5000 words, so 15-20 minutes to read.
Genre is solidly FemDom. It’s about a sexy genius and the unraveling of a rigid-minded male.
It’s nearly all build-up and psychological tension, rather than constant sex-scenes. But I like the structure this way; there’s a payoff worth the tension.
There’s a little foot-stuff at the end, but only because that works with the story; I claim you don’t have to be a foot-fetishist to enjoy it (but you do have to like FemDom).
If you read it through, I would love if you leave a comment.
The Physics Student
I’ve always said it doesn’t hurt to give the new students a bit of a scare. “Quantum Mechanics is not for the faint of heart,” I began. “It demands precision, dedication, and an unyielding intellect. I am Professor Alan Hemsworth. Let’s begin.”
There’s nowhere I like more than the lecture hall. It’s a realm free from distractions, a place for rigour. My little kingdom. I looked out and counted thirty young men looking back at me. No women this year. Perfect. Girls rarely last the semester. They lack the cold clarity physics requires.
I banged through Schrödinger’s equations. I don’t like to waste time. Physics has no room for laggards. Get it first time or fail.
I had only fifteen minutes of this bliss, until my class was interrupted by the sound of the door. I hate latecomers.
She was no older than nineteen, blonde, and dressed like she was coming from the gym. Probably yoga, or Pilates or whatever nonsense girls do. Booty shorts, and a sports bra that compressed her chest. She was chewing gum, bubbles popping between her lips as she sauntered to her seat. Unacceptable.
The class turned in unison, some openly gawking. The atmosphere in my lecture hall was destroyed. I waited for her apology. None came. Entitled young bitches these days – too used to getting their own way.
“Young Miss, I expect punctuality in this course. If you cannot respect my time, you do not belong here.”
She glanced at me, said nothing, then pulled out her phone and began scrolling. I returned to the Schrödinger equations. But her bare skin was pulling me and her casual disregard was getting under my skin. Focus, I commanded myself. I am a man of discipline, and she is nothing. A distraction. A nuisance.
She stretched her arms overhead with a lazy yawn, as if bored by my class. Her youthful tits pressed forward against the sports bra, the toned muscles rippling, making me forget where I was. I was irritated, that was all. She never looked up from her phone.
It was 9:22 when the door opened.
Abbie walked in. No apology. No hurry. Below a top that barely contained her breasts were ribs and muscles screaming fitness. Her hipbones were visible above low-waisted jeans. The room went quiet.
God, the smoothness of her skin, I bet it feels like butter.
“Miss…” my mouth was a bit dry. “You’re late.”
“Yes.”
“There’s a dress code. That’s… not appropriate.”
The other students were openly staring.
Abbie tilted her head. “It’s hot.” She didn’t apologise. Didn’t so much as adjust her top.
“I… yes. It is.” I hated how weak my voice was. “You need to… cover up.”
The students were watching us. Waiting.
“Please,” I said. I’d meant it as politeness; to my annoyance it came out sounding like a plea.
She smiled a slow, knowing smile. “Ok, Professor. For you.”
She pulled a thin cardigan from her bag and slipped it on. Her fingers were slow over the buttons as she fastened them. She was still looking at me.
“Better?” she asked.
“Yes. Thank you.”
My irritation was becoming a grudge. Abbie attended barely half my lectures. When she did appear, she was late, sliding in with casual entitlement. Her wardrobe was a rotating display of gym-lycra and clubwear: tight leggings, crop tops, dresses that she hadn’t changed since going out last night. Typical woman. Spends more time looking good than studying.
I looked through the rulebooks for a grounds to expel her. But she hadn’t officially broken the rules. I had been lying when I said there’s an official dress-code. That’s not the point. She was a provocation. A symbol of everything wrong with letting women into a man’s world. It enraged me. I kept my face to the board to focus on science, to stop my eyes drifting to her, to the way she stretched, arching her back during derivations.
I was explaining energy spectrum calculations. Abbie was applying gloss to her full lips. Slow, deliberate strokes. She smacked those lips together. The sound was small but precise, cutting through my lecture. Annoyance gripped my chest — it wasn’t just the noises of her pouty lips, it was the ease with which she was always able to break my concentration on my life’s work: physics.
Enough! Time to show her this is serious.
“Miss,” I used the sharp voice, the one I use when I want to silence the room. The other students snapped up. Abbie looked at me languidly and raised her eyebrows, “What is the first phase of eigensolver algorithms?”
I’d been looking forward to this moment. I folded my arms, smiling in anticipation of a mumbled “I don’t know.” She’ll probably start crying. Women always cry when forced to engage with mathematics without hand-holding.
Abbie looked back to her make-up mirror, and said in a bored tone, “Okay, so like, the algorithm’s got two phases. First phase is Householder reduction. You apply, like, a set of similarity transformations to the input matrix to get it into Hessenberg form. That basically, like reduces dense symmetric and Hermitian matrices to tridiagonal form, or to, like, upper Hessenberg form in general nonsymmetric cases.”
She glanced up, blinking lazily. “Did you want the second phase too, or…?”
A few students exchanged glances. They looked impressed.
I said something, I forget what, about that being right, and turned back to the blackboard like I needed it for safety. I’d get her next time.
We were in the middle of a heatwave, so Abbie was wearing a sundress, a beautiful one. Thin pink-and-white fabric flashed around her toned thighs as she sauntered in late as usual.
Focus, Hemsworth! I forced myself onwards. Where was I? “Non-perturbative effects in Yang–Mills theory are suppressed by the exponential factor e(-1/g^2). This allows us to calculate —”
“Oh my God,” Abbie interrupted, “Like, no?”
My body stiffened. I tried my best glare on her, one practiced over years of putting young folk in their place. “Miss, if you have something to contribute —”
“Uh, hello?” she said, her voice incredulous. “That function only works in regimes where instanton-like effects dominate. Sometimes other non-perturbative phenomena — like confinement-related dynamics — dominate, so you get situations that are, like, non-Borel summable?”
Whispers erupted across the room. A few students snickered. Others looked stunned.
How dare she? I tried to stare her down, but she was back to scrolling her phone, utterly unbothered.
I forced my voice into icy control. “That is correct, Miss,” I grimaced, “But I expect you to raise your hand before interjecting.”
“Oh, like, sorry?”
What else could I throw back at her? There was nothing. I could sense the amusement of the students, the shift in the room’s energy. They were watching a show. I felt tension in my neck. This was turning into the worst semester in years.
Women don’t belong in my classes. This young bitch was proof. The audacity of thinking she could correct my physics in front of everyone! I should have gotten back to teaching, but my mind re-ran the exchange three or four times. Had I actually said “That is correct, Miss” Fuck. I regretted adding the ‘Miss’. She might take that the wrong way: as respect.
Abbie was wearing an outfit she picked to provoke me, I was certain of that. It was a leather miniskirt so short it barely covered her thighs, paired with a fuzzy tiny top that her ample breasts stretched off her taut ribcage. She had probably come straight from the club, her blonde hair tousled, her lips still bearing last night’s gloss.
Stop looking, man. Physics is my refuge. My world. The distractions of women can’t reach me there. “Entanglement entropy in gapped quantum field theory,” I went on, “follows an area law in 1+1 dimensions…”
Abbie flinched. She seemed shocked out of her boredom.
“Uh, like, obvi it’s not just an area law?” she said. “In 1+1 dimensions, a gapped system has an area-law for entanglement, but the subleading corrections? Hello? They’re like, necessary terms. And the universal terms? They only vanish for certain phases, duh. And if it’s critical — like, gapless — then you get logarithmic corrections. Like, hello?”
Silence.
One guy in the front row gasped “Damn” under his breath.
My chest tightened as if an animal was being tortured in it. She was right. Again.
I watched her, the way her top clung to her chest with every lazy breath.
Distracting.
Infuriating.
Impossible to ignore.
I stood behind the podium, my place of power, the prow of my ship. Abbie was in her usual seat in the third row, a bimbo in a sea of nerds. She wore a tight white blouse — two buttons undone, her breasts visibly held up by a purple lace bra. My train of thought got wrecked every time I looked.
“The two formulations are mathematically equivalent,” I said, “so we can assume they agree at this intermediate step.”
“No.”
Her voice cut through the room like a blade.
I turned, expecting to see her phone in hand, but for once she was looking directly at me. No malice. No triumph. Just a calm certainty and something that looked like pity.
“Ghost handling,” Abbie said slowly, as if explaining to a child, “means two formulations that algebraically are like, ‘We’re equivalent’ can have intermediate steps that are like, ’nope’, because each formulation interacts with the ghost mechanism differently.” She tilted her head. “Surely you know this, Professor?”
“She’s right,” I told the class. The words were bitter in my mouth. “Again.”
The students at the back whispered. I caught fragments. “Owned.” “Dumbass.”
My hands shook. I realised I was no longer just annoyed. I was intimidated.
I had to break her.
I had trouble sleeping that night.
Her stupid girly voice. Her fucking arrogance. The way her lips seemed in a permanent pout. The way the students laughed. Laughing at me. The way she looked at me — like I was something she had broken and was deciding whether to keep. Fantasies paraded before my shut eyes: Abbie lifting that leather skirt. Me on my knees. Begging. Abbie whispering that if I want to keep looking, I have to earn it with my tongue.
There was only one way to make the nightmares go away. I had to do it three times before they calmed enough that I could sleep.
Abbie’s outfit was as close to appropriate as it got: a cashmere sweater that would be suitable only it was three sizes too small so it hugged her breasts, like balloons under wool. Her hair was down. The guys behind her were already grinning, waiting for the show.
“The procedure here,” I said, “is to calculate in Euclidean signature and then Wick-rotate back. This avoids certain singularities –”
“Wrong.”
I didn’t even have to look up. I knew the voice. I looked anyway.
“Uh, like, poles and branch cuts in the complex plane?” she said. “They can, like, obstruct naive Wick rotation. The contour choice is, like, super important. You can get, like, different answers for the physical observable depending on how you, like, deform the contour.” She paused. “So, like, you can’t just assume it works, hello?”
The guys behind her laughed. Quietly. Cruelly.
Looking down, I noticed my knuckles had whitened on the podium – as if my body was trying to get a grip on the room. I wanted to snap at her. But what ground did I have? “Oh, sorry. We need to be careful with analytic continuation. Thank you, Abbie.”
I couldn’t believe I’d just said that. I turned my face to the board. My hands were shaking so badly the chalk wobbled.
She didn’t knock. Just opened the door and stood there, leaning against the doorframe, a form-fitting miniskirt revealing the black fishnets above thigh-high boots. A purple leather top hugged her curves, the deep V plunging low. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, her lips painted dark red, her eyes bright with carefree joie-de-vivre. I felt the breath leave my body.
The curl of her lips showed that she fucking knew. She knew the effect she had on me.
She sat. Not in the chair. On the edge of my fucking desk. Her legs looked so tanned, toned and endless. If I had the courage, I could reach out and touch them. It was only a few inches.
“Tell me what you want, Professor.”
“The dress code….” I started.
“Is stupid,” she finished. “And you don’t actually want me to follow it.”
“Your appearance, Miss. It’s —”
“My appearance is amazing,” she said. “Why shouldn’t I flaunt it? Everyone loves it.” She paused, let her eyes travel across my face. “Especially you.”
My ears went hot. “I…. uh… I have no idea what you’re implying.”
Abbie tilted her head, her blonde hair cascading over one shoulder like liquid gold. “Oh, Professor,” she purred, bouncing her ass on my desk, “You love me dressed like this.” She gestured at her chest. “Don’t pretend you don’t. We both know it.”
I stared idiotically. Her chest strained against the purple leather when she leaned forward, her cleavage on obscene display.
“Abbie —”
“I’m not going to dress down because you can’t handle my heat. That’s your problem. Not mine.”
I couldn’t lie. Not to her. Not when she was looking at me like that.
I changed tack. I leaned back in the chair, my fingers steepled, trying to look professorial. “Your attendance is deplorable, Miss,” I said, “You’re always late. You miss entire lectures. How do you expect to pass this course?”
Abbie tilted her head, her blonde hair cascading over one shoulder, “Like, hello? What was my last test score?”
“One hundred percent.”
She laughed, a sound like shattered glass. “Duh. So like, that’s how I pass.” She giggled, her cleavage bouncing with the movement. My pulse spiked.
I was angry. “You think this is a joke? Why have you missed six entire lectures?”
“I was busy having fun babe. It’s college.”
“My last lecture, for example,” I demanded, “Why were you late?”
Abbie’s grin turned wicked. She bit her lower lip, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Oooh! I was making one of my boyfriends go down on me,” she purred. “It was soooo good I lost track of time.” She rolled her shoulders in the sensuality of the memory, making her chest strain against the leather. “I still got the last half of your lecture, so what’s the big deal?”
What the fuck had this Jezebel just said? My hands clenched into fists, the fingernails digging into my palms. She was disgusting. I was hard. I’m sure she knew.
Abbie looked down at me from her perch on the desk, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Professor babe?” she prompted, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “You said there was something else you wanted to raise in office hours?”
“Yes…uh…” There had been something else? What was it? The dress code, the lateness. “There’s also the…. uh…”
She helped: “You’re mad at me for always correcting you in class.”
“Yes. Yes, that was it! It’s undermining me.”
“Then stop being wrong.”
She wasn’t loud. Just stating correct facts, the same way she corrected me on ghost handling. Like I was the student.
“I’m not going to let you teach false information just to protect your ego. You should be thanking me.”
“You are nineteen years old!” I bristled.
“You’re forty-four, Professor babe, and you keep sneaking glances at my tits during lectures.” She smiled. “We all have our weaknesses. I’m making you better. I’m ensuring the class learns physics right.”
I had no counter. I had protected my beliefs for years — beliefs about who belongs, who deserves respect, who gets to be right. Those beliefs were under attack. I was a tenured professor, and this nineteen-year-old was daring to challenge my authority, to simply be right about physics. And I was losing.
My composure shattered. My voice trembled with rage, my usual precision submerged in chaos, “You don’t understand! This is about more than attendance! It’s about more than grades! It’s about respect!” My chest heaved. “You undermine me! In front of them all!”
She stared blankly for a second. Then she burst out laughing — a bright, unguarded sound that filled the small office. She arched her back, letting the movement emphasize the parts of her I’d been trying not to notice.
“Oh my god,” she squealed. “This isn’t about class at all! This is about your little male feelings!” She leaned forward, her cleavage at eye level, her voice dripping. “You KNOW I’ve done nothing wrong, but you’re upset because I’m right and you’re wrong? You seriously want me to stop being right about physics just coz it hurts your ego? That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!”
I hid my face from her. Abbie laughed in fits.
She didn’t stop. She leaned in again, her voice dripping with incredulity. “You’re, like, obsessed with me, aren’t you? You stare at my tits. You get flustered when I correct you. And now you’re angry because I won’t pretend to care about your feelings. That’s literally so embarrassing for you.”
Every word landed like a dart.
Her breath was warm against my ear. “Just how obsessed are you, Professor? Do you spend your nights thinking about me? Fantasising about me? Are you up all night thinking about me? I don’t think about you at all. To me, you’re just a grumpy old man I see twice a week.”
I couldn’t answer. My mouth was dry. Yes. I fantasise every night. After every lecture. In the shower. Lying in bed at 2a.m., staring at the ceiling, replaying that moment when you smacked your lips and I….
“Do you fantasise about me making you do things?”
She pulled back. Her eyes locked onto mine. Unblinking. Burning. “You don’t have to answer out loud,” she whispered, “I can read minds.”
I jerked back.
“It’s wild,” she said, straightening up. “The stuff you imagine. And you call me inappropriate.”
She walked to the door. She was terminating the conversation. “Let me be right when I’m right,” she said, “Let yourself enjoy how much you want me.” She smoothed her skirt. “See you Thursday. I’ll wear something nice.”
Futile scraps of paper were scattered around our staff room. The whiteboard was a graveyard of equations, half-erased and scribbled over in frantic handwriting.
Three colleagues — Müller, Chen, and Park — sat in worn armchairs, their coffee cups empty.
I circled the cluster of equations I thought was key to the problem. “We’ve been modeling measurement events as projective measurements within the Relational Quantum Mechanics framework. It works beautifully for these ideal cases.”
“But it ends there. Generalized quantum measurements, detector measurements, unsharp observables… they don’t map onto projective updates between relative states. The formalism either blows up or requires extra assumptions that violate the relational spirit of Rovelli’s theory.”
I stood up, shoving my chair back and banging the desk in frustration.
Chen leaned forward. “Have you tried representing POVMs as projective measurements on an extended system? Naimark dilation?”
“Of course. But then the ‘relative’ part becomes ambiguous — whose system is the ancilla relative to? You lose the core ontology of RQM.”
Park tapped his mug. “What about assigning measurement outcomes to relative facts only after post-selection?”
“RQM isn’t supposed to need post-selection,” Müller muttered. “That’s as bad as doing many-worlds with extra steps.”
I gesticulated meaninglessly. “Exactly. Every path I try either breaks the relational interpretation or reduces it to something it’s not. I’ve been at this for six months.”
Silence. Chen scratched his chin. Müller stared at the board.
“Maybe…” Müller started, then stopped. “No, that doesn’t work.”
“The POVM elements could be interpreted as,” Chen said slowly, “subjective ignorance of the observer’s internal state?” He shook his head. “No, that smuggles in hidden variables.”
Park sighed. “What if the measurement apparatus itself is treated as a relational system undergoing a continuous interaction rather than a discrete event? Like a thermodynamic limit where projectiveness emerges?”
It was interesting. I considered it. “No, then the model becomes intractable.”
Another long silence.
I erased a section of the board. I slumped back.
“I’ve published forty papers. Thousands of citations. But if I can’t solve this generalization problem, it will block my career. The next grant. The promotion. Everything.”
Müller looked at me with something like pity. “Maybe the problem isn’t the math, Alan. Maybe RQM just can’t do generic measurements.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The room felt heavy with doubt. The equations on the board taunted me, their solutions just out of reach. Six months of this. My career was on the line. My legacy. The silence stretched.
Chen stared at his coffee. Park found something fascinating in the ceiling tiles. Müller’s mouth opened, closed, opened again.
For the first time in my career, I felt like giving up. “Say it,” I snapped. “Whatever it is you’re dancing around.”
Müller exchanged a glance with Chen. A silent conversation passed between them. Chen gave a tiny, reluctant nod.
“There is someone,” Müller said carefully.
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard who —”
“No. I know exactly who you’re about to suggest. And the answer is no.”
“The student. The one you haven’t shut up about for months.”
There had to be another way.
Dr. Chen pressed on. “She’s right every time, you keep saying it. If anyone can see what we’re missing, it’s her.”
The idea was insulting. Humiliating. But the equations stared back at me, the frustration in them clawing at my eyes.
Müller shifted uncomfortably. “Alan. If she has the solution —”
I spun around. “You want me to ask her for HELP?” My laugh came out bitter. “You want me to beg that — that bitch — to save me? She’s arrogant. She’s insolent. She’s a WOMAN. She has no place in our world. What if she does solve it? She’ll hold it over me forever. I’ll never have authority in that classroom again. Every lecture, every office hour, she’ll know that I had to crawl to her for help.”
No one spoke.
“And what if she doesn’t?” I continued, “What if she can’t solve it either? Then I’ve humiliated myself for nothing. I’ve shown weakness. I’ve confirmed everything she thinks about me. I’ve spent my entire career building a reputation. And now you want me to grovel to a teenage girl to save it?”
Park walked to the door, “Your career is on the line. Pride or progress. Pick one.”
The door swung shut.
I stared at the ruined equations. The dead ends. Six months of circling the same drain. I knew, with a cold clarity that made my stomach drop, that she probably could solve it.
There she was — Abbie — lounging on the grass like a queen holding court, a pleated miniskirt bouncing as she laughed with her friends, her tiny top clinging to her curves. The guys hovered near her, their voices eager, their admiration obvious.
She is so beautiful, I thought irrelevantly. Her skirt flashed around her smooth thighs as she spoke animatedly, enjoying the sun on her skin. I felt like an alien landing from a planet of tweed and prestige.
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt my teeth. I walked up, stopped just short of her little circle. Their laughter died. The guys straightened up, their postures shifting from casual to wary. Abbie tilted her head, her smirk already forming as she looked up at me.
“My favourite professor!” she drawled, popping a chip into her mouth. “This is, like, a surprise.”
I ground it out: “I need your help.”
Abbie’s eyes gleamed. “Boys,” she smiled, “Give us a sec.” She waved her admirers away.
She didn’t hide that she was savouring the moment. “YOU need MY help? Mmmm. Say it again for the archives.”
“I’m stuck.”
“Oh. Oh, wow.” A slow smile spread across her face. “You actually came to me for help. I mean, I psychically sensed you would, but still. Big moment.”
“Abbie… this is already difficult enough —”
“Ok, ok, I’m being mean. Sorry not sorry.” She swiveled to face me fully. “You look terrible, by the way. Your cortisol levels are, like, off the charts. You should try those breathing apps.”
“Can we —” My voice caught. My eyes snagged for the millionth time on her cleavage. “Can we focus?”
I rushed it out: “It’s a problem in Relational Quantum Mechanics. The measurements, the orthogonal projections on a Hilbert space, they can’t be calculated as positive operator-valued measures.”
She listened. It was the first time she had actually listened to me. Her smirk faded.
“You’re desperate,” she said quietly. “Like, not just annoyed. Actually desperate.”
She exhaled, “I’ll fix it for you, Professor babe.”
Relief and humiliation crashed through me in one wave.
“But I’ve got to run now. And I’m not doing it in your stuffy office with the ‘World’s Okayest Physicist’ mug. I can schedule you in later”
I flinched. She was ‘scheduling’ me?
“The Hot Box on Bishop Street,” she said. “I’m there every day at five.”
“I have office hours at five —”
She picked up her book-bag. “Five p.m. The Hot Box. I’ll give you thirty minutes. Bring the math, not the ego.”
“I’ll be there,” I forced out.
“Good boy. And Professor? I don’t tolerate lateness.”
She flicked her wrist to dismiss me. Her friends rushed back to her like moths to a flame. It was a long, suffocating moment I stood there. I turned and walked away, eyes pressed shut in humiliation, breathing deliberately to calm myself.
Five PM. The Hot Box. Must be a café.
*The Hot Box*. Of course. I hate saunas, always have. The receptionist explained politely that I was required to strip naked. The air was suffocating, thick with steam that clung to my skin and stung my eyes.
I stepped inside, coughing in the steam. It took me a while to see through it. Abbie sat on the top cedar bench, her body gleaming under the dim red light. Bronzed. Glistening. Toned. Naked. She glistened with sweat, droplets tracing the taut muscles of her abs. Her blonde hair was piled messily atop her head, damp strands clinging to her neck.
Beads of steam and sweat beaded her perky breasts, the breasts that had never quite left my thoughts for months. I’d stared at them through every lecture, through the lycra tops, the tight sweaters, the clubwear. I had imagined them naked for months. Imagined it at nights. And now — here they were in all their glory. Reality better than fantasy.
My cock, conditioned by months of late night fantasies, hardened in tribute to my nemesis. There was nothing to hide it. No chance. She smiled down at me from her perch. Her eyes lingered on my cock and flicked back to my face. The look in them was kind indulgence.
The heat was unbearable. I never understood why people like saunas. Colleagues at University of Copenhagen made me try them; I hated them then and I hate them now. But I panted through it, struggling to breathe, finding no relief from the heat. I needed my answer. Get it and get out. The heat oppressed my lungs as I started to climb to the bench next to her. She interrupted.
“Nuh-uh, little man. You can’t handle my level of heat.” She gestured to the bench below her. “The hottest are on top; that’s basic physics. You better sit down there.”
Anything that will reduce the heat, I’ll do. I obeyed and took my seat beneath her, my head tilted up at her parted legs.
“Listen, Alan, babe, I checked your math. You’re modeling events as perfectly sharp projective measurements.” Her voice was languid. “That’s obsolete, a hangover from von Neumann’s way of doing things. Rovelli’s RQM doesn’t actually require perfect sharpness.”
My cock bounced. Her mind was doing things to it.
“If you identify relational events with effects — not sharp projections — then the state update follows the Kraus rule,” she continued. She was in flow, her fingers tracing idle patterns in the air, her breasts bouncing softly. “Realistic measurements aren’t sharp. They’re unsharp and non-idempotent.” She grinned. “Do it my way and RQM will handle positive operator-valued measures natively.”
Just like that, the problem that had crushed me for half a year was gone. The relief was a physical thing, a flood of relaxation through my chest, as if a trap had sprung open.
I had spent months despising her. Why? She had done nothing wrong. Now, I only had one thing to say to her. My voice was small but sincere: “Thank you.”
Abbie accepted it, and looked down at me — my chest heaving, my cock straining, my pride crumpled by the gravity of my desire. Thick walls of steam embraced us.
The relief settled into its groove – but beneath it was a more awful tension. It boiled in me. My cock throbbed painfully. She was naked. Her toes were inches from my face, her cunt two feet above me. I pretty much whimpered: “Abbie…. Please….”
She laughed in pure pity. “Poor pet.” She parted her legs frankly. “You’re dying, aren’t you?”
I couldn’t speak. My eyes widened as I waited for her next word.
Abbie looked at my stiff rod, then my pleading face. She bit her lip. “Uh, like, fine. I’ll let you jerk off on my feet.”
My hand flew to my cock, stroking with frantic, uneven motions. My breath came in ragged gasps, my body spasming as I neared release.
Abbie watched, her smile sweetly indulgent. “That’s it,” she cooed. “Cum for me, Professor.”