I sat in the front row with my professor’s c*m slowly leaking out of me for fifty-three minutes.
Every time I shifted in the hard wooden chair the red string dragged across my swollen c**t. His release was warm at first, then cooling as it soaked into the thin line between my legs and spread across the insides of my thighs. I kept my knees pressed together under the desk. It didn’t help. By the thirty-minute mark I could feel it sliding down toward the edge of the seat. I was terrified someone would notice the wet spot forming under me.
Professor Hale lectured like nothing was wrong.
He paced slowly in front of the whiteboard, voice steady, sleeves still rolled to his forearms. Every few minutes his eyes would land on me—cool, assessing—and linger just long enough to make my cunt clench
