Chapter 875: Professor...Please

Chapter 875 -874- Professor…Please

Her face burned. The blush, which had been concentrated in her cheeks, spread down her neck and across her chest. She tried to pull back, but my hand in her hair kept her in place. She whimpered around my cock, the vibration traveling through the shaft and into my gut like a low hum.

“His cock is smaller than mine, isn’t it?” I asked.

She closed her eyes. A tear ran from the corner and into her hair, disappearing into the dark strands. She nodded. The motion, with her mouth full and my hand in her hair, was small and pathetic and honest in a way that made my cock twitch against her tongue.

“You can take more than that.” I pushed her head down. My cock slid deeper—past the first inch, past the second, past the point where her mouth ended and her throat began. Four inches. Five. The head hit the back of her throat and she gagged, her throat convulsing around me in a rapid, rhythmic squeeze that made my balls tighten involuntarily. The pressure was exquisite—tight, wet, involuntary, the kind of grip that no amount of practice could replicate because it was her body’s reflex, not her choice.

“Hlmm…!!” The sound was muffled. Her hands found my ass. Her fingers dug in, trying to steady herself, trying to control the depth, trying to find some equilibrium in a situation that offered none. I didn’t let her. I held her head and fucked her mouth with short, deliberate strokes, each one pushing just past her gag reflex and pulling back before she could fully choke.

Pah. Pah. Pah.

The sounds were wet and rhythmic. Her throat, which was learning to accommodate me, produced a soft gulping noise with each stroke. Saliva built up and spilled from the corners of her mouth, running down her cheeks and into her hair.

“Hmmf… glmm… mmf…!!”

Two weeks. For two weeks I’d been working toward this moment. The academy was a machine with too many moving parts, and I’d been grease in every gear. Sofia. Seraphina. The headmistress. Her mother. Threesomes, one-on-ones, training sessions that lasted until dawn. I’d fucked them all into compliance, conditioned them like animals, taught them to respond to my voice and my touch and my cock. It was exhausting. Time-consuming. The sheer logistics of managing multiple women while maintaining a professor’s facade and running a long-term political manipulation was enough to make a lesser man quit.

But I wasn’t a lesser man. I was a man who’d read this story before living in it, who knew the bad ends and the hidden routes and the choices that led to ruin. Every woman I claimed was a piece on the board. Every orgasm I gave was a lock turning. Every debt I created was a chain that would hold long after the pleasure faded.

Tonight was Yuki’s turn. And once I had her, the board would be set. Tomorrow the competition began—the grand hunt that the academy hosted annually. Students would be sent into the forest, separated, scattered. The perfect environment for what I needed.

Yuki’s throat bulged. I could see the outline of my cock beneath the skin of her neck, pushing and retreating with each stroke, a visible distortion that made her look almost inhuman. She looked up at me with those brown eyes—confused, humiliated, aroused, and beneath all of that, something else. Something like gratitude. Like relief. Like the feeling of a woman who had finally stopped fighting and discovered that surrender felt better than resistance.

My cock twitched inside her mouth. She felt it. Her eyes widened.

“Professor,” she tried to say. It came out as a garbled moan around the shaft, more vibration than word.

I pulled out. She gasped, coughing, spit trailing from her lips to my cock in a silver thread that stretched and broke. Her chest heaved. Her face was a mess—tears, saliva, flushed skin, the look of someone who’d been used and knew it.

I crouched to her level. My hand found her cheek. I stroked it with my thumb, wiping away a tear that had settled in the hollow beneath her eye.

“I helped your parents,” I said.

She blinked. The words, which had nothing to do with anything that had just happened, landed wrong. Landed sideways. Confused her in a way that sex hadn’t.

“What?”

“Your parents. The Tanabe family. Their merchant business. I sent aid last week when the trade routes collapsed.”

Her eyes went wide. The confusion shifted to shock—a visible, physical shift, her mouth falling open, her body going still. “You were the one who—”

“Indeed.” I stroked her hair. The gesture was gentle. Fatherly. The contrast with everything else was deliberate, calculated, the kind of tonal whiplash that breaks a person’s ability to categorize you. If she could only see me as the man who’d made her choke on his cock, she could resist. If she could only see me as the man who’d saved her family, she could dismiss the sex as coercion. But both? Both at once? That was a trap with no exit. “Your family was in danger. The Catorian merchant guild suppressed their supply lines. I intervened. Arranged new contracts. Stabilized their finances.”

She stared at me. Her mouth, which had been around my cock ten seconds ago, trembled.

“You… you saved them?”

“Saved is a strong word.” I let a beat of silence pass. Let her process. Let gratitude and debt and obligation fill the space where resistance had been. “Helped. Yes.”

I let the silence stretch. Poured it like concrete into the gap between us and let it set.

“They’re meeting with me tonight,” I said. “I’ve arranged new positions for them within the trade network. Good ones. Secure. Your family will recover.”

She broke. Not dramatically—not the way women break in stories, with screams and wailing. She broke the way real people break: quietly, from the inside out. The tears, which had been falling, became sobs. She grabbed my hand—the one on her cheek—and pressed it to her face with both of hers, holding it there like something precious. “Thank you. Thank you, Professor. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you—”

“Don’t thank me yet.” I stood. My cock, which had softened slightly during the conversation, was hardening again. The sight of her gratitude, the sound of her crying, the feel of her lips pressing against my hand—it was enough. More than enough.

I grabbed her and threw her on the bed.

The mattress creaked loudly—old springs, old frame, the kind of bed that had been fucked on by generations of professors and would be fucked on by generations more.

She landed on her back, her hair spreading across the sheets in dark, tangled waves. Her legs, which had been pressed together, fell open from the impact.

Her pussy—hairy, wet, the lips swollen and pink beneath the dark fur—was exposed. The inner lips protruded slightly, dark and slick, the kind of pussy that looked like it had been designed by someone who understood what cocks wanted.

I spread her legs wider. My hands gripped her thighs and pushed them apart. She resisted for a moment—muscle memory, instinct, the last reflex of modesty—then gave in. Her thighs relaxed under my palms.

“You’re a good girl, Yuki,” I said. “Grateful. Obedient. Your parents will be fine.”

“Professor, please—”