Chapter 843 - 842- Prey become the Hunter

Chapter 843: Chapter 842- Prey become the Hunter

"What I am saying," she interrupted, "is that you cannot just... you cannot just kiss someone and finger them and make them... make them squirt and then walk away like nothing happened. You cannot..."

I looked at her. At the face. At the eyes. At the expression. The anger, the fury, the outrage. All of it was there. But beneath it, beneath the surface, was something else. Something that her words were trying to conceal and her body was betraying.

’Does she really want to get fucked?’

The thought, crossing my mind, was accompanied by a physical sensation. Her ass, seated on my crotch, was pressing against my cock. The weight, the warmth, the softness of her cheeks through the skirt, was stimulating. My cock, which had been limp, began to harden. The shaft, thickening, pressed against her.

She felt it. The hardness, growing beneath her, made her eyes widen. Her body, which had been rigid with anger, stiffened for a different reason. The flush, which had been fading, returned. Darker. Deeper.

My mouth twitched again. The smile, which I could no longer suppress, spread.

"You know," I said, my voice calm and amused, "what is the meaning of pinning down a professor?"

Her eyes went wide. The realization, the understanding of what she had just done, hit her like a thunderbolt. She had climbed on top of her professor. In a hallway. After he had just fingered her and made her squirt. She was straddling him. In public. Where anyone could walk by.

"What..." she said. The word, barely a sound, was the word of a woman whose brain had just short-circuited. "I..."

I looked at her expression. The shock. The horror. The dawning understanding that she had acted on impulse, on the surge of emotions that I had ignited in her, and that the impulse had led her to mount her professor in a public hallway.

’She did it in the outburst of anger. She did not think it through. She is not trying to seduce me. She is just... broken. And she does not know what to do with the pieces.’

I chuckled. The sound, which she felt through my chest, made her tremble.

But I could feel her ass on my crotch. The weight, the warmth, the pressure. My cock, fully hard now, was a solid bar beneath her. The length, ten inches, pressed against her cheeks through the fabric.

I sat up. The motion, smooth and controlled, brought my face level with hers. My hands, finding her wrists, grabbed. Pinned. Her arms, stretched above her head, were pressed against the wall. The position, submissive and exposed, was the position of a woman who had been conquered.

She looked at me. Her blue eyes, wide and wet, were the eyes of a woman who was trapped. Not by force. By her own body. By the desire that she did not understand and could not control.

I looked at her. At the body, pinned beneath me. At the face, tilted up. At the neck, exposed. At the cleavage, visible through the gap in her uniform. The tie, loosened by the struggle, had shifted. The collar, open, revealed the upper curve of her breasts. The fabric, pulled by the motion, gaped.

Her legs, spread by my hips, were open. The skirt, bunched at her waist, was useless. The panties, on the floor somewhere, were absent. Her pussy, bare and wet, was exposed. The lips, swollen and pink, were visible between her thighs.

I looked down at her. At the complete picture. The blonde hair, disheveled. The blue eyes, dazed. The uniform, torn open. The breasts, heavy and full, threatening to escape. The legs, spread and trembling. The pussy, wet and ready.

"You are gorgeous," I said. The words, honest and simple, were the truth.

Her heart thumped. I could hear it. The sound, rapid and loud, was the sound of a woman whose body was responding to a man. To his proximity. To his scent. To the incubus pheromones that were filling the hallway like an invisible fog.

She was not immune. No woman was. The pheromones, thick and potent, worked on her the way they worked on every female. The arousal, building beneath the anger and the fear and the confusion, was winning.

I leaned down. My hand, finding her breast through the uniform, traced the curve. The flesh, soft and heavy, yielded under my fingers. I groped. The breast, overflowing my palm, was firm. The nipple, stiff beneath the fabric, pressed against my hand.

She moaned. The sound, soft and involuntary, escaped before she could stop it. Her eyes, which had been wide with shock, softened. Her body, which had been rigid, relaxed.

I kissed her. My mouth found hers. The kiss, the second one, was deeper than the first. My tongue, pushing in, found hers. The taste, salt and mint and desire, filled my mouth.

I rubbed her breast. My hand, kneading the soft flesh, squeezed and pulled. The nipple, between my fingers, was pinched. She moaned into my mouth. The sound, muffled by the kiss, was a whimper.

Her thighs, spread around my hips, were trembling. Her pussy, wet and swollen, was pressed against my stomach. The heat, radiating from her core, was palpable.

I unzipped. My hand, reaching down, found the zipper. The sound, metallic and loud in the silent hallway, was the sound of a man who was about to cross a line.

My cock, freed from the confines of the trousers, emerged. The shaft, hard and thick, pressed against her thigh. The head, dark and swollen, leaked pre-cum. The fluid, slick and warm, smeared on her skin.

I rubbed. My cock, sliding over her thigh, found the entrance. The head, pressing against her pussy lips, was met with wetness. The fluid, her arousal, coated the tip.

She gasped. The sound, pulled from her throat by the contact, was sharp. Her eyes, which had been closed during the kiss, opened. Wide and wild.

I pulled back from the kiss. My mouth, wet with her saliva, separated from hers. I looked down. At her body. At the uniform, open. At the breasts, heavy and full, that had escaped the fabric. Her pink nipples, tight and stiff, were hard. The areolas, light and textured, were visible. The flesh, pale and soft, was marked with the red traces of my fingerprints.

She looked delicious. Her dress down, her skirt up, her panty hanging on her thighs. Her pussy, wet and ready, was open. My cock, ten inches and thick, was ready. Ready to pound her. To make her mine.

I stroked. My hand, on my cock, moved. The shaft, slick with pre-cum, was hot. I positioned the head at her entrance. The tip, pressing against the lips, spread them.

"Should I eat you?" I said. The words, whispered into the space between us, were accompanied by the motion of my tongue. Licking my lips. The gesture, obscene and deliberate, was a promise.

She trembled. Her body, laid out beneath me, was a picture of surrender. Her arms, above her head, were limp. Her legs, spread, were open. Her pussy, wet and swollen, was ready. Her eyes, wide and wet, looked at me with an expression that was no longer fear.

It was need.

"Professor," she whispered. The word, the title, was no longer a protest. It was a plea.

My hand moved. I tugged. The uniform, already open, was pulled down further. The fabric, sliding off her shoulders, revealed her breasts completely. The flesh, heavy and full, swung free. The nipples, pink and stiff, pointed at the ceiling.

The areolas, light and wide, were pebbled with goosebumps.