[NSFW!] 𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℂ𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕘𝕖 𝕄𝕀𝕃𝔽 ♠ | Sᴛᴀʀʀʏ x Aᴘᴏᴛʜᴇᴄᴀʀʏ

[Starry]

♠​

𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℂ𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕘𝕖 𝕄𝕀𝕃𝔽 ♠ Sᴛᴀʀʀʏ x Aᴘᴏᴛʜᴇᴄᴀʀʏ​

 

[Starry]

♠​

𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝙱𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚝’𝚜 𝙾𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 - 𝟷:𝟷𝟸𝙿𝙼 The door shut with a gentle click, muffling the sound of retreating footsteps. Finally. Professor Laura Bennett was alone again. She exhaled softly through her nose, pulling herself up straight in her chair and resting her manicured hands atop her desk, where a sleek black Hermès notepad sat beside a rose gold Montblanc pen. Her office was warm and softly lit - framed degrees on the wall, the faint scent of vanilla and sandalwood in the air from the discreet oil diffuser behind her. And amidst it all sat Laura herself: the sort of woman whose mere presence pulled stares in corridors, silenced rooms mid-conversation, and had students squirming in their seats. Today, as ever, she looked utterly immaculate. A crisp, white ribbed cashmere turtleneck hugged her upper body so tight it may as well have been sprayed on, the plush fabric moulded perfectly to the shape of her massive breasts. They sat obscenely high and full—no doubt packed into some delicate French demi-cup that barely contained them. Her toned waist, impossibly narrow, was cinched further by a black leather Yves Saint Laurent belt, its gold buckle glinting against the high-rise silhouette of her skin-tight Alexander Wang pencil skirt. Black. Sleek. Curved around the generous swell of her hips and the heart-shaped fullness of her ass like a second skin. Her legs - crossed daintily beneath the desk - were wrapped in sheer, expensive stockings that shimmered subtly when the light hit just right, ending in a pair of nude red-bottomed Louboutins. They clicked deliciously when she walked. Purposefully. Powerfully. Laura’s signature was restraint - on the outside. But it was the details that betrayed her. The little touches. The thick, oversized gold hoops that dangled from her ears. The chunky gold bracelets stacked on her wrists. The glossy pink lipstick slathered across her plump, shamelessly full lips—lips that once wrapped around monster cocks on camera without shame, and now pouted softly as she glanced toward the ticking clock. Her makeup was flawless: winged liner sharp enough to cut, lashes curled to the gods, her cheeks sculpted and glowing. And her long, fiery orange hair was pulled into a bouncy high ponytail, cascading down her back in waves, polished and perfect. Professor Bennett. Age thirty-six. Married. One child. Secretly addicted to big, Black cock. And bored out of her fucking mind. She let out a long, tired sigh, reaching for her coffee - now lukewarm - and sipping as her other hand clicked her laptop open. Her inbox blinked at her: unread messages, student excuses, faculty announcements. She scrolled lazily, skimming without really reading. The second hand of her wall clock ticked steadily in the background. Then— Ding. A new message. Subject: (no subject) From: (no sender) She frowned faintly. Odd. Her manicured fingertip - nails long, squared off, painted a soft blush-pink - hovered a moment before clicking. The message opened. And the moment it did, her body froze. A low-res video auto-played in the message window, shaky and raw, clearly filmed on someone’s phone. It took no more than two seconds to understand what she was seeing. A college girl - blonde, tiny, utterly ruined - was bent over the edge of a mattress, her ass jiggling wildly with each brutal slam of hips behind her. Her face was buried in the sheets, her arms limp, her mascara running down her cheeks. And the man behind her… Laura’s breath caught. Dark skin. Wide shoulders. Veins bulging down thick forearms as he gripped her waist and pounded her with earth-shaking force. His cock was massive - a thick, glistening slab that pulled out halfway only to disappear again into her stretched, pink hole. The girl was screaming something, begging maybe. But Laura didn’t hear it. She didn’t need to. She slapped the laptop closed with trembling hands, her heart racing behind her ribs, a faint sheen of sweat already forming beneath her blouse. “What the fuck was that…?” she whispered aloud, voice cracking slightly. She stared ahead blankly, lips parted, thighs squeezing together under the desk. The ring on her finger - a classic Tiffany gold band, simple and elegant—suddenly felt heavy on her hand. That cock. That body. That scene. It had been years since she’d seen something like that. But it lit up something feral inside her, something buried beneath years of quiet, sexless suburbia. Something that hadn’t gone away, just slept. And now it was wide awake. Wide. Fucking. Awake. Slowly, shakily, she opened the laptop again. The message was still there. The video still paused at that exact moment - right as he pulled out, his cock slick and throbbing, hovering at the edge of that ruined little pussy before slamming back in with enough force to bounce her across the mattress. Laura pressed play. No sound. She didn’t dare. But she didn’t need it. Her eyes devoured the screen and her hand - slowly, as if guided by instinct - slipped under her desk. Past her belt. Into her panties. She was soaked. Her fingers trembled as she circled her clit, her breath growing ragged, her other hand gripping the desk’s edge hard enough to turn her knuckles white. The girl's face blurred in the motion of the thrusts, but Laura's focus wasn’t on her. It was him. The way he moved. The way he owned her. Fucked her. Claimed her. He didn’t love her. He didn’t even like her. He used her. And she loved it. Laura loved it. She rubbed harder, panting now. Hips grinding into her palm, wedding ring digging into her soaked folds as her thighs began to tremble beneath the desk. Her breasts rose and fell, nipples painfully hard beneath her tight sweater. She bit her lower lip - those thick, pornstar lips slick with gloss - as she rolled her hips faster and faster, needing it, chasing that rush. The girl on screen was coming, maybe. Or just broken. Didn’t matter. She was coming too. Laura’s back arched, one stiletto digging into the floor, her entire body tensing as the orgasm slammed into her without warning - hot, wet, breathless. She buried her face in her arm and rode it out silently, twitching, soaking through her own silk panties, her designer outfit now clinging to her in all the wrong ways. The screen played on. Looping. She didn't stop it.​

 

[Starry]

♠​

𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝙱𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚝’𝚜 𝙾𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 - 𝟸:𝟶𝟺𝙿𝙼 The soft click of her compact mirror echoed like a gavel in the stillness of the office, the only sound in a room that had once been filled with the ragged breaths of a woman pushed to the edge. Laura’s hand lingered near her cheek a moment longer than necessary, smoothing the last trace of flushed sweat from her high-end foundation. She had reapplied her lipstick with practiced ease, the glossy crimson hugging her lips like lacquer, while her lashes blinked slowly, heavily, over eyes that had seen too much in too little time. A fresh misting of perfume lingered in the air - delicate, luxurious, and just sweet enough to cover the faint trace of her own scent. She could still feel it though. The ghost of it. The dampness between her thighs hadn’t fully dried, the memory of her orgasm still clinging stubbornly to her skin despite the careful wipe-down and the poised posture she’d now resumed. Her desk was once again pristine. Her legs crossed neatly beneath it. Her sweater smoothed to perfection. To any passing eye, Professor Laura Bennett was the picture of composure. But inside? Inside, she was falling apart. It had taken only a few minutes after the orgasm’s release for her mind to clear - and when it had, the realization hit with a weight that made her stomach drop. She knew that face. The brief flash of it in the video, barely caught in profile, had haunted her in the hour since. The sharpness of the jaw, the expression of effortless confidence, the way he moved with the certainty of someone who’d been worshipped before. He was in her lecture hall. A student. Her student. Abe. Quiet. Unbothered. The kind of young man who didn’t ask questions in class, but really needed too. She remembered how her breath would hitch whenever she noticed his eyes lingering. She had convinced herself it was nothing. But it wasn’t. Not now. She shifted in her chair slightly, the edge of her seat grazing against her thigh, and for a moment she allowed herself to recall it - the pace of him, the sheer mass of his cock as it disappeared into that girl’s tight body over and over. Her breath hitched softly. Then she closed her eyes. This wasn’t acceptable. It was unprofessional. Unethical. Reckless. She was a married woman. A mother. A department lead. And she’d just climaxed at her desk, moaning into her own sleeve, legs trembling, because of a video of one of her own students breeding some brainless little coed into the mattress. The thought made her thighs squeeze again beneath her skirt. She had to do something. Not because she was a victim - please, she was no prude - but because letting this slide would feel like permission. And if she gave herself permission... she wasn’t sure she could stop. Her hands moved toward the keyboard before she fully knew what she was doing. Muscle memory guided her into the faculty portal. She found Abe’s current class schedule. Noticed he was in a lower-level History course this semester - midday block. Her fingers hovered. This wasn’t about revenge. Or righteousness. It was about control. Control over herself. As she typed, her thick gold hoop earrings gave a delicate jingle - just once, soft and barely noticeable, but it made her pause. Her eyes shifted to her reflection faintly mirrored in the laptop screen. Her hair in its immaculate ponytail. Her glossy lips. The hoops. The bracelets. The mask. She found the faculty listing and composed a short, crisp message. 𝐒𝐮𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭: 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 - 𝐌𝐫. 𝐀𝐛𝐞 𝐀𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫, 𝐈’𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐫. 𝐀𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐋. 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭 She read the message twice. Then hit send. The moment it disappeared from her screen, a silence settled over the room again. Heavier than before. Laura reached for her coffee. It was cold. She sipped it anyway. And as she stared out the window across the courtyard, watching students cross in idle clusters toward their next classes, her fingers tapped gently against her wedding ring. Now all she could do was wait. And pray he didn’t look better in person than he did in her memory.[/SIZE]​