Archive of Our Own

There was a hill that overlooked campus that was grassy and resplendent with blooming, late springtime flowers. You had discovered it entirely on accident one day while on an especially adventurous excursion outdoors with your biology class. The assignment was essentially to wander around with a sketchpad and draw what you saw. It was not unlike activities you’d done in elementary school, but one look at your impressively hungover professor told you that this was the best he could do under the circumstances.

So you trooped around dutifully, pen and pad in hand, leaving the fold a bit by escaping the throng of students gathered around a willow tree. In your skirt and impractical flats you huffed and heaved as you climbed the surprisingly steep hill, curious at what might be at the top.

When you got there, you were a bit awestruck by what you found. There were flowers all around, and tall grasses waved in the breeze. The ground was level enough for you to stretch out on your back comfortably, and you nearly did, inviting as the secret place looked. From your vantage point, you could see your classmates and professor dotted along the rolling slopes below, and further still, your college campus with its clashing mix of stately old buildings and rows of cellar-block dormitories. 

Perhaps six months ago, or even at the beginning of the semester, you wouldn’t have given this place a second thought. Yet you took the time to sit, folding your legs beneath you and resting your sketchpad on your knees. You were a terrible artist, you thought, but you tried to concentrate on the delicate petals of one flower springing up from the hillside. You weren’t sure what kind of flower it was.

Surely George would know. After all, he was who made all the difference between the beginning of the semester and where you now stood towards the end.

That was where you’d gotten the idea. Your rudimentary sketch of the flower on the hill, ripped from the pad and tucked into your textbook as a sort of bookmark, had winked up at George when you’d left that massive tome carelessly open one Saturday spent at his place. 

It had been a stark contrast from that first Saturday spent there together. Ok, maybe not such a contrast, if the way you couldn’t look at the innocuous-seeming countertop without blushing was any indication. But you had spent most of the rest of the day studying for a test that interrupted the otherwise peaceful interim you’d been enjoying the past few weeks, the calm before the storm of finals. You’d left your book open when you went to fetch your pencil case from your bag in his bedroom, and when you’d returned, George was staring down at your sketch, a little smile playing at his lips.

“Did you draw this?” he asked, turning the paper so it faced you when you came over to him.

You blushed furiously. “It’s not very good,” you said immediately, trying to take it but George was faster than you, picking it up casually and scrutinizing it even closer.

“It’s lovely,” he said finally. “It’s a bellflower, isn’t it?”

You lifted a shoulder in a sullen sort of shrug. “I don’t know,” you said. “I’m not the one with a garden.”

He rolled his eyes at your tone. “It’s a nice drawing,” he reiterated, finally relinquishing it back to you. “Where’d you find it? The bellflower, that is. I don’t believe we have any in the botanical garden.”

“It wasn’t in the garden,” you said.

“Where, then?”

And as you explained the hill to him, you realized to your delight that he wasn’t familiar with it. In the month you’d been dating, he’d overwhelmingly been the one to induct you into the realm of all things new and unfamiliar. Here, come back to my place. Here, let’s go to Ringo's club. Now I’m going to show you this film, then I’ll take you to this hole-in-the-wall Chinese takeout place, they’ve got the greatest egg rolls in town. You weren’t upset-in fact, you liked all the new people and places and things you seemed to be acquiring by dating George. But for once, it’d be nice to be the one to have the upper hand, to familiarize him with something he wasn’t used to. 

You were by no means a doormat, and George certainly wasn’t domineering, but it was easy to give into the urge to make yourself small, to fit into a perfect-girlfriend-shaped box. Perfect girlfriends, you’d come to realize in your movement in the world and interactions with family, friends, classmates, club fellows, did what their boyfriends wanted to do, and they did it smiling and uncomplaining because that was what was done, never mind what they might want or how the boyfriend might better file down his own jagged ends. As soon as you were aware of this dynamic, you resisted it fiercely, determined to be your own person still even as you became more and more wrapped up and absorbed in George’s life and friends and hobbies. 

So to you, it was more than just a nice place to picnic, though of course you had packed a lunch for the both of you to share and worn your favorite light blue sundress to mark the occasion. It was a place that could wholly be your own, living a state away in a relatively unfamiliar college town as you were. Alone on a hill with him-that was bliss, you thought.

Next Saturday, you met in the grassy knoll extending past the last dormitory hall. George leaned up against a tree, his back to your approaching form. Your heart swelled at seeing your man and his strong silhouette, the outline of broad shoulders through his jacket, the suggestion of the slim, slightly tapered waist and hips through fabric and his jeans.

You tapped on his shoulder lightly. He turned around, and there he was, you thought in relief as you drank in his handsome face, the slow smile alighting his features. He took your hand boldly, close as you were to the dorms. 

“Hi,” you greeted, giddy at seeing him though you had just seen him in class yesterday. 

Together, you made the trek up the hill, your hand firmly in his, the other outstretched for balance, unburnened from the picnic basket as George had insisted on carrying it up for you. 

At the top, you made yourself busy preparing the area for your picnic. You were relieved to find the valley below, the rolling hills and even the outskirts of campus itself, were all but deserted. What with finals starting next week, everyone must already be hunkering down and studying.

Not you, though, you thought wryly. 

So you spread the blanket out, and George helped you unpack the basket, the sandwiches you’d made for both of you, the special vegetarian for him and turkey and provolone for you, carrots and cantaloupe and potato chips, fizzy cans of Coke to wash it all down. 

You visited as you ate. In the month since you’d gone official (as adolescent as you felt referring to it that way), you had barely spent a day apart, whether it was seeing each other in class, or going to his house or out on the town in the evenings. Still, it was nice to catch up on the seemingly insignificant time since you’d seen each other, regaling each other with stories of annoying colleagues on George’s part and tales in the continuing adventure of you and your roommate from you.

When you were finished with your meal, George stretched out, and you let him rest his head in your lap. Smiling down at him, you played with his hair, the wispy dark strands that were beginning to fade and gray in some spots. 

“You’ve got finals starting soon, yeah?” George said after a peaceful, extended silence.

You glanced down at him. “So do you,” you teased.

“Mm, fair enough,” George contended. “All those essays I’ve got to grade…all the errors I’ve got to mark up,” he said, feigning a groan of annoyance.

You giggled, tugging on his hair teasingly and making him hiss. 

“None from me, though?” you teased. “Maybe I’ll bargain with my professor to give me a good grade? I can be very convincing on my knees…”

“Naughty,” George admonished immediately, pinching your thigh and making you yelp. He kissed the offending spot, and seemingly the pain, away, and you softened, stroking his stubbly cheek.

“So we’ll both be busy,” you relented. 

“Yes,” George conceded simply.

The air grew heavy then, the implication of both of your words slowly sinking in. Finals were one thing, a nuisance to separate both of you and demand your time away from each other. There was always class time, but you didn’t count class time as “seeing him”, not really. You had kept the two Georges-the one that was your professor, and the other that was your boyfriend-separate, just as much as you knew he treated you as both student and girlfriend, separate worlds, separate realities.

Even if the split personalities were only meant to last but a few more weeks. With finals came the end of the semester, and with the end of the semester came the end of George’s time as your professor.

That could make things infinitely easier for both of you-there was nothing in the codes of conduct about former students and their professors, though you knew for George’s sake, what with the optics and potential professional fallout, things would probably have to stay quiet for a while longer.

But perhaps you were being a little presumptuous. That was all assuming George would want to stay with you once the semester ended. Sure, you were official now, but the pesky doubt, your worries and fears and festering anxieties all still remained. You certainly wanted to be with him still, even with the knowledge that you were going home for the summer and George was staying here. 

You hadn’t asked him what he thought. How would you go about asking that, anyway? Hey, George, I know we’re about to be long distance, so just in case you’re not down for that, why don’t you just dump me now?

The idea was morbidly amusing, but any awkward sort of humor was colored and soured by your genuine anxiety over the idea that you were on borrowed time. There were finals to worry about, and surely you should be excited about your summer plans-vacations and an internship at your father’s company back home, plus three glorious months wherein you wouldn’t have to worry about papers and tests and grades. But all of that seemed diminutive compared to your stormy, worrisome swirling thoughts concerning George and the seemingly assured limbo your fledgling relationship was already doomed to approach.

You didn’t want to ruin the lovely little picnic date, or color the discovery of the hill with something as troublesome as your anxiety over your relationship. So you bit your tongue-as you were so adept at doing-as you packed up your basket; as you followed him down the hill; as you boldly kissed him goodbye at its base. You were all smiles and affection for your man outwardly, but inwardly the anxiety swirled and threatened to consume you.

☆✩☆

And sure enough, when you got to your dorm, you all but collapsed, dissolving into a pool of long-held tears. Choking out your sobs, trying to keep your voice down in fear one of your suitemates would hear, you cast your eyes to your closet door. It seemed like the perfect place for a good cry.

Not that you felt any better or satisfied by these tears, hating the way they wracked your body with emotion. But you were in the spiral now, and you could not find your way out, not as scenarios played unwittingly before your eyes, nightmares and variations on the same theme: George leaving you because suddenly you were no longer worth the trouble, not while you were away and his bed was left cold. 

It was stupid, deep down you knew it was stupid. George cared about you. He wouldn’t break up with you over that, over nothing, over a temporary separation.

Would he? You couldn’t be sure, not really, and that made the tears pour anew.

Perhaps you hadn’t heard her come in over your cries, lost as you were in your emotion, but you suddenly heard shuffling on the other side of the closet door, someone moving around in your room. Your roommate was back.

You made to scramble up, mortified at the idea of being caught in such an embarrassing position, but before you could the door was swinging open.

You screwed your eyes up at the sudden pouring-in of light, and when you adjusted to the intrusion, you saw your roommate standing before you, backlit by your big dorm window.

You tried getting up again, but your limbs in an unfortunate knot and also inconveniently asleep from your staid position. Yet your roommate surprised you by making a noise of disapproval, as if to say stay there.

Your surprise was compounded when, instead of bewilderingly questioning why, exactly, were you crying in your shared closet, with her sweater sleeves dragging over your head as they were, she merely grunted, “Shove over.”

You complied after a moment’s hesitation. She plunked herself down with an unsightly groan, rearranging her own limbs so as to fit in the tiny space with you.

For a while, you were both silent. You cast a tremulous glance at her after several beats and saw she was leaning her head against the wall, eyes closed, as if composing herself or perhaps meditating. Maybe the overt friendliness-more she’d ever shown you in the whole year-had taken a lot out of her.

Finally, though, she filled the pregnant pause with a single inquiry.

“Is it the guy?”

You chortled, an ugly sound only made worse by the sobs still threatening to burst out of your throat. “God, how’d you know?” you sniffed.

Silently, she offered you a tissue seemingly magicked from her pocket. You accepted it gratefully.

“You’d be out in the open if it was finals,” was all she provided by way of explanation. You concurred impassively, aware that you were approaching a minefield by talking about this at all with her. What if she went and told someone? God, you could not afford the consequences right now, right on the cusp of finishing out the year.

“Did he dump you?” she asked indelicately.

You rolled your eyes. “Not exactly,” you murmured sadly.

“Then why are you crying?”

New tears smarted at your eyes. You wiped at them angrily. “It’s stupid,” you insisted. “I’m acting like an idiot.”

“It can’t be that stupid if you’re crying about it,” your roommate pointed out sagely. “Don’t discount what you’re feeling.”

She was right, you realized. She’d been right about so much, and unexpectedly kind in more ways than one. The tale of your ups and downs over the year had piqued George’s interest on your first date, you recalled. In her own way, she was trying to gain access to your heart, much as the object of your affection had.

The comparison to George made you soften to her in an instant. You turned, and she regarded you through owlish lenses, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

“It’s just…” you began, sticking your tongue against the inside of your cheek as you flailed for the right words. “The semester is ending soon, right? And I have to go home and he has to…stay here. It’ll be long distance, you know? And I don’t think he’ll want to keep up with just letters and phone calls.”

“Have you asked him? How do you know he won’t want that?”

You bit your lip, feeling a little shy suddenly. “Well…our relationship… it’s very, um, physical, y’know?” You regarded her meaningfully.

To her credit, your roommate didn’t even blink. “I gathered that when you disappeared for an entire weekend and practically floated back in here Sunday night.”

You blushed furiously, and your roommate laughed at you, not unkindly.

“So you guys have lots of sex,” she said, throwing her hands up. “Who cares? I mean, he’s gotta be with you for other reasons, too. And if those aren’t enough for him, then he’s an idiot, because you’re a catch.” She nudged your shoulder with hers, adding, “Besides, there’s always things you can do together over the phone.”

You giggled. “I know, I know,” you said, sighing.

Your roommate sensed your lingering wistfulness. “Three months isn’t that long,” she added. “And that’s assuming you can’t arrange to visit before then.”

You turned to her, realization slowly dawning on you with her words. “How do you know he isn't graduating?” you said. “I mean, how do you know he’s still gonna be here in the fall?”

Your roommate regarded you levelly, cool as always. “It’s your professor, isn’t it?” she said quietly.

The closet tipped vertiginously around you. You sank against the wall, stunned.

“How…?” you trailed off, stupefied. 

She smiled distantly. “Well, first of all, you’re not very subtle,” she said calmly. “You kept dropping these little hints about how I didn’t know him, and it was all very secretive, and I figured if he was just some random guy, then you wouldn’t need to be so coy. Also, the weekend you were gone, and all the evenings. You always came back from the parking lot, not one of the dorms. Plus, the gifts. No broke college student like us has money for all the things he gets you.” She smiled. “I just put two and two together.”

She was positively unruffled by this earth-shattering development. Your own nausea, trembling fear, slowly began to subside. She wasn’t going to tell. She just wanted you to know that she knew, and that you weren’t alone.

Still, you had to hear it from her.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” you said nervously. “Please. I don’t want him to lose his job. It-it was my fault, sort of. He doesn’t deserve that.”

The girl opposite you widened her eyes. “So you went after him?” she said. She sounded almost…impressed.

“Yes,” you said after a pause, allowing yourself a small smile.

“I won’t tell,” she added belatedly. “Of course I won’t. And I’m sorry you’re so upset about this, but I think it’ll be okay. You do kinda have an advantage, you know. Older man and all. He’s probably going to be really reasonable about the whole thing. And I know what you said, but older guys are not as horny as young ones, believe me. If he really likes you, he’ll be able to go without it for three months, I promise.”

You said her name admonishingly, acting playfully chagrined. But she was right, in her own plain-talking, notoriously reasonable way. 

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly feeling a rush of affection for her. You were going to miss her, you realized. She was terribly loyal and kind, and you hadn’t known it until the year was nearly over. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving your gratitude off dismissively. But as she got up, and you followed, willing blood back to your shaky, unused legs, she turned to you, a surprisingly earnest look in her eyes, dwarfed as they were by her thick frames.

“You’re a good kid,” she said. “He’s gotta be crazy for you. Just tell him what you’re feeling. It’ll be alright.”

☆✩☆

You meant to tell him the next time you saw him, you really did. But finals kept you both busier than expected throughout the week, and on the last day of your comparative religion class, your professor asked if you would meet him in his office afterwards. 

You played the dutiful student in the lecture hall, agreeing to the proposition demurely under fluttering lashes, but the lingering glances you both shared over the podium spoke to the hidden truth of your arrangement. You felt too giddy at the prospect of yet another office rendezvous-perhaps your last one in a long time, you thought soberly-that you decided to postpone the conversation. 

Now, you found it strange to be back in his office like this. You hadn’t seen the inside of it at all since you’d officially started dating. It wasn’t like there was any more need to fool around in there, not when you had the comfort and privacy of his home, his bedroom, an exclusivity and privilege granted to you that came with the territory and title of girlfriend.

But, if you were being honest with yourself, you kind of missed it. You loved being George’s girlfriend, and you were inordinately happy he was your boyfriend, and that you now had places you could go where the secret of your relationship did not have to be so carefully guarded. There was his house, of course, but there was also Ringo’s club and restaurants and shops and all the other uniquely “George” places he took you where you could just be yourselves; where your relationship to each other in such public places did not necessitate such precaution and care.

Yet his office was where all of this had started. Would it ever have turned into what it was now if he hadn’t called you here so fatefully; had that initial first encounter not taken place within these hallowed walls, these remarkably silent guardians that teemed with the knowledge of what you did within them.

And you couldn’t deny that there was something so hot about doing what you did in this space. There was a thrill that came with the covert grins and intentional turning of the lock, of the challenges from him to stay quiet, how he’d never fully undressed you in this place, opting instead to finger you or eat you out or let you suck his cock and get you as messy as he wanted you to be.

Now you stood at his desk, openly going through the books strewn about the chaotic surface, minding as he tutted and scolded whenever you turned over a loose sheet of paper or stapled stack of ’em. “Answer key,” he said once when you curiously flipped over one such unassuming piece, and you’d dropped it like it burned you.

He could’ve easily told you to knock it off, you were ruining his tenuous sense of organization, but he was heroically patient, barely sparing you a glance as he made you both tea. You flipped through a book complete with glossy pictures of Hindu gods, the text at once illegible, all academic jargon and full of religious complexities. 

“One such illustrious source I’m using. I’m writing something for a journal,” he said in explanation, handing you your tea. You thanked him, blowing on the steaming liquid before taking a small sip.

“About?” you inquired politely, smiling when he came up behind you and wrapped an arm around your waist, his hand massaging your hip gently. He was always mindlessly touching you like this-a hand on your arm here, fingers trailing up your thigh there. He didn’t mean it to entice, you’d come to learn. He just liked to feel you beneath his fingertips, it relaxed him somewhat, but the effect on you was almost always the same, the signs telltale to him: quickened breaths and raised hairs and, unbeknownst to him, a familiar coiling heat between your legs. No matter how innocuous, his touch-his presence-would forever be alluring and magnetic to you, able to turn you on at a moment’s notice.

Right now, you tried to stamp down the feelings of arousal, pertinent as they were with the gesture loaded with comfort and protection and strength. 

Still, it had been a while since you’d done anything like that here…

If George knew you were getting turned on, he didn’t show it. He just told you about the article, ever brilliant and succinct in his explanations, even as things got into headier, less comprehensive, much more specific arenas. You knew the basics thanks to his class and subsequent conversations with him, but the minutiae of religious studies as he’d devoted his professional life to were mostly lost on you.

You hummed when he was finished, glancing again at his messy desk. “So you’ve been busy this week, too,” you murmured.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Though I don’t envy your workload.”

“And who helped contribute to it, I wonder?” you teased, turning to him with a grin. 

He sneakily pinched your ass, and you couldn’t help but yelp, the surprising gesture as exciting as it was slightly painful. 

“Naughty girl,” George teased, his voice low in that familiar way. “Suppose this is the only time we can really see each other until after finals are done, yeah?” he continued in his normal tone.

You turned to him, and your breath caught at how close his handsome face was to yours. “Suppose so,” you giggled, adopting his Scouse accent playfully, or trying to. 

“Is that your attempt at me accent?” he rasped, amusement alighting his features. Your heart soared at that, at the rare, unrestrained joy on his face as he gazed at you.

“It’s an attempt,” you confirmed, still using your phony accent. 

George pinched you again, and to your absolute horror, your squeak in response suddenly melted into a bitten-off moan, the unexpected pleasure of the pain catching you completely off guard.

And George just stared at you in amazement, a smirk slowly turning up the corner of his mouth. 

“Was that a moan?” he questioned.

You bit your lip. “Maybe?” you said. 

Truth be told, you were mortified. But you forced yourself to keep his gaze, both of you silently stirring with this new development. George set his mug down to free up his other hand. He cupped your cheek, and surprised you by leaning in for a sweet, yet passionate, kiss.

Immediately he was biting at your bottom lip, and you moaned freely, gripping his strong shoulder through his jacket. 

“You like a little pain,” he growled against your lips, and you confirmed with a mewl, your little noises only increasing as he kissed down to your jaw, your neck, biting at the skin there until you were crying out and he was sure to leave a mark, moving over the offended area with a reconciliatory lave of his tongue. 

“Is that right?” George pressed, and before you could answer, he was boldly reaching up your skirt, adept fingers finding your panties and pushing them aside, only to be met with the warm wetness pooling at your slit.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned as you whimpered pathetically, staring up at him, utterly submissive to him in that moment. 

“Will you try something with me?” he said spontaneously, wiping his fingers on his jacket and smoothing your hair away from your face.

At those lovely words, the words you loved to hear, your heart sped up. You nodded quickly, seemingly too far gone for verbalization, but George prompted you with, “Words, sweet thing,” and then you forced out, “Yes, yes, anything.”

He let go of you then and stepped away to lock the door. It was happening, you thought giddily, and you cast your gaze to the desk in tremulous anticipation.

“Stay there,” George instructed softly. “And turn around.”

You obeyed, reaching out to hold the desk for support, already feeling wobbly, mind spinning at the sudden turn in events. Who knows how long you’d go without this? You meant it in the context of the insanity of finals, but the knowledge of the lengthy separation that loomed before you was sobering, nearly enough to snap you out of the playful reverie he’d imposed on you.

The sound of the lock turning in the door-which practically elicited a Pavlovian response in you at this point-made you come right back to where you were, shaking and wanting for him and whatever he had in store for you. 

George came up behind you, his footfalls audible even on the carpeting. Without warning a hand came around your throat, fingers wrapped tantalizingly around the sides, the barest threat of pressure in the heaviness of his palm on you alone. You let out a jagged breath, chest already heaving as you shook in place, waiting.

George leaned down and pressed his lips to the side of your face. It was less of a kiss and more of a messy drag of his parted mouth from your cheek to your jaw, his own breathing ragged as he made his way down to your neck, just before to where his fingers were, tipping your head back to lavish attention on your skin and do as he pleased there.

“Does that feel good?” he murmured as he made his way up to your ear, nipping at your earlobe and worrying it gently between his front teeth.

“Yes,” you gasped.

George stopped. He removed his hand from your throat before stepping away from you entirely. You quaked in place, confused, but bit your lip. Adrenaline ran through you at the possibilities, all the things he could do to you, what may come next, flooding your brain with tantalizing images.

Suddenly his open palm was splayed on your lower back, and he was pushing you down. You blushed but folded yourself for him, till you were bent over the desk entirely, your hands outstretched on the surface, turning your head so you rested your cheek on the cool wood, facing the bookshelf, vision going hazy with lust as George lifted your skirt up.

“You’re such a whore,” he said casually, and your stomach dropped pleasantly at the sudden degradation. You whined-much like a whore, you thought-and shook your ass at him a little, feeling playful. Yet the beginnings of a smile were wiped off your face when George gripped your asscheek and you moaned aloud. 

“D’you think you’re a whore?” asked George as he kneaded your ass. He sounded detached and ponderous, much as he did when he lectured. It was like it was nothing to him, how he bent you over his desk and called you nasty, mean names because he knew you loved it.

“I’m-I’m not a whore,” you whispered, face flaming.

All you got in response from George was a hum. His grip on your asscheek grew harder, more insistent, till it edged on pain. You wiggled your bottom into the touch, delighted at the shift in him, silently begging for more.

“This is what I wanna try,” murmured George, stepping outside the game momentarily, his voice rumbling and open and terribly vulnerable-sounding. “Wanna spank you over the desk. Is that okay?”

You gasped, a tiny sound that you tried in vain to muffle into the cherrywood surface beneath you. “Oh, George,” you said.

You felt him lean over you, his chest pushing deliciously into your back and inadvertently pressing you harder onto the desk. 

“Talk to me,” he whispered, his breath on your neck making you squirm. “Say the word and I’ll do it. Or tell me no and I’ll stop, promise, sweet girl.”

You turned to face him a little, closing your eyes when he placed a gentle kiss to your cheek.

“Only if you fuck me over it, too,” you bargained with a cheeky little grin.

George stood to his full height. His hand left your cheek, and you only had a moment to brace yourself before his open palm came down hard on it.

You squeaked in surprise, pain radiating out from where he made contact, but just as soon as you registered the sensation, so too did you recognize the shock to your clit, how the pressure so close to there had felt. 

You wanted more.

“I’ll ask you again,” George growled. “Say it. Say you’re a whore, sweet thing, for letting your professor spank you over his desk. Such a naughty little thing, letting him have his way with you, hm?”

For some reason, it was incredibly hot of him to refer to himself in the third person (and as your professor, no less). And more pressingly, you knew you were a whore for it, yes, took a sick pleasure in him referring to you as such, however affectionately or fantastically he may mean it, but you knew you wouldn’t get what you really wanted, that delightful punishment, if you didn’t have a bit of a mouth in return.

“I’m not,” you protested, and were duly rewarded with another slap, this one to the other cheek, and you bit your lip, forcing back the moan that threatened to escape.

“Hmm. Want to do this the hard way, is that it?” George said, and before you could open your mouth, he spanked you again, then again, and then again, all on the same cheek, alternating between meeting your skin upper-handedly or from above. You cried out throatily, nails scrambling against the wood of the desk, desperate for leverage as he punished you mercilessly.

“How many was that?” he said, sounding not a little winded.

“Three,” you supplied dutifully, ashamed at how each subsequent spank had gone straight to your clit. You prayed you weren’t soaking through your panties-not yet, at least.

“So you can do something right?” George said with a tsk. “And here I thought you were just a dumb little whore.”

“Oh my god,” you cried out. What was wrong with you? He was saying terrible things-acting so different from the affectionate way he doted on you in “real life”-but you loved it, you fucking loved it, and he knew it.

George massaged your abused cheek, and you pushed into his touch gratefully. 

“Okay?” he whispered then, and you smiled at his less-than-subtle breaking of character.

“Very good, thank you,” you returned, and he rewarded you with another spank, this time on the other cheek, and you moaned in response.

“Here’s what I’ll do,” George said. “I’m gonna make you count ’em. If you lose count, I start over. Got it?”

You rolled your eyes, even as you trembled in place in palpable excitement. “I won’t lose count.”

You could hear the smirk in George’s tone. “Are you sure, sweet thing?”

And then his hand came down on your asscheek, and you cried out. George’s other hand flew out to cover your mouth, ever mindful of the noise, of the illicit possibility of being caught. 

“You’ve got to be quiet, darling girl,” George cooed. 

He lifted his hand only when you nodded furiously, signaling that yes, you could be quiet. And when your mouth was uncovered, you whispered, “ One.”

“Good girl,” George praised. Then he spanked you again, and again, over and over again, alternating between cheeks until you were sure you were bright pink all over and your panties were sticking to you. You kept faithful count all the while, even as you bit your lip raw to keep from shrieking, the smarting, shocking pain never subsiding with each slap of his hand. The force of each hit was enough to push you up the desk at the impact, your clothed tits and side of your face smooshed up against the wood, rubbing along it as his open palm met your ass.

You got to fifteen before your knees gave out.

George caught you, holding you close by your hips, your upper half still bent over the desk. You could feel his hardness pressed against your clothed core, and you moaned at the delicious contact, pleasantly surprised. He was enjoying this, the show of strength, the complete dominance, as much as you were.

“I’m a whore,” you finally slurred, delirious with wanting, wantonly pressing your cunt up against his length, daring him to finally fuck you over the desk. “I’m a whore, I’m a whore, ’m sorry, sorry, fuckme please.”

George’s hand found your hair, and rather than pulling as he was wont to do, he instead caressed his fingers against your scalp, massaging your roots comfortingly. You moaned aloud, embarrassingly.

“You’re a good girl,” murmured George, his sweet words a direct contrast to the way he was pulling your panties to the side- finally, you wanted to breathe in relief-and undoing his belt and zipper with audible clicks and distinct mechanical noises. “You did so good for me, darling. Think it’s time I give you what you want, yeah?”

You nodded fiercely, sticking your ass out even further in your need to meet his cock. 

But he intended to make you wait and beg, your reward tantalizingly in sight but just out of reach. You waited in anticipation for the nudging of his cockhead against your core, maybe his fingers to prod you open and get you nice and wet and fluttering for him, but instead you only heard the telltale sound of him spitting in his hand and then his stuttering breath, quiet wet sounds behind you. He was stroking himself off to the sight of you bent over his desk, ass pink from his machinations, skirt up and panties pushed out of the way.

You squeaked in shock, flushing a thousand shades of crimson down to your collarbones. “G-George!” you cried out, humiliated but also so turned on, you’d never wanted it so badly in your life, even as he openly objectified you and got off on it.

“Beg for it,” he gasped out, speeding up, if the sounds behind you were anything to go by. “Beg for my cock, sweet girl.”

“I want your cock,” you said immediately, burrowing your face in the hard surface of his desk, any bit of reprieve from the spectacle and humiliation, no matter how uncomfortable, a welcome sanctuary. “Please, George, just fuck me, I’ve been so good!”

George murmured disapprovingly. “Come on now,” he chastised. “You can do better than that. Haven’t you crawled to suck me off before? C’mon and beg like a little whore. I know you’ve got it in you.”

“Oh, George,” you mewled, suddenly overwhelmed with welling emotion, not just wanting and lust and shame and subjugation but also the stress of the week rolling off of you at once, and the looming deadline that bore with it a heavy unacknowledged weight for both of you. You were going to miss this, you realized, these office rendezvouses, and you hadn’t realized how important they were to you, and how you cherished George for allowing you to unlock such a deeply vulnerable side of yourself for him. 

But mostly you were just going to miss him, everything about him, and the uncertainty of whether or not he would still want you in the midst of a lengthy separation panged at your heart anew. 

You abruptly burst into tears.

“Stop,” you said, scrambling to pull your skirt down. “Please stop,” you added, your voice small.

George hesitated behind you, perhaps unsure of what was real and what was part of the game, but he snapped into action after a moment, helping you right yourself and then holding you close to his chest, all your weight leaning against him.

“I’m sorry,” you said impulsively, sniffling as you cried. “I’m sorry, George, I meant to tell you, I’m sorry, but I’m just gonna m-miss you so much, and I didn’t want to mention it and r-ruin the mood but I don’t know what to do, I’m so worried you’re not gonna-not gonna want to be with me ’nd do long distance-”

“Slow down, now,” George murmured, holding you close, running his hand through your hair comfortingly as you cried. “What didn’t you want to tell me? What are you feeling? Is it something I did just now? Did I hurt you?”

“No-no, no, it was wonderful,” you assured him. “It f-felt good.” You whooshed out a breath, clinging tightly to him. You glanced up, tearstained face and all, and your heart skipped a beat at your handsome, gentle man staring down at you, such a contrast from the almost frighteningly dominant persona he’d just adopted. Looking up at him now, you realized that was the George you knew; the George you cared for.

And the way he looked at you…well, you could almost describe it as lovingly.

“It’s about the summer,” you sniffled finally, composing yourself enough to somewhat regain coherence. “I…we’re not gonna see each other all summer, George. Have you thought about that at all? I’m going home, and you’re staying here, and I just…what are we gonna do? And I guess…I know what I want, but I’m just not sure that it’s what you want.”

George stared down at you questioningly. “What do you mean?” he said slowly, confused but not unkind.

You blinked. “I thought…” You swallowed hard. “I guess I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to be with me anymore. Since we won’t be together. And I suppose since you won’t technically be my professor anymore…I don’t know, maybe the appeal will be gone for you.”

George narrowed his eyes. “Will it be gone for you?” he asked.

“No!” you insisted. “Of course not. I l-” Your breath caught in your throat. Too soon, too soon, you thought, your heart pounding. 

You had almost let slip those three special words, words that had grown more and more resonant with you and your feelings for George as of late.

“I care about you,” you amended finally. “So much. I still want to be with you. I’m…it’s stupid, but I guess I just got worried maybe you wouldn’t want to. Because of being away from each other, but also because of that, maybe.”

The ghost of a smile flitted across George’s lips, though it did not fully reach his eyes. He brushed your hair away from your face, cupped your cheek tenderly.

“I care about you, too,” he asserted. “And I still want to be with you, too. Who cares if we just have to write letters for a bit? It’s not forever, sweet girl. Just till the fall.”

You nodded, feeling quite silly suddenly. “Just till the fall,” you repeated, pulling absentmindedly at a loose string on his jacket, cheeks growing warm at your little show of emotion. You wanted to offer empty, anxious apologies, but George was tipping your chin up so you looked into his eyes again, those dark wells of intensity and emotion, reflections of the depths of his soul. 

“You know you can tell me anything, darling,” George said gently. “If you’re ever feeling sad or upset or worried about something, just tell me. Even if I’m just being a bit of a dick, tell me. It’s better than keeping it in like this. I don’t like seeing my special girl so sad.”

You warmed at the designation. His special girl, you thought, turning the words over till they were seared into your brain.

“I will next time,” you promised. “I’m sorry."

George chuckled. “Silly girl,” he murmured affectionately. He hugged you tightly, placing a kiss on your hairline.

With him as close as he was, you could feel that his hardness had subsided a bit, though it was still perceptible against your hip. You reached for him, and his soothing little hum bled into a surprised hiss when you began jerking him off through layers.

“Still want it, is that it?” he rasped against your hair, bucking his hips into your touch, shamelessly chasing the feeling.

“Mm, I’m not the only one,” you giggled. You looked up at him, breath catching at how close his face was to yours. 

“Kiss me,” you gasped, squeezing his erection a bit, and he growled and leaned down and met your mouth in a furious, open mouthed kiss. 

His tongue slipped into your mouth immediately, and it was messy, with your lips moving and tongues pressing against each other, and all the while you jacked him off faithfully. The games from earlier, as lovely as they had been, were forgotten as passion consumed both of you and suddenly George’s once-deliberate movements were absconded by a newfound urgency, a need to have you as quickly as possible, kissing you hard till you couldn’t breathe, pulling at your clothes desperately.

“Take your fucking top off before I rip it,” growled George. You were quick to comply, breaking away from his lips to pull it over your head and letting it fall to the ground. George surprised you then by unclasping your bra expertly, and your shock was quickly replaced with pleasure when he kissed down your body messily to capture your breast in his mouth, toying with your nipple with his teeth. 

You threw your head back, trying desperately not to moan aloud at the feeling, wonderful as it was. He’d never done this before in here, not without some form of layers in the way.

Eventually, though, after George worshiped your bare breasts where you stood braced against the desk long enough, you were whining and pleading for him to hurry up and fuck me. He was all too eager to obey, ridding you of your skirt but leaving your panties on, maybe because he liked the lacy blue fabric, how it was visibly darkened at the crotch, how it looked against your skin, how dirty it felt to push it aside to make way for his cock. You didn’t fucking know. You just needed him, you thought, as your lips found his again and he hiked your leg up around his waist, holding on to him even as he quickly undid his belt and zipper and pulled his cock out again. He was noticeably clothed compared to your nakedness but you couldn’t really find it in yourself to be self conscious, not when you needed him so badly.

George fetched a condom from his pocket then, feigning nonchalance as he slipped it on, but you could only gape at him. 

“You planned this,” you accused him gleefully.

George just smirked cheekily at you, leaning down to kiss you again.

“And you didn’t?” he murmured, backing you up towards the desk again.

You could forget about what had happened earlier, what had made you so sopping wet that George barely bothered with stretching you out with his fingers, desperate as he was to get his cock inside you. Yet your body still bore reminders of it. He backed you up against the desk til your ass was pressed up to it and you hissed unwittingly.

“Sore?” George said against your lips, and you could hear the grin in his voice.

“You asshole,” you groaned, all bite out of your voice, and George laughed aloud, body shaking with mirth. “You owe me!” you insisted, but you couldn’t help but giggle, too. He’d done a number on you, and it made you inordinately giddy and not a little turned on.

“I’ll take you out sometime,” he promised, finally breaking away from your lips to help you shuffle into a more comfortable position, pushing whole stacks of paper and books off his desk to your utter amusement, making room for you as you stretched out on your back on the surface. “Buy you something pretty to wear.”

“Mm, that sounds good,” you giggled, wrapping your legs around his waist, silently urging him forward, groaning when he took his time stroking himself and teasing your clit with the head of his cock.

“Please, George, fuck me already,” you sighed. “I’ve waited so long, please. Been a good little whore.”

“No, you’re my good girl,” George corrected, and to your absolute relief he began to push inside, making you throw your head back against the desk, whining lavisciously at the stretch, the immediate fullness the most incredible feeling after everything.

“Such a good girl,” George repeated, growling, as he pushed all the way in, and you mewled, even as he shushed you, ever mindful of the noise, always careful not to get caught, your sweet responsible man. 

But you were losing your mind a little bit, at how he filled you so perfectly, how your cunt clenched and gushed around him and tried to hold him in even deeper. You urged him to move, digging your ankles into his back. That got his attention. Growling animalistically, George slid out and slammed back into you, his thrusts punishing, hard enough to swiftly kick all the air from your lungs.

You did your best to stay quiet, but it was nearly impossible, what with how laid bare you felt, completely at his mercy as he fucked you over the desk. You loved this position, this angle, how quickly he found the spot inside that made your eyes roll back, mouth opening but no sound leaving, how could you when you were so fucking overwhelmed with euphoria.

And you loved watching your man as he fucked you. He was usually so intense, always keeping eye contact when you fucked even when you blushed and had to look away, but now he was preoccupied with the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you and then reappearing, flushed and soaked with your nectar. His gaze kept flicking up to your breasts, too, how they moved with each thrust, how you were only rooted in place by his grip on your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. 

George placed a hand on your lower stomach. At first you were confused, but then he let out a guttural groan and sped up, fucking into you even harder and faster and you realized he could feel himself through your skin, the head of his cock pressed up against your walls and just barely perceptible through fat and muscle. 

You moaned, biting your lip and restraining yourself in the same instant-damn these thin walls-but that was the price to pay for achieving this fantasy, that which had haunted you and all your horny self indulgent wet dreams since the moment you’d met and fallen for him: him fucking you over the desk like this, professor and student, domination and submission, everything that made you weak.

Except this was different, so much different from how you’d pictured it would go. George fucked you, and it was amazing, wonderful, the best feeling in the world, especially when his thumb found your clit and you had to bite your hand, tears smarting your eyes at the intensity of the feeling combined with his cockhead hitting your g-spot repeatedly. But this was not the dichotomy you’d expected, not merely a vague dirty fantasy realized. This was flesh and blood reality, and the reality was that George was not just fucking you, not just an mindless animal driving into you seeking completion, as primal and passionate as his actions were. No, there was an attention and care and yes, vulnerability in how he would not meet your eyes, how he murmured something under his breath, and you realized as his hips stuttered and rolled, between gasps for you to “Cum, please cum pretty girl, ’m so close,” there was love there for you, too.

He loved you, and he was making love to you, and he wanted you to know, because who knows how long until you would get to do this again? Just till fall, George had said, but that was like an eternity, the idea of going without this-of going without his love, for that long.

And the realization, hitting you with the force of a great wave, was enough to tip you over the edge and make you cum with a cry.

“G-George!” you cried, gasping his name as your orgasm rolled through you, waves upon waves of endless pleasure, never wanting it to end, and in your mindlessness you could only repeat what you truly felt.

“I love you. I love you. I love you!”

George was cumming, too, slamming his hips against yours hard, the force of his orgasm making his rhythm stutter and still altogether as he tried in vain to ride it out. 

He collapsed on top of you, bracing against the desk and holding himself up on his forearms. He found your lips immediately, and you kissed him breathlessly, fingers finding his hair and pulling.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he moaned when you pulled away. He looked down at you, utterly content, a lazy smile dawning across his face. “I love you, too.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You had known it to be true just from how lovingly he’d fucked you- made love to you, you corrected-but hearing the words aloud took you aback.

“It’s true,” you said quickly. “I k-know it’s soon, and I’m very, um, emotional right now, but I mean it. I love you, and I wanted you to know it, George.”

“I know,” George replied, tracing your bottom lip with a thumb. “I’m glad you told me, sweet girl. I’ve…I’ve felt the same way for a while now, too.” 

You smiled at him, feeling shy in spite of everything, and he returned the expression. He laid a palm over your bare breast, your thrumming heart. You were suddenly reminded of an old poem: I carry your heart with me.

You carried his heart with you now. He loved you, and you loved him, and so you would each carry one another’s hearts along through the summer, that long separation. You would never truly be away from him, not when you had his love to keep you company and hold you close. 

He was still sheathed inside you, and you were a sweaty, naked mess atop his desk. You had places to be, finals to study for. And move out day was in a week, and then summer would begin. All you wanted to do was stay here, to prolong this lovely moment on the desk with him forever.

Because he loved you, and you loved him, and to you, that was all that mattered.