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Monday inevitably arrived once more, the classroom deficient of verve, heavy eyelids and audible yawns filling the room. The weekend had been relatively stressful, the burden of a looming paper chaining you to your desk. Caffeine flooded your veins, manmade focus drawing your flitting eyes to the bright white screen before you. It was evident that you had flunked the task, exhaustion slowly lapping at your motivation and dragging you into the comfort of your bed. Unfortunately, you only had yourself to blame.
The door to the classroom burst open, Ms Romanoff entering with a zeal that remained bluntly unreturned by the students. In haste, you blinked away your lethargy, readjusting in your chair under the guise that you were alert, prepared to face the failure that you were sure was to come. Meticulous hands threaded through the stack of papers in which the woman held, close to her chest as she sauntered between the desks and delivered the verdict of a grade. A sharp exhale emitted from you, a brief anxiety clouding you as the redhead paused before you almost as if she was attempting to exacerbate the tension. Daringly, you raised your gaze to meet hers, sparkling green orbs mesmerising you for a moment before your attention became reclaimed by the sheet of paper she plucked forth from the pile.
“A marvellous piece,” she remarked, a puzzled expression cloaking your features as you noticed a smile of sincerity playing upon her lips. “Good job, Y/N.”
An unsettling feeling began to fester as you caught sight of the A grade that Ms Romanoff had etched in the right hand corner, a little smiley face squiggled beside it. You had never been the type to denounce a success, but you were avid in your conviction that you were undeserving, that there must have been some kind of mistake.
“Ms Romanoff,” you addressed, your hand reaching out to encircle her wrist with a lightened touch, causing the woman to halt dead in her tracks, a tiny gasp freeing from her. “I think that there’s been a mistake. This isn’t mine.”
The redhead kissed her teeth, her expression that of feigning offence at the prospect of a miscalculation at her own hands. Swiftly, she pried the paper from your possession, her eyes scouring the page to decipher the issue, a shake of her head following suit.
“We can discuss your concerns after class, Miss Y/L/N,” she insisted, flatly, her teeth peering out shortly to clamp down upon her full lips, the act all but transfixing you. “But I assure you that I don’t make mistakes.”
Nodding, you succumbed to her insistence despite your reservations, your attention continually reclaimed by the paper before you. The sound of a throat clearing tore you from your daze, Ms Romanoff’s gaze burning into you.
“Eyes on me, Y/N,” she commanded, a tiny smirk playing upon her lips before she bit it away in haste. “That won’t be a problem for you, will it?”
Instantaneously, your cheeks began to flush, ablaze as you felt the redness seep out onto the exterior. The glint that flecked in her eye just emphasised her knowingness, her smirk becoming harder to hide as she observed your blatant state of fluster.
“No, Ms Romanoff,” you replied, a sudden strike of boldness infiltrating in place of your embarrassment. “You have my undivided attention.”
The ambiguity of the comment saw the emergence of hushed laughter, soon ebbing out when the redhead’s eyes darkened in warning, silence engulfing the room. Ms Romanoff exhaled softly as she travelled to take position at her desk, her hand grasping outwards in search of a thick book that rested atop it.
“I assume that you all brought your copy,” she half-questioned, her eyes scoping the room in expectance of a protest, the silence obstructed by the sound of books slamming onto desks. “Good,” she noted. “Let’s begin reading on from page twenty-six. Y/N, why don’t you do the honours?”
___
Chairs screeched out from below desks, a new enthusiasm hanging in the air in the knowledge that the class had reached its conclusion. Students filed out of the door only to merge into the sea of people that met them in the corridor outside. Ms Romanoff traversed with quickened steps, a haphazard hand extending to throw the door to a close and subsequently muffle the noise that erupted behind it.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” she teased, an eyebrow quirked upwards in playfulness as she gestured for you to close the distance between the two of you.
“Mhm,” you mused, your paper securely between your fingers as you deposited it into her awaiting hands. “Are you sure about that, Ms Romanoff?”
The redhead stared into what felt like your soul, a fleeting epoch of time seemingly existing as though it had been hours. Her eyes fell to ogle you with unsuccessful inconspicuousness, jade irises lingering upon your lips until she caught herself and redirected her attention.
“Perhaps,” the woman diverted, her answer to the question long overdue as she studied the page in front of her with blatant superficiality. “I haven’t decided yet.”
A smirk lurked upon your mouth, soon to widen when the woman paused to regard you, a simper fused to her own as if mirroring you. You sighed aloud, your feet drawing you further from her as you paced in faux thoughtfulness.
“You’re right,” you conceded, slowly journeying to arrive back at her side, your body ghosting hers as she sat rigidly in her chair. “What we’ve been doing is so wrong.”
Ms Romanoff’s jaw clenched immediately in response to your remark, a glare thrown towards you with clear intent.
“Frowned upon,” she corrected, flatly, her sentence dissipating on her tongue as she noticed your lips seeking out the soft skin of her neck. “There is a... difference.”
You hummed, the vibrations felt against the woman’s flesh as her head fell backwards to allow access, the paper before her long forgotten.
“Ah, yes,” you chuckled, lowly, your tongue flicking out to drag along her throat. “It never did feel wrong, did it, Natasha?”
The redhead released a strangled moan, desperate as if it had been withheld for an extended duration. Her moans could will you into insanity without effort, her head jostling wildly to manipulate the place in which your lips would land. Of course, you knew of all of her preferred spots, each patch of skin memorised, imprinted in the fabric of your mind as if it were the wallpaper.
“No,” Natasha breathed, her voice no louder than a whisper as her hands grappled with your body, desperate to feast her hands upon anything that she could reach.
“Get up,” you growled, the command immediately forcing the woman to her feet in compliance as you lifted her to perch upon the wooden desk. “I know it’s been a long weekend, let’s see how much you’ve really missed me, hm?”
Natasha’s fingers extended outwards in search of your face, rouged fingernails burying into the flesh that sheathed the jawbone. Her tongue passed over her plump lips in preparation, soon to be pressed forcefully against yours as she kissed with unmistakable heat. Your heart palpitated within your chest, adrenaline seeping into your veins as you threw a fleeting glance towards the door for unwanted spectators. The secret was safe, for now.
“Touch me,” Natasha urged, her hands tugging your own to venture below the thin black material of her skirt. “Feel it.”
Butterflies swarmed in the pit of your stomach, revelling in the arousal that clung to your fingertips. Instinctively, you retreated, a sadistic beam plastered to your features as you presented your glistening fingers to her before plunging them past her reddened lips.
“Taste the mess you’ve made for me,” you insisted, observing as Natasha’s eyes squeezed shut in marvel, hums of delight buzzing around your fingers. “So fucking desperate and I haven’t even touched you.”
Natasha mewled, her pupils blown wide as she stared into your eyes, docility taking hold of her.
“Pathetic,” you spat, a shiver passing over her body at the mere prospect of being demeaned, more so in stark realisation of just how much she enjoyed it.
Promptly, you withdrew your fingers from her mouth, halting to admire the glimmering saliva that coated the exterior.
“Good girl,” you complimented, smiling when you noticed Natasha’s legs cross tightly together as a means of alleviation.
Your hand drove between them to obstruct their state of entanglement, a palm pressed to her pussy which now radiated heat. Natasha’s skirt was expertly discarded creating space for your upcoming ministrations, your patience slowly thinning at the mere sight of her. Fingertips sought the skin below the fabric of her underwear, an almost inaudible sigh of excitement freeing from you upon reuniting with her wetness. You hummed as she faltered, her breath stolen from her as her hands slammed against your chest, soft circles massaged against her clit with zeal.
“Fuck,” Natasha cursed, breathlessly, self-control all but stripped from her as she gazed up at you with half-lidded eyes, weak and pliant below your touch. “Please, Y/N. Don’t make me wait any longer.”
Delicate kisses peppered against Natasha’s scarlet-tinted cheeks, your hand working meticulously between her legs as you drew a series of moans from her lips. Every few seconds was punctuated with a hasty glance towards the door, enthralled by the possibility of being caught but simultaneously riddled with terror.
“You better cum quickly unless you want to get caught, hm?” You suggested, seductively, your free hand moving to fondle her breast. “Do you think you can be a good girl and do that for me?”
Natasha nodded with zeal. “Yes- yes, I can.”
Cautiously, your fingers aligned with her pussy, arousal smeared around the entrance as you sank in to the hilt, earning a squeal from Natasha. Her hands clutched desperately upon the material of your shirt, fisting unyieldingly as she wrangled for stability. The walls of her pussy squeezed warmly around you, welcoming as they drew them into the depths of her, Natasha’s mouth pried agape in mindlessness.
“Do you like that, baby?” You questioned, knowingly, Natasha’s inability to speak providing the clearest answer. “You feel so good around my fingers.”
Tension built with ardor, the redhead’s eyes aglow with a newfound glint, all indications pointing to her inevitable spiral out of control. Your fingers slammed into her without respite, avid in feeling her spasm around them, avid in watching her body convulse in your arms. Breath passed through Natasha’s lips on a continuum, her brows sewn tightly together as she shrieked aloud.
“I’m cumming,” she cried out, her fingers digging harshly into your arms with such force that you were sure that she had broken the skin there. “Fuck, Y/N, oh my-”
Tremors claimed her body in its entirety, her pussy clamping sporadically around your fingers for a few moments until her muscles began to relax. Softly, you withdrew from her, Natasha’s hungry mouth willing the digits into her mouth to clean off the mess that she had made.
“Such a good girl for me,” you praised, a delicate kiss delivered atop her forehead as she beamed, exhaustion evident upon her face.
“That,” Natasha began, a mischievous simper blossoming upon her lips. “Was much better than your paper.”
Immediately, you jumped backwards feigning offence, a discernible validation occurring to you and prying a chuckle of amusement from Natasha.
“I fucking knew it,” you laughed, shaking your head lightly in disbelief. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Natasha paused ruminatively, a finger poked against her chin as if burdened with a difficult decision.
“I think I’ll let it slide this time,” she ruled with a grin. “After all, you made up for it in other ways.”