit. He repositions you to be higher up on the bed with your head against the pillows. He lays on his stomach between your legs, dipping his head between them, mouthing at your clothed pussy. Whimpering, you watch Burt as he buries his face between your legs. He pulls your underwear to the side, allowing his tongue to make direct contact. Sweetly, he kisses your clit, licking and sucking on it as your legs tremor. You squeal as he pushes a finger inside you, reaching deep into your cervix. It curls inside of you, feeling your insides, figuring out the best way to pleasure you. Looking up at you, he observes how you react to his touch. Once he figures out the right spot, he pumps his middle and ring fingers in and out of you. He continues sucking on your clit, making you squirm. His glasses slide down his nose as he loses himself in your taste. 

“So wet for me already,” he purrs, fingering you at a steady pace. The muscles in your thighs tighten, closing your legs from the intense sensation, but he pushes your legs wide open with strong hands gripping your flesh. You gasp at his sudden roughness. Burying his face in your groin, the tip of his nose rubs against your clit as he makes out with your pussy, licking around the inside. Even just the sight of him eating you out makes you weak. His head bobs as mouths at you, eyes closed blissfully. You didn’t understand why you thought he looked so handsome from this angle, looking down at him as he buries his lips between your folds, and his usually neat, combed back hair was slowly becoming disheveled with strands falling over his face. You slide your fingers through his hair, gently holding his head, and he looks up into your eyes, still tonging you. 

“Oh my god! Burt, please, I’m so close,” you cry, body twitching. Suddenly, his movements slow down, and he pulls his lips from your crotch. Wiping his mouth with the side of his hand, he sits up, smugly watching you whine at the lack of contact. 

“We can’t have that now, can we?” his grip on your thighs stays tight, giving them a squeeze as they shake. You whimper, about to say something in protest, but he cuts you off, “won’t it feel so much better with you squeezing around me?”  

“Please.” 

“Please, what?” he teases, leaning over you. “What is it you want, sweetheart?”

“Please fuck me, daddy,” you groan, writhing around impatiently. For a few seconds, there was no response. Your head was turned to the side, so you looked back up at him. Sat back up, he looked shocked, breathing heavily with his eyes darting around, face flushed. 

“Oh my god,” his voice becomes breathy as he holds his fist to his hand in shock. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- it just came out. I didn’t mean to,” you suddenly become extremely self conscious, worried you just ruined the entire mood. 

“No, that’s not why- I just,” he rambles as he becomes more flustered, struggling to find the right words. “I’m just not used to being called that during… you know.” Seeing him lose composure like this was surreal. Sitting yourself up on the back of your elbows, he glances back and forth at your chest, taking note of the way your breasts fall over your figure in this position. 

“Do you not like it?” you ask, staring up at him, doe-eyed. He stares back, chest rising and falling intensely as he obsessively observes your expression. Leaning in closer to your face, he pushes himself up between your legs, making you lift and spread them to make room for him. 

“Say it again,” he demands, holding your face in his hands. You tense up, feeling his bulge prod against your soaked cunt. 

“Please, daddy,” you whimper in a delicate voice. He sighs, reveling in your tone. 

“I don’t know why,” he grunts before kissing you intensely, beginning to hump you, “but that’s really getting me worked up,” he says between kisses, dipping down to your neck once again, kissing and sucking on your skin. He reaches down to his belt, undoing it as fast as possible, then unzipping and pulling down his pants. He leans back to pull his dick out, and you stare as it springs out, almost fully erect. Before you even get the chance to process it, he gives himself a few pumps in his fist, then pulls your underwear aside and shoves his cock inside of you. You cry out from the stretch. Despite penetrating you slowly, it’s overwhelming as he bucks his hips into yours, eventually filling you up entirely. He groans as you squeeze around him. 

“Fuck!,” you exclaim, feeling him hit the back of your pussy. 

“Good boy, just like that,” he whispers in your ear, slightly moving his hips into yours, letting you get used to him. “Does it hurt?”

“No, I’m fine,” your hands cling to his back, gripping his shirt. 

He observes your expression as it relaxes into a gentle smile, and he smiles back, knowing you’re okay. “Good,” kissing your cheek, his hands run down the sides of your body, gripping whatever he can. He fucks you at a steady pace, panting as your inner walls clench around his shaft. You can hear the bed frame hitting the wall as he fucks you into the mattress. He kisses your lips before sitting up again, allowing him to reach deeper inside you. Tightly, his fingers grip onto your hips, pushing and pulling himself in and out of you. You reach back and grip onto the pillow, needing something to keep you grounded while getting rammed into. “Oh god, look at you. So gorgeous.” He rests his hand on your lower stomach, then moves down so his thumb can reach your clit, rubbing it in circles while he fucks you. “How does that feel?” 

“So good,” you gasp, moaning as your body constricts and shakes. In every sense, your grip on him tightens, causing him to grunt from the intensity. He catches your lips with his, making out with you. Kissing him back, you moan into his mouth, taking his brutal thrusts. 

“You’re getting so close, aren’t you?” he grins at you in pure bliss, continuing to thrust into you at the perfect pace, loving the way you bounce on his dick. 

“Yeah,” you squeak, then he abruptly stops, causing you to whine painfully.

“I won’t let you cum unless you beg for it,” he jeers, gripping your waist painfully, keeping you in place. “Can you do that, pretty boy?” 

“Please,” you sob, hips bucking instinctively, but his grasp on you is too firm for you to move enough. “I need it so bad.” He looks unamused, waiting for you to say something specific. “I wanna cum so bad, daddy. Please, daddy. I can’t- I-“ you try so hard to hold it back, but you fail, squealing as your orgasm hits you like a truck. Your legs shake and kick as you clamp down impossibly tight on him, making him pant and whimper from the nearly painful sensation. He pulls out of you as you fall back against the bed, still trembling from the aftershock. His dick is completely drenched, and you revel in the sight of it, rock hard and red at the tip. 

“I’m disappointed in you,” he teases, making you pout, “my greedy little boy, so disobedient.”

“I can’t help it!” you whine. 

“Don’t you think you deserve punishment?” he whispers in your ear, deep and roughly. You don’t respond besides whimpering softly in response. Getting up, he brings you with him to the edge of the bed. He sits, then brings you to his lap, laying on your belly across. Pressing his hand on the small of your back, he pulls up your skirt to fully expose your ass as he pulls your panties all the way off. You feel embarrassed as he caresses and gropes the supple flesh. 

“Should I stop?” He asks, and you shake your head shyly with your face buried in the covers. He chuckles before lightly smacking your butt, eliciting a small yelp. Harder, he smacks you again, then again, and again. You’re crying out, panting and whimpering in pain, but you don’t want it to stop. Wetness continues to drip from your hole, running down your thighs, becoming more aroused from each spank. “Bad boy, you have no idea what you do to me. Getting me so pent up all the time. It was torture holding myself back from cumming inside of you,” his erection presses against your stomach as he holds you firmly in place. Suddenly, his fingers slip inside of you, curling as they rub your puffy, sensitive inner walls. “Such a little slut, hm? You just love being played rough with, don’t you?” he whispers, fingering your sensitive hole. He spanks your red, raw ass again, causing you to yell out in pain and start kicking your legs, overwhelmed from the pain. “Is it too much?”

“Mhm,” you whimper.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he caresses your backside, then bends down to kiss the sore skin. You get up, sitting yourself next to him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you kiss him spontaneously, for no other reason than because you want to. He giggles softly at your sweetness, kissing you back as he embraces you. You kiss his cheek, feeling over encumbered with adoration, leaving peck after peck before nuzzling tightly into the crook of his neck. 

“Mmh, daddy,” you murmur, clinging onto him tightly. 

“What is it, baby?” His embrace is strong, one hand around your back, and the other on your ass, still soothing the burning skin with a gentle touch. 

“I wanna touch you,” you plead, pulling your head up to look at him with sad, wet eyes. 

“Whatever you want,” he kisses your forehead, then gently takes hold of your hand, guiding it to his crotch. “Get on your knees for me,” he ushers you off the bed to kneel on the floor between his legs. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, staring at it up close for the first time. Stroking it, you feel it slowly become harder in your hand, and you hear a sigh of content. Not realizing, your face inches closer to it, as you watch the precum pool from his tip as you jerk him off. 

“Does it feel good?” you ask, fluttering your eyelids as you look up at him, eagerly awaiting his praise. 

“Mmh, so good. You’re being so good for daddy,” he moans, lacing his fingers through your hair as he holds the back of your head. “You wanna suck my cock? Yeah?” Not even bothering to answer, you take him into your mouth, and he grips your hair, beginning to push you up and down on it. Hitting the back of your throat, you gag, with tears streaming down your face. Your cheeks hollow, sucking and swirling your tongue around his shaft. Pushing yourself deeper and deeper onto him, you groan as his tip stretches your throat. You rapidly breath through your nose, trying to keep your breath steady. Suddenly, you pull yourself off of him, gagging and coughing. You wipe the drool from your chin, painting. “Let’s not get too ambitious now,” he teases, wiping your tear stained face. 

Trying again, you slowly take him inside your mouth. Dragging your lips and tongue along his shaft, you grow weak as his scent and taste flood your senses. He holds the back of your head, gently thrusting at the pace set by you. “Good boy, just like that,” he praises, watching your hooded eyes stare into his. You get off on the feeling of taking him into your throat, bobbing your head at a steady rhythm. Hands gripping his thighs, you lose yourself as suck on his cock, feeling addicted. His hands find their way to the back of your head again, gently coaxing himself deeper down your throat, and you eagerly take it. Very slowly, he fucks your throat, and you cant help but gag and moan loudly, muffled by his shaft. “Keep looking at me with those pretty eyes, dear,” he coos while leaning back, pressing his hips forward to allow more movement. Staring up at him as you choke on his dick, your hand mindlessly finds its way to your clit, and you rub yourself vigorously to the pace at which he fucks your throat. You felt filthy getting off just from sucking him off, but the humiliation in being so desperate made you even hornier. Soon enough, he pulls your head off his cock by your hair, promptly jerking himself off before finishing on your face, audibly moaning. You wipe his cum from your face, licking it up before gently licking his leaking tip. 

Nice girls don't tell tales to all the neighbors about how much they love kids—how they're always willing to babysit, if needed, eyeing up fathers from the front porch as they guide their wives into the car. They don't ride their bikes on windy days while married men mow their lawns, waving like you don't see them trying to steal a glance up your skirt. They don't sneak through parent's rooms after the children have been put to bed to touch the things he's touched, spraying clouds of his cologne into the air, just to breathe it in.

Nice girls don't dream every night about fucking men twice their age.

"What should girls my age do?" you ask, wetting your lips.

"Oh, you know," he glances down, still shy like a little boy when he's fully grown, "you should be going on dates. Going to drive-ins and out to dinner with boys your age."

"Boys my age?"

You scuff your shoe against the concrete when he doesn't answer, and Mr. Fabelman flushes under your gaze. He's not used to being flirted with—which makes it all the more fun, knowing that he loves the attention you're giving him and he knows he shouldn't. Mr. Fabelman tucks his hands impotently into his pockets, and one of them emerges with a fold of bills.

"Here's this," he gestures to his hand with a nod of his head, "for your trouble."

You brush his hand out of the way, letting your touch linger.

"It was no trouble at all, Mr. Fabelman."

The tips of your fingers just wrap over his knuckles. His skin is warmer than the night air.

"Please, call me Burt."

You stand there, letting the silence speak, your touch burning against his hand. The light goes off in the living room, and you imagine the sound of footsteps, but Mrs. Fabelman doesn't peek her head past the curtain or take a glance out the door to check on her husband. The bedroom light switches on above you, casting a glow over the yard.

Burt shuffles back a step. "I'd be happy to give you a ride home, or-"

"Oh, no, thank you. It's a nice night, and not too far a walk."

Neither of you make a move—still as statues, besides the breeze that plays with your hem as it passes by. The light upstairs goes out a few moments later. After a pause, Burt's shoulders drop, like he'd been holding his breath.

He pauses before he speaks, licks his lips. "Do you have any more of those cigarettes?"

Burt loosens his tie just before he lights it, breathing in deep while the little flame still illuminates the sheen of sweat on his face and the tense lines of his neck. He passes you the cigarette between two of his long, lean fingers. The filter is still a little wet from his lips.

He doesn't even notice you're watching him, eyes locked on a house across the street as you both lean back against the window. His distraction serves your purposes fine; you can take him in properly, the curve of his cheeks and turn of his nose.

You pass the cigarette back to him. Smoke pours from his mouth, and the words follow as an afterthought.

"My wife . . . I- she doesn't love me anymore."

"Oh." That's quite a confession. Your heart patters at the cool look in his eyes when he passes back the smoke. "I'm sorry."

He brushes off the apology like he knows you don't mean it, or wouldn't want it if you did.

"I think I may have done something wrong. I keep thinking, maybe if I- maybe she would want to stay with me if I were . . . better-looking."

He drops his head, a look of distaste wrinkling his lips, like the words were bitter coming out.

"You can't blame yourself for that-"

Burt quiets you with a hand on your shoulder. "Do you think I'm dull? Be honest."

"Mr. Fabelman, I-" His hand is heavy and large, spanning half your back, tips of his fingers almost brushing your spine. His thumb just rests against the delicate skin of your neck, and as much as you've thought about the way his touch would feel, your mouth still goes dry.

Burt falters, pulling back slightly, misreading the signs. "No, don't answer that. I shouldn't have asked."

You're feeling a little impulsive—not willing to lose his attention so soon after first having it—and so you take his hand in yours before he can step away.

"I think you're very handsome, Burt. Honest."

Not as honest as you could be, but honest. You want him to feel good about himself—feel desirable—but not at the expense of your own pride.

Or maybe that's just what you want to believe about yourself, because when you feel his rough grip at your neck, pride is the last thing on your mind.

His kiss is messy and contradictory—hands a little harsh as they pull you closer, positioning you the way he likes, like a little doll, but his mouth is tender against yours.

You stand there, stunned, and Burt loses his nerve, stepping back again, a failed apology on his trembling lips. They're still shaking when you kiss him back.

Fuck, he feels like heaven, with your hands cupping his round cheeks, the frames of his glasses nudging against your nose, the little click of your teeth against his when he parts his lips to taste you.

You'd never pull away from him if you could help it. You're aching to keep him close, a whine on your lips when he peels away from you.

His chest heaves, and Burt places his hands on his hips. He stares at you like a problem to be solved. Like he's trying to get to your root.

You want to feel him picking you apart. Want it bad enough your thighs press together.

"Actually, I think I'll take that ride, now."

The stretch is . . . god, it's something else.

You had guessed as much, grinding against his lap in the car's front seat, peppering Burt's lips with feverish kisses and pressing your tits more fully into his hands. He's clumsy with you, in the same way boys your age are—like he's fallen into a pattern with his wife, so late in their marriage that he hardly has to consider what she likes any more. 

But he's considering you, listening for any sounds you might make over the chorus of his heavy breaths. Watches your lips part when he guides your hips down against his. Hears the throaty moan when you feel the fucking log he's carrying around in his pants all day against your dripping panties.

When he pulls his cock from his trousers, Burt looks up at you nervously, stroking his length with soft, short movements, just barely nudging at your clit when he shifts it beneath your skirt. Your tongue clicks wetly against the roof of your mouth, nails carving through his hair.

“Fuck, you’re so big,” you tell him, and you mean it when you say it, which is new. He’s a little stunned, actually, lips parted and hand still. His wife must be used to him by now.

Lucky her.

“Really?” he whispers.

You nod, chewing on your lip. “Do you think it’ll fit?”

Burt shudders beneath you, like he’s physically restraining himself. He can’t even speak. He just nods, pulls you down over him by your hip. 

You might wake the neighbors the way you cry out for him. Might wake up the whole goddamn state of Arizona when Burt sinks you down to the hilt and the sting reaches all the way into your throat.

“Are you alright?” 

He pets a few hairs out of your face, admiring your already wrecked expression. It’s just what you wanted. It’s too much. 

You’re too full of him to speak, so you just nod, shifting your hips back and forth to feel the edges of him knocking around inside your dripping cunt. The soreness is quickly fading, but the fullness does not, and when you shift just right, he nudges against a part of you that has your eyes wide open, not in pain, but with pleasure.

“Oh,” you gasp, doing it again, but harder, some of his length dragging against your swollen, puffy lips before you swallow it down again, humming at the relief.

Burt’s reading the signs, guiding your hips down over him, his hands spanning your waist.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, and you nod, vision blurring a little when your eyes roll back. You can tell it feels good for him, with the way his dick twitches inside of you, how insistent he is with his grip. His chest is heaving, sweat collecting in the collar of his nice dress-shirt, and you’re leaving wrinkles all over the front of it, clinging to him with tense fists.

He bounces you more firmly against him, impaling you on his cock over and over again, so far inside of you it's like you can feel your guts rearranging themselves to make more room for him.

“I’m close,” you whimper, but he has to know that. He couldn’t not know it with the way you’re moaning with every breath, your thighs shaking on either side of his wide, perfect lap.

Burt’s eyes are shut, brow stern, like he’s thinking hard, so focused on the places where your bodies meet that he can’t risk looking at you, your pretty, ruined face too much of a distraction. He nods again, glasses fogged at the edges and slipping down his nose, letting a quiet moan out of his parted lips. 

With shaking hands and a quivering cunt, you press at the bridge of his glasses, sliding them back into place. From somewhere far away, he smiles. 

The pressure in your gut builds and builds, but it’s that smile that really sends you over the edge, muscles clamping around his cock as the bliss spreads through you, reaching all the way to the tips of your fingers, shooting off fireworks behind your eyes.

Burt tilts your mouth towards his with a hand at your chin, gripping your tightly while his lips explore yours. Something sticky and wet rolls down your thigh, his cock spilling heavy streams of cum deep inside your pussy. Your cunt clenches involuntarily, like it’s trying to steal out every last drop.

Burt’s head thumps back against the headrest, and you watch him recover from the high, drops of sweat traveling down his neck, throat shaking with every breath he takes.

You try to shift off him, but he’s still a little hard, and you’re too sore to lift yourself enough for him to slip out.

But Burt doesn’t seem to mind. He pets a heavy hand over your side, looking up at you through half-lidded, content eyes.

Nodding, you start to unbuckle his brown slacks. His hardness was straining painfully against them, and he let out a sigh of relief once you revealed it to the cool air. Wasting no time, you kiss the tip gently.

“That’s right, such a pretty whore…”

The expletive falling from his parted lips was unfamiliar, but it caused that well-known warmth to grow between your legs. You whimper at this, and he cocks his head at you, a slight blush dusting across his cheeks.

“You… like that, (Y/N)? Being my good little whore?”

Licking up the side of his length, you grin widely, “I really do, Burt.”

Burt tentatively bites his lip before moving his hand to grip your hair, “Prove it then.”

You quickly move to suck on his tip, before dipping your head as far as it could go, just to show him how much of a good whore you could be. Bobbing up and down, you felt his grip pull you back off.

“No need to rush, doll. Take your time, like you always do. Such an eager slut, hm?”

Embarrassment threatens to take over you, but you quickly shake it away, giving him an innocent smile, “Of course, I just got so excited…”

Burt pouts his lips, feigning pity, “Poor girl, don’t let your enthusiasm go to waste. Back to it.”

He pushes you back onto his length, and you moan around it. Laying your tongue flat underneath it, and using your hands to reach what you couldn’t, you begin to properly suck him off. You knew just how to make him feel good, and that makes you feel good too, evidenced by the growing wetness in your panties.

Noticing your shifting thighs, he smiles through bated breath, “Good little slut, getting off on making me feel good…”

You nod to the best of your ability, still doing your best to pleasure him. He had such a long day at work, it was only fair of him to use your mouth to relax, right? Burt moans loudly as you suck him particularly hard, and you feel that go straight to your core. You love making him feel good in any way possible, he deserves it.

Reaching down to relieve some of your discomfort, he tuts, “Move your panties so I can see you touch yourself properly, (Y/N).”

Still sucking to the best of your ability, you open your legs wider and pull aside your panties, showing him just how drenched you were.

“Fuck, look at that…” Burt thrusts into your mouth suddenly as he sees your desire evident, “You’re so good for me.”

You separate your lips from his cock, a string of spit still connecting them, “Anything for you, baby. Wanna make you feel nice and good.”

He moans loudly at your words, and you can tell he’s close by the way he subconsciously thrusts into your hand. Not wanting to waste any possible drop, you move back to suck at his tip. You taste the beginnings of his orgasm and are desperate for more. Your fingers tease at your entrance.

“Fuck, you’re so good at this, (Y/N)... gonna come.”

As much as you wanted to continue the dirty talk, you were much more adamant about getting him off. Diving down further, you speed up your movements. Burt’s hips thrust into your mouth, and you begin to finger yourself with the same rhythm. You relax your jaw to the best of your ability as he bucks up, using your mouth like a toy.

“Dirty slut, letting me… use her mouth like this, God! Make you take it, swallow it all, better show me you swallowing, fuck–!”

You look up at him with tear-filled eyes, your lips feeling as though they would split from his girth. Burt watches your expression through his own pained one as he continues to fuck your mouth. Glancing down, he sees your fingers moving in and out of you at the same pace he set, and he practically melted.

With a final, stuttering thrust, practically slamming the back of your throat, you feel his release coat your mouth. You gather as much as you can without gagging on the sudden taste as he pulls out slowly from your mouth.

“Show me, show me, baby,” Burt pants from up above you, tilting your chin up towards him.

He spreads your lips apart, and you reveal his seed stagnant on your tongue, waiting for his command to swallow. You glance down at his twitching length, a dribble of come still at the tip. Without thinking, you dart to lick it properly clean. His choked moan sounded like heaven.

“Swallow it, please, baby.”

Smiling, you swallow with an audible gulp, much to his pleasure. Your breath was ragged, and so was his.