[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]​

 

[Apothecary]

​

Abe's day, so far, had been rather boring. The previous night he'd been dared to send a video to one of the Professors. A drunken game that got, just a little, too out of hand. Despite being aware of this, of how far over the line he had stepped, he didn't really care. He was an athlete, one of the college's prized ones at that, they simply couldn't get rid of him without causing a small riot amongst some of their donors and faculty staff. Not that the professor was likely to do anything more than delete the video anyway. Part of him, in his arrogance, knew that she'd watch the video. That she'd find it impossible not too. Abe had seen the way that she returned his gaze, the way that she had always second-guessed herself. She never once told him to stop, or brought it up to her superiors, when he quietly leered at her. It was hardly his fault that she looked like a pornstar. That she had the body and shape that'd bring a man to his knees. The only different thing between him and those men; was that he believed her place was on her knees before him. Long since had he stopped paying attention during his lecture. His mind wondered off, or he sat on his phone, simply occupying his time by performing the bare minimum required of him. Either he scrolled through tinder or ensured he had enough notes to get a passing grade. Only ever passing. Academia was not the future he had in mind for himself but he did still need to make passing grades in order to remain at the college. The college which served as the foundation for his chance for fame and glory on the world stage in his chosen sport. Nothing else mattered. He checked his phone again, another message from that blonde bitch he'd broken. He ignored it, swiped it away. Her pleading and begging was entertaining but she was his booty call, not the other way around. She attended his needs. Half way through stretching out a voice called out to him. "Abe." Sinclair spoke. The Professor, despite his scrawny appearance, had a voice that cracked like gunshot. Despite being a history professor; Sinclair seemed a bit more dangerous than he ever let on. There was a running joke at the frat which they made bets and stories on what Sinclair's dark past likely was. So when Sinclair called Abe's name; Abe paid attention. Little more than a tilt of his head, but far more than most professors get. "Professor Bennett wants to see you. I will let your other professors know you're..." The History Professor glanced down at his screen, frowned, then shrugged. "Dealing with tech stuff." That got Abe's attention. That half focus suddenly became much more acute. Likely this was about the video he had sent her but for her to call him into her office now that was interesting. This wasn't him being called into the Dean's office, his coach's office, or anyone of import. This felt like an invitation. A smile spread over the ebony man's lips. Brilliant white teeth glittered out from his thin lips as he reached down to grab his bag. 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝙱𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚝'𝚜 𝙾𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 - 𝟸:17𝙿𝙼 ​ It was some time later that he entered Professor Bennett's office. After he hung around with a few of his classmates he strolled across the courtyard. A determined and confident gait let him glide across the pristine stones. Each step was considered, controlled, and carried with poise. Abe always had carried himself well. Straight-backed, head up and with his jaw jutting out just slightly. His confidence and arrogance bled into each other like wet paint. They mixed to make something that was, entirely, unique. They mixed to make the man that Abe was. Because there was no mistaking that Abe was a man. A young one, yes, but that hardly mattered. Beneath his buttoned up cotton shirt sat a perfectly chiseled set of abdominal muscles. His body-fat percentage was low enough that almost every muscle was pronounced, visible, and proclaimed their intention to be worshiped and praised. Beyond the dark ebony of his skin; he looked as if he were a Greek statue come to life. Something that had been created with a designer's care rather than the crude dice-throw of biology. Abe was artisanal. The door shut behind him as he stepped inside, it clicked shut and he flicked the lock. With that done he cast his bag down beside the chair opposite Laura, it landed with a thud as the mistreated books jostled around inside of the bag. He placed his hands on her desk and, for the briefest moment, he seemed to loom over her. That sharp jaw-line, those piercing eyes, and the slightly raised cheek bones all seemed to focus entirely on her. "You seem a bit flustered. Everything alright?" His cologne wafted over her. A smell of ashen-wood that permeated the air. The scent of her own perfume danced and mingled the fragrance that Abe wore. A truly decadent, heady, concoction that flooded both of their senses. Finally; he sat down. His legs spread as he did so, man-spreading as much as the chair would allow him to do so. Even when he wore jeans it was impossible to miss the bulge that his crotch formed. The almost visible outline of the absurdly large cock he sported presented itself to her. A siren's call. It all but screamed at her, begged her, to reach down and liberate it from the suffocating prison of his jeans. To pull it taught from its fabric confines and let it breathe in the fresh air of her office. It didn't deserve to be trapped, hidden away, where she couldn't openly admire it. ​

 

[Starry]

♠​

The first thing she noticed was the sound - the click of the door, then the soft, unmistakable grind of the lock twisting shut. Her heart jumped. She hadn’t told him to lock it. She hadn’t even considered that he might. Then came the scent. It hit her like a wave - rich, smoky, masculine. The earthy spice of ashen wood stirred the warm floral perfume she’d misted not thirty minutes ago, creating a heady swirl in the air that made her lips part without thought. It flooded her senses. Drenched her thoughts. Her gold bracelets gave a delicate clink as she stiffened slightly in her chair, hands folded neatly in front of her on the desk like a good, composed, married woman. But she wasn’t composed. Not even close. “Mr. Abe,” she said softly, too softly. She cleared her throat and sat up straighter, her high ponytail swishing behind her, thick gold hoops catching the sunlight as she turned her head toward him. Then she looked up. And it hit her. That was the same face from the video. The same quiet smirk, the same eyes that didn’t look at her - they looked through her. There was no shame there. No confusion. Just control. And that body... He moved like liquid steel. Confident. Coiled. Radiating the kind of poise only earned through years of being worshipped by everyone who’d ever gotten a taste. His shirt was fitted enough to make her ache, the fabric stretched just so across his chest, sleeves rolled at the forearms like he wanted her to imagine what they’d feel like pressed against the small of her back. “You seem a bit flustered. Everything alright?” The question landed like a slap. Laura’s breath caught as he leaned in, his large hands braced on the desk, looming. Her posture faltered for half a second - an imperceptible twitch - but it was enough. He saw it. She could feel the heat rising up her neck, her skin prickling beneath her cashmere turtleneck. No one had ever looked at her like this in this office. Not even her husband. Certainly not with that bulge. Her gaze dropped without meaning to. It was there. Even through the dark denim, thick and obscene, pressing against the fabric like it was trying to escape. And she knew it. She knew exactly what that thing could do. What it had done. Her body still ached from the memory of it—of his rhythm, his length, the way it had disappeared into that ruined little blonde like it was claiming her soul. Laura swallowed hard. Her thighs pressed together under the desk, still damp from earlier. Her glossed lips parted for a breath she didn’t take. She didn’t know how. “I received... a file,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper before she corrected herself. Firmer now. Sharper. “Earlier today. From your student email.” She reached for a printed form on her desk, one she didn’t need but gave her something to look at. Something safe. Her hands trembled, only slightly, her wedding ring clinking softly against the paper. She didn’t look up again. Not yet. “You do realize that sending... explicit content using the college network is grounds for academic investigation,” she continued, her tone steadying as she regained control of her breath, her voice. She crossed her legs under the desk, trying to shift the heat building between them. Her skirt clung to her thighs like skin. Her panties were sticking. “You could have been reported to the Dean. Or worse—your athletic advisor.” She finally looked up, her expression cool, composed, and just a little too polished. But her eyes betrayed her. God, she wanted it. Wanted him. And she hated herself for it. Her breath came tight, shallow, barely held together by the thin thread of professionalism she’d spent a decade perfecting. It wasn’t working. Not with him sitting there, legs wide, cock shamelessly outlined and twitching beneath the fabric like it knew what she was thinking. Like it had felt her moaning to it in silence an hour ago. She tried to focus. To ground herself. “I’d like to hear your explanation before I make a formal decision,” she said evenly, her fingers laced neatly together atop the desk, knuckles pale from the tension in them. Then, against all her better judgment, her eyes dropped again—to that bulge. The one that had ruined her earlier. The one she could still feel between her legs if she closed her eyes for more than a second. “And next time, Mr. Abe…” she began, voice low, careful, her tongue pressing to the roof of her mouth as if weighing every syllable before she let it go. “…I suggest you think carefully before exposing that big Black c—” Her voice hitched. Her lips parted, caught mid-word. Her eyes widened. She blinked, fast, cheeks blooming red beneath her flawless foundation. Her bracelets gave a soft chime as she shifted abruptly, clearing her throat. “—that kind of content,” she corrected, the words tumbling out sharp and too fast. “From your college account.” Silence. Tense. Charged. Soaked. Her hands returned to her lap beneath the desk, where her thighs were once again pressed tight together. Her ring twisted slowly between her fingers. The air between them was heavy with perfume and smoke and everything unsaid.[/SIZE]​

 

[Apothecary]

​

Her reaction, the disregard and composure, bored Abe. He had hoped something interesting was going to happen. Instead she spoke to him with the usual calm and collected attitude of a Professor that knew they couldn't, really, do anything about his antics. It was to be another lecture, this one private and somehow more tedious that the ones in the halls. As he started to tune out of the situation, started to retreat into his own mind's palace, he caught that twitch. Like a fighter on the backfoot; she'd been thrown off guard. It was all downhill from there for her. Every word she ushered from those cock-sucking lips, every movement that her supple frame made, and every unspoken thought; he watched it all. He drank in everything. Abe's already inflated ego grew just that much more. Had Abe seen the way that her thighs struggled, that her body rebelled against her mind, he would've been all over her in an instant. Her fate would've been that much brutally decided than the forgettable blonde coed. Whilst she spoke he brought one of his own hands up. With a pop one of the upper-most buttons of his shirt was opened, revealing just a glimpse of that toned ebony frame. Of those valleys that lay between the carved mountains of his muscular frame. His flesh seemed to even glisten, if only just, from a thin sheen of sweat thanks to the slightly oppressive late afternoon heat. The dean, the athletic advisor, both of those 'threats' drew Abe's ire. His eyebrows narrowed and any 'kindness' that he had intended to offer her was discarded. She had, inadvertently, sealed her own fate. Those words from a threat she'd never have fulfilled doomed the Professor to everything that was going to happen. To all the events that would spell out, at least, the next few months of her life. Abe wrung his hands together before him. Those large palms and digits, chafed and calloused, rubbed over one another. A twitch of his when he started to get annoyed, when he wanted to do nothing more than get his hands on something.... Or someone. She wanted an explanation, how bland. Then her eyes dropped, then she spoke. Then Abe grinned. Dazzling white teeth peered out from behind his lips. His expression wicked, predatory, vulpine. That wolfish look made its way to his eyes and the man relaxed further into the seat. No longer the uncaring of the unbothered, but now the uncaring of royalty. Of a man who saw himself as king of this domain. As her king, with her as his subject. "Why did I make the video?" His question was punctuated with the pop of another button, this time it was the one at the top of his jeans. The top of his boxers peaked out, the elastic band resting on abdominal muscles that only seemed to draw her gaze ever lower. "Becomes some people need to know their place, y'know? Sometimes women who think they're important, who think the noises they make.... the words they speak... matter." He trailed off, his eyes boring into her. Like steely daggers they drove ever deeper with that piercing gaze, almost as if those hazel eyes could venture into her soul and lay bare her most depraved of desires. "Sometimes I think that they forget their lips are just cock-pillows, and the only noise they should make is whatever sounds they produce from worshiping my.." He paused, for dramatic effect. "What did you call it? My big, black, cock." Another pop, another button, yet more of those black boxers on display with that shaft of his all but screaming to escape. The fabric strained around the gigantic trouser snake that hung, still not even half-erect, between his legs. "I also know that the IT guys can view how many times someone opened a file, if they still have it and if they downloaded it. So unless you want me to tip them off; I suggest you crawl around that desk of yours and earn my forgiveness." With frightening speed his hand shot out and tapped the desk. A thud, not loud enough to be overtly threatening but enough to make someone jump, cracked through the brief silence like the crack of a whip. "Now." Abe did not shout, he did not scream, he simply spoke. With a slightly elevated voice that oozed from his lips. Sweet like poisoned honey yet deep and rumbling all at the same time. Abe had not unbuttoned any more of his trousers, that was for her to do. She was the one, in his mind, that had committed the transgression. This was a kindness to her, a favor even, a chance for her to gain redemption through proper servicing of her betters. ​