BBC Thesis

The First Office Hours

The late-afternoon sun cut through the blinds in Professor Alvin Cortour’s office, striping the desk with gold and lighting up the mess of papers and trophies. Ana Patricia Pollack walked in, heels barely making a sound on the thick carpet. She was thirty-four, with tits that made her blouses work overtime and hips that filled out her skirt in a way that made men stare and women whisper. Her olive skin looked even smoother under the office lights, and her chestnut hair was pinned up, though a few strands had already escaped, framing her face. Her lips were full and painted soft pink, but her eyes were sharp, the kind of look you get from years of playing second fiddle to your husband’s career.

She clutched Barry’s draft thesis tightly to her chest, the pages still warm from the printer. “Professor Cortour, thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Barry’s conference in Chicago got extended, and the deadline is creeping up. He asked me to come defend the opening arguments on marital power dynamics and sexual positions within modern relationships.”

Alvin Cortour rose from behind the desk like a force of nature. At six-foot-four, with powerfully muscled shoulders filling out his tailored charcoal shirt, dark skin gleaming under the lamplight, and a commanding baritone that seemed to vibrate straight through her ribcage, he made the spacious office feel suddenly small. His presence was magnetic, authoritative, the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to own a room. “Mrs. Pollack. Ana, if I may. Barry speaks highly of your help with his research. Please, sit.”

Ana sat down across from him, legs crossed, trying to look professional. The second her ass hit the chair, she felt it—a hot, needy throb between her legs. Her nipples went hard, poking through her bra and blouse, and she tried to pretend she didn’t notice. She opened the draft and started reading, her voice steady at first. “The thesis says that monogamy usually leaves wives wanting more—more control, more variety, especially when it comes to how they get fucked.”

Alvin leaned forward, elbows on the desk, dark eyes locked on hers. His large hands—strong, long-fingered—rested near the edge of the paper. When he pointed to a paragraph, the back of his hand brushed hers, warm and deliberate. “Interesting claim. But tell me, Ana, do you truly believe a wife can be fulfilled by only one position? One man’s rhythm, one man’s… size?” His deep voice rolled over the words, making them feel heavier, dirtier than the clinical language on the page.

Ana’s breath hitched. Her face burned. She squirmed in the chair, the seam of her panties grinding right against her clit, which was already swollen and aching. “I—I think the data shows a lot of women aren’t getting what they need when their husbands can’t keep up. Barry says talking about it and trying new things is important.”

“Exploration,” Alvin repeated, the word slow and weighted. He stood, circling the desk until he was behind her chair. The scent of him—clean musk, something darker and masculine—wrapped around her. “Let’s test that argument. Read the next paragraph aloud while I show you where it weakens.”

Ana swallowed, mouth dry. She tried to read, but her voice shook as Alvin’s chest brushed her shoulders. His hand slammed down on the desk next to her, boxing her in. Every time she tripped over a word like “submission,” his deep laugh made her pussy gush, soaking her panties. Her lips parted, breath shaky. She couldn’t stop picturing herself on her knees, unzipping his pants, finally seeing what kind of cock a man like Alvin was packing—something Barry could never compete with.

Barry was nice enough. He was gentle, loving, and boring as hell in bed. Missionary, always, his average dick in and out in a few minutes, and then he was done. She faked it every time, then got herself off later with her fingers or a vibrator, thinking about someone—anyone—who could actually take control. But now, with Alvin’s heat behind her and his voice in her ear, her body was desperate, hungry, like she hadn’t been fucked in years.

“See here,” Alvin murmured, leaning closer so his breath ghosted her ear. “Your husband claims a wife’s pleasure is secondary to emotional connection. Yet look at your own reaction, Ana. Your nipples are hard. Your breathing has changed. Is that emotional connection I’m seeing… or something much more primal?”

Ana’s voice broke on “submission.” She squeezed her thighs together, mortified by how wet she was—she was sure he could hear it. “Professor, this is just… academic, that’s all.”

“Is it?” His hand finally settled on her shoulder, large palm warm and heavy, thumb stroking once along the collar of her blouse. “Because right now, your body is defending a very different position than the one written on this page.”

She loved Barry. She’d promised to be faithful. But her pussy was throbbing, her clit pounding against her soaked panties, and all she could think about was Alvin’s big hands in her hair, his voice ordering her to open wide and take it. She wanted to get up and run, but she just sat there, shaking, while Alvin’s fingers traced the paper right next to her tits.

“Tomorrow night,” he said, finally stepping back so she could breathe. “Same time. Bring the new pages. And Ana?” He stared right at her hard nipples, poking through her blouse. “Wear something easy to take off. We might need to get hands-on.”

Ana grabbed the papers, hands shaking, face on fire. “Yes, Professor.”

He walked her to the door, his hand heavy and possessive on her lower back. She could still feel it burning into her skin after he shut the door.

Ana staggered into the hallway, heart pounding. Her panties were drenched, the crotch stuck to her pussy lips. She barely made it to the faculty bathroom before locking the door, yanking up her skirt and shoving her panties aside. She leaned against the cold tile and rubbed her clit like she was starving for it.

“Oh god… Alvin…” The name slipped out as she shoved two fingers into her soaked cunt. She pictured his huge body, the bulge she’d seen in his pants, the way he’d said “submission.” Her orgasm slammed into her, making her knees buckle, a strangled moan bouncing off the walls as her juices dripped down her thighs.

Still panting and red-faced, she fixed her clothes and called Barry while walking to the car.

“How did it go, honey?” he asked, voice tired from the conference.

“Productive,” Ana said, voice still husky. “Really productive. Professor Cortour had some excellent suggestions for the opening chapter.”

She hung up before he could ask anything else, already dreading and aching for the next time she’d be alone with Professor Cortour.