The Professor's Price: Forbidden Blackmail Romance

If you want to know what true torment feels like, spend five years teaching English literature at an elite private university to students who are, without exception, between eighteen and twenty-two years old, breathtakingly beautiful, and completely off-limits. I'm talking about the kind of women who make you forget your own name when they walk into a room. The kind who know exactly what they're doing when they wear those tiny skirts and low-cut tops, bending over desks to pick up "dropped" pens while giving you a perfect view of their cleavage.

My name is Marcus Thorne, and I'm thirty-four years old. I hold a PhD in Victorian Literature from Oxford, I've published three well-received academic books, and I can recite the entirety of Paradise Lost from memory. None of that matters when Victoria Ashford walks into my classroom on the first day of her senior year.

Victoria is twenty-one years old, though she looks younger. She's the kind of girl who makes time stop. Standing at five-foot-six with honey-blonde hair that cascades in loose waves past her shoulders, she has the face of an angel and the body of a centerfold model. Her eyes are an unusual shade of green—emerald with flecks of gold—that seem to glow when she looks at you. Full, naturally pink lips that she habitually bites when she's thinking. A slender neck that begs to be kissed, bitten, marked.

But it's her body that has haunted my dreams for three semesters straight. Firm, perky breasts that strain against even modest blouses—I'd estimate them at a full D-cup, perfectly shaped and high on her chest. A narrow waist that flares into hips made for gripping. An ass so round and tight it should be illegal, the kind that fills out jeans in ways that make me have to sit behind my desk to hide my erection. Long, toned legs that seem to go on forever, ending in delicate ankles and feet that she often slips out of her heels to dangle during lectures.

She's intelligent too—frustratingly so. Victoria is an English major with a 3.9 GPA, destined for graduate school at either Yale or Columbia. She writes essays that make me question my own understanding of the texts. She participates in class discussions with insights that surprise even me. She's the complete package: brains, beauty, and a family pedigree that includes a senator father and a philanthropist mother.

She's also, I've discovered, a thief and a fraud.

It happened on a Thursday afternoon in late October. The autumn rain was coming down in sheets, turning the campus into a gray watercolor painting. My last seminar of the day—Advanced Studies in Gothic Literature—had just ended, and the students had filed out, leaving behind the usual detritus of coffee cups and scattered papers. I was gathering my materials when I noticed a leather satchel tucked beneath one of the chairs in the back row.

Victoria's satchel. The one her father had given her for her twenty-first birthday—a vintage Louis Vuitton piece worth more than my monthly salary. She must have forgotten it in her rush to get out of the rain.

I picked it up, intending to hold it for her until our next class on Tuesday. But as I lifted it, the clasp gave way, and the contents spilled across the floor. Textbooks, a laptop, a makeup bag, a wallet—and something else. Something that made my blood run cold.

Stacked bundles of cash. Thick bundles, held together with rubber bands. And beneath them, a small velvet pouch containing what appeared to be several thousand dollars' worth of jewelry. Antique pieces. Family heirlooms, if I had to guess.

I knew immediately what I was looking at. The university had sent out a security bulletin two weeks prior about a string of thefts from the faculty housing complex. Professors' apartments being broken into, valuables stolen, cash taken. The police had no leads. But here, in my hands, was the evidence that would break the case wide open.

I should have called campus security immediately. I should have turned everything over and let the authorities handle it. Victoria Ashford would be expelled, arrested, her bright future reduced to ash. Her father's political career would be tarnished. Her mother's charity work would be overshadowed by scandal. She would face years in prison for felony theft and possession of stolen property.

But I didn't call security. Instead, I sat down at my desk, my heart hammering against my ribs, and I thought about Victoria Ashford in a way I'd never allowed myself to before. I thought about those perfect lips wrapped around my cock. I thought about that tight, athletic body bent over my desk, her skirt hiked up, her panties pulled aside. I thought about all the times she'd flirted with me—subtle, innocent flirting that I'd always dismissed as student-teacher banter—and I realized that I had her. Completely and utterly. I owned her future, and she would do anything to protect it.

I gathered everything carefully, placing the cash and jewelry back in the satchel exactly as I'd found it. Then I took out my phone and recorded a video, documenting everything with timestamp and location. Evidence, should I need it. Leverage.

Victoria Ashford was about to learn that actions have consequences. And I was going to be the one to teach her.

I sent the email on Friday morning, keeping it professional and vague:

Miss Ashford,

You left your satchel in the classroom yesterday. Please come to my office at 6:00 PM this evening to retrieve it. This matter requires your immediate attention and discretion.

—Professor Thorne

Her response came within minutes: Thank you, Professor. I'll be there.

I spent the day in a state of nervous anticipation that I hadn't felt since my own university days. Every time I saw a blonde head in the hallway, my pulse quickened. I imagined her reaction when she realized what I knew. The fear in those green eyes. The begging. The pleading. And then, eventually, the submission.

My office is on the third floor of the Humanities Building, tucked away at the end of a quiet corridor. It's spacious, lined with bookshelves, with a large oak desk and a leather sofa for student consultations. I arrived at 5:30 PM and arranged everything carefully—the satchel on my desk, my phone with the video evidence ready to play, a bottle of eighteen-year-old scotch and two glasses on the side table.

At 6:15 PM, there was a knock at my door.

"Come in," I called, keeping my voice steady.

Victoria entered, and my breath caught in my throat. She was wearing a cream-colored sweater dress that clung to every curve of her body, ending mid-thigh and showcasing her spectacular legs. Black knee-high boots with four-inch heels. Her hair was still damp from the rain, curling slightly at the ends. She looked like sin incarnate.

"Professor Thorne," she said, her voice melodic and warm. "I'm so sorry I'm late. The rain—"

"Close the door," I interrupted. "And lock it."

She paused, her hand on the doorknob, confusion flickering across her perfect features. "Excuse me?"

"Lock. The. Door." I enunciated each word carefully, letting my tone shift from professor to something else entirely. Something commanding.

She hesitated, then did as I asked. When she turned back to face me, there was uncertainty in her eyes. "Is everything alright? You sounded so serious in your email."

"Sit down, Victoria." I gestured to the chair across from my desk.

She sat, crossing her legs, her dress riding up slightly to reveal the tops of her thighs. She noticed me looking and tugged the hem down, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "Where's my satchel? I really need to get home. My parents are expecting me for dinner."

I reached under my desk and placed the leather bag on the surface between us. Her eyes lit up with relief—until I opened it and removed the bundles of cash and the velvet jewelry pouch, arranging them neatly on the wood.

The color drained from her face. She went pale as parchment, her green eyes widening in pure terror.

"Professor, I can explain—"

"Be quiet," I snapped. "You will speak when I give you permission to speak. Is that understood?"

She nodded frantically, her lower lip trembling. She looked like she might cry. Or faint. Or run. But she stayed in her chair, her hands gripping the armrests.

I picked up my phone and opened the video I'd recorded. "Do you know what this is?"

She shook her head, mute.

"It's documentation of everything I found in your bag yesterday. The cash—approximately fifteen thousand dollars, if I had to estimate. The jewelry—antique pieces, family heirlooms, reported stolen from Professor Chen's apartment two weeks ago. Professor Morrison's apartment last month. Three other faculty homes over the past semester."

I let the words hang in the air, watching her crumble.

"Victoria, do you understand what happens next? I take this to the Dean. The Dean calls the police. You're arrested for felony burglary, felony theft, and possession of stolen property. You're looking at ten to fifteen years in prison, minimum. Your scholarships—gone. Your acceptance to graduate school—revoked. Your father's Senate seat? Finished. Your mother's reputation? Destroyed."

Tears were streaming down her face now, silent and continuous. She looked broken, devastated, absolutely terrified. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, Professor. I'll do anything. I'll pay it all back. I'll turn myself in. Just please don't tell my parents. Please don't ruin their lives."

I stood up and walked around the desk, perching on the edge directly in front of her. I was close enough to smell her perfume—something floral and expensive, probably French. Close enough to see the individual tears clinging to her lashes.

"Anything?" I asked softly. "You'd do anything?"

She looked up at me, her eyes swimming with desperation. "Yes. Anything. Name it. I'll do it."

I reached out and took her chin in my hand, tilting her face up to meet my gaze. Her skin was impossibly soft, warm despite her fear. "Stand up," I commanded.

She stood on unsteady legs, her boots clicking against the hardwood floor.

"Take off your dress."

Her eyes went wide. "What?"

"You heard me. Remove your dress. Now. Or I make the call to the Dean's office."

For a moment, I thought she might refuse. I thought she might choose prison over degradation. But then her hands moved to the hem of her sweater dress, and she pulled it up and over her head, dropping it to the floor.

She stood before me in nothing but a black lace bra and matching thong, her boots still on her feet. Her body was even more spectacular than I'd imagined—flawless golden skin, a flat stomach with the hint of abdominal definition, hips that curved invitingly, and those magnificent breasts heaving with each panicked breath.

"Turn around," I ordered.

She turned slowly, revealing an ass that defied description—round, firm, perfectly shaped, the black lace of her thong disappearing between the cheeks. I wanted to bite it, spank it, claim it.

"Do you know what I'm going to do to you, Victoria?" I asked, my voice dropping to a growl.

She shook her head, her back still to me.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll never forget. You're going to be my personal fuck-toy, available to me whenever and however I want. You're going to submit to me completely—your mouth, your pussy, your ass. All of it belongs to me now. And in exchange, I keep your secret. I destroy the evidence. You walk away free, your future intact, your family's reputation preserved."

I walked around to face her, letting my eyes roam freely over her nearly naked body. Her nipples were hard beneath the lace, straining against the fabric. Whether from fear or arousal, I couldn't tell. Probably both.

"Tell me you understand," I said, reaching out to cup her breast through the bra. She gasped at my touch, her body jerking slightly.

"I understand," she whispered.

"Tell me you agree."

"I agree. I'll do whatever you want."

"Good girl." I pinched her nipple hard through the lace, making her yelp. "Now get on your knees."

She sank to the floor without hesitation, looking up at me with those tear-filled green eyes. I unbuckled my belt slowly, watching her watch me. I unbuttoned my trousers and lowered the zipper, letting my pants fall to my knees. I wasn't wearing underwear—I'd planned this too carefully for that.

My cock sprang free, already semi-hard and growing rapidly. I'm not a small man—eight and a half inches fully erect, thick enough that I've had partners struggle to take me completely. Victoria's eyes widened as she took in the sight, her lips parting slightly.

"Have you ever sucked cock before, Victoria?" I asked, gripping the base of my shaft and slapping it against her cheek. The sound was sharp, satisfying.

"Yes," she breathed.

"How many?"

"Three. Four including my high school boyfriend."

"Did you swallow?"

"Sometimes."

"Did you let them fuck your face? Use your throat like a pussy?"

She shook her head, her eyes never leaving my cock. "No. They were... gentler."

I laughed, a harsh sound. "Gentle is over, Victoria. From now on, you take my cock however I give it to you. Open your mouth."

She obeyed, her pink lips parting. I guided the head of my cock between them, feeling the wet heat of her mouth envelop me. She began to suck tentatively, her tongue swirling around the tip, her hands coming up to grip my thighs.

I grabbed a fistful of her honey-blonde hair and yanked her head back, making her cry out around my cock. "Hands behind your back," I commanded. "You don't touch me unless I say so."

She complied, clasping her hands behind her, thrusting her chest out. The position made her look even more vulnerable, more submissive. I began to thrust into her mouth, slowly at first, feeding her inch by inch.

"Look at me," I ordered. "Eyes up."

She raised her gaze to meet mine, and the sight of her—on her knees, my cock in her mouth, tears still drying on her cheeks—was almost enough to make me cum right then. I tightened my grip on her hair and began to fuck her mouth in earnest.

I wasn't gentle. I didn't ease her into it. I thrust deep, feeling the head of my cock press against the back of her throat, hearing her gag and choke around me. Saliva spilled from her lips, coating my shaft, dripping down her chin onto her perfect tits. I held her head still and thrust harder, faster, using her mouth for my pleasure.

"That's it," I grunted. "Take it all, you little thief. Choke on my cock. This is what happens to bad girls who get caught."

She was gagging continuously now, her throat constricting around me, tears streaming down her face anew. But she didn't try to pull away. She took it, submitting to the face-fucking, her body trembling but her mouth working obediently.

I pulled out suddenly, leaving her gasping for air, her chest heaving. My cock was slick with her spit, throbbing and angry-looking. I slapped it against her face, leaving wet marks on her cheeks, her forehead, her lips.

"Stick out your tongue," I commanded.

She did, and I rested my heavy balls on her tongue, letting her feel my weight. "Lick them," I ordered. "Worship them."

She began to lick and suck at my balls, her tongue darting out to bathe them, her lips kissing and nuzzling. I gripped my cock and stroked it slowly, watching her work. She was eager now, desperate to please, her earlier resistance completely gone.

"Good girl," I murmured. "Now back to my cock. Take it deep this time. I want to feel your throat."

I guided my cock back into her mouth and thrust deep, feeling her throat open around me, the tight muscles contracting. I held myself there, buried to the root, cutting off her air. She panicked slightly, her hands twitching behind her back, but I held her firm.

"Stay still," I growled. "Take it. Be a good little cock-sucker."

I held her there for ten seconds, fifteen, twenty, watching her face turn red, her eyes watering. Then I pulled back, letting her gasp and cough, strings of saliva connecting her lips to my cock.

"Again," I said, and thrust deep once more.

I face-fucked her for what felt like an hour, though it was probably only fifteen minutes. I varied the pace—sometimes hard and fast, brutal thrusts that made her choke and sob; sometimes slow and deep, holding myself in her throat until she squirmed. I called her names—slut, whore, thief, my personal fuck-toy. She took it all, her submission complete.

When I felt my orgasm building, I pulled out and stroked myself furiously. "Open your mouth," I commanded. "Stick out your tongue. I want you to taste me."

She obeyed, her face upturned, her mouth open wide. I groaned and exploded, thick ropes of cum shooting across her face, her tongue, her lips. I painted her with my seed—across her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, filling her mouth until it overflowed. It was the most massive orgasm I'd had in years, spurt after spurt covering her beautiful face.

When I finished, I was breathing hard, my cock still twitching. Victoria sat back on her heels, her face glazed with my cum, looking dazed and used and absolutely gorgeous.

"Don't move," I ordered, reaching for my phone. I took several photos of her—her face covered in cum, her lingerie-clad body on display, her hands still obediently behind her back. More leverage. More evidence of her submission.

"Now," I said, tucking myself back into my pants, "clean yourself up. Use your fingers. I want you to eat every drop."

She hesitated, then began to scoop my cum from her face with her fingers, bringing them to her mouth and sucking them clean. She swallowed it all, her throat working, her eyes locked on mine. When she finished, her face was mostly clean, though her hair was still matted and her makeup smeared.

"Stand up," I said.

She rose on shaky legs, and I reached out to cup her pussy through her thong. She was soaked—the lace was completely drenched, her arousal evident. I smiled, pressing my palm against her, feeling her heat.

"You're enjoying this," I observed. "You like being used, don't you? You like being my little whore."

She didn't answer, but her hips bucked involuntarily against my hand.

"Answer me," I demanded, slipping my fingers beneath the lace to touch her bare flesh. She was dripping wet, her pussy lips swollen and hot.

"Yes," she whispered. "I like it. I don't know why, but I do."

"Because you're a natural submissive," I told her, pushing two fingers inside her tight channel. She moaned, her head falling back, her hands clutching at my shoulders. "You've been waiting for someone to take control. To make you theirs. And now you are mine, Victoria. Every hole. Every inch of you. Mine to use as I please."

I finger-fucked her slowly, curling my fingers to find her G-spot, watching her writhe against me. She was tight—incredibly tight—and I couldn't wait to feel that heat around my cock.

"Please," she whimpered. "Please, Professor..."

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me. I need you inside me."

I withdrew my fingers and brought them to her lips. "Taste yourself first. Show me what a dirty girl you are."

She sucked my fingers clean, her eyes closing in apparent pleasure at her own taste. When she finished, I spun her around and bent her over my desk, kicking her legs apart with my feet.

"Stay just like that," I ordered, moving to the door to ensure it was locked. When I returned, the sight before me nearly made me cum again—Victoria Ashford, bent over my desk in nothing but a black lace thong and knee-high boots, her perfect ass presented for my pleasure, her golden skin glowing in the lamplight.

I approached her slowly, running my hands over her ass, squeezing the firm flesh, spreading her cheeks to see the tiny strip of lace disappearing between them. I snapped the thong against her skin, making her yelp, then I pulled it aside to reveal her pussy.

She was shaved bare, her lips pink and glistening, her arousal dripping down her thighs. I ran a finger along her slit, gathering her wetness, then pressed against her tight entrance.

"You're going to take my cock now," I told her. "All of it. And you're going to thank me for it."

"Yes," she moaned, pushing back against my finger. "Please, Professor. Fuck me. Use me."

I unzipped my pants completely and kicked them off, then positioned myself behind her. I gripped my cock and rubbed the head against her entrance, teasing her, making her whine with need.

"Beg for it," I commanded.

"Please," she sobbed. "Please fuck me, Professor Thorne. I need your cock inside me. I'm yours. Please..."

I thrust forward in one powerful motion, burying myself to the hilt in her tight, wet heat.

Victoria screamed, her hands clawing at the desk, her back arching. She was impossibly tight, her pussy gripping my cock like a velvet vice. I gave her a moment to adjust, feeling her walls flutter around me, then I began to move.

I fucked her hard and deep, each thrust slamming against her cervix, making her cry out. The desk shook beneath us, books and papers falling to the floor. I didn't care. I gripped her hips and pounded into her, watching my cock disappear into her perfect body, watching her ass jiggle with each impact.

"You're so fucking tight," I grunted. "So fucking wet for me. You love this, don't you? You love being my little fuck-doll."

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, I love it. Fuck me harder. Please, harder."

I obliged, increasing my pace until I was pistoning into her, my balls slapping against her clit with each thrust. She was moaning continuously now, a high, keening sound that echoed in my office. I reached around and grabbed her tits, squeezing them hard through her bra, pinching her nipples until she cried out.

"Touch yourself," I ordered. "Rub your clit. I want you to cum on my cock."

Her hand moved between her legs, and I felt her fingers brush against my shaft as she found her clit. She began to rub herself in tight circles, her hips bucking back to meet my thrusts.

"That's it," I encouraged. "Cum for me, Victoria. Cum like a good little slut. Show me how much you love being fucked by your professor."

Her orgasm hit her like a freight train. She screamed my name—"Professor Thorne! Oh God, Professor!"—and her pussy clamped down on my cock, pulsing and contracting around me. I kept fucking her through it, extending her pleasure, drawing out every spasm.

When she finally collapsed onto the desk, trembling and panting, I pulled out and flipped her over. I wanted to see her face when I finished inside her.

She lay sprawled across my desk, her bra askew, her thong still pulled to the side, her pussy red and swollen and dripping. She looked thoroughly fucked, completely used, and absolutely beautiful.

"Look at me," I commanded, positioning myself between her legs. "I want to see your eyes when I fill you with my cum."

I entered her again, slower this time, savoring the feel of her still-spasming walls. I leaned over her, bracing myself on the desk, and began to thrust with deep, grinding strokes. She wrapped her legs around my waist, her boots digging into my back, and pulled me deeper.

"Tell me you're mine," I growled. "Tell me you belong to me."

"I belong to you," she whispered, her green eyes locked on mine. "I'm yours, Professor. Completely yours. Use me however you want."

Her words sent me over the edge. I thrust deep one final time and erupted, my cock pulsing as I flooded her tight pussy with my seed. It seemed to go on forever, spurt after spurt filling her, marking her as mine. When I finally finished, I stayed inside her, enjoying the warmth, the closeness, the complete possession.

I kissed her then—our first kiss, rough and demanding, my tongue claiming her mouth just as my cock had claimed her body. She responded eagerly, her tongue tangling with mine, her hands running through my hair.

When I finally pulled out, I watched my cum leak from her swollen pussy, dripping onto my desk. The sight was obscene, perfect, exactly what I'd fantasized about for months.

"You're not done yet," I told her, tucking myself back into my pants. "Get dressed—except for your panties. Leave those off. You're coming to my house tonight. We're just getting started."

My home is a restored Victorian in the historic district, a twenty-minute drive from campus. Victoria followed me in her silver Lexus, her face still flushed, her panties in my pocket as a trophy. I spent the drive planning the rest of the night—everything I would do to her, every way I would claim her.

By the time we arrived, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets gleaming in the streetlights. I led her inside, watching her take in the space—the high ceilings, the antique furniture, the fireplace already lit in anticipation of her arrival.

"Take off your dress," I ordered, pouring myself a glass of scotch. "Leave the boots on."

She complied, standing naked in my living room except for the black knee-high boots. Her body was even more spectacular in the warm light—her breasts high and firm, her waist narrow, her hips flaring into that perfect ass. Her pussy was still swollen from our earlier fucking, glistening with my cum and her arousal.

"Go to the bedroom," I instructed. "Second door on the left. Kneel beside the bed and wait for me."

She walked away, her hips swaying, and I took a long sip of my scotch, savoring the burn. This was happening. This was real. Victoria Ashford was mine for the night, and I intended to use every minute.

When I entered the bedroom, she was exactly where I'd told her to be—kneeling on the floor, her hands clasped in her lap, her head bowed. The submissive posture made my cock stir again, already recovering from our earlier activities.

I had prepared for this. On the bed were the items I'd purchased earlier that week—handcuffs, a blindfold, a riding crop, a collar and leash, various toys. Victoria's eyes widened when she saw them, but she didn't speak.

"Stand up," I commanded.

She rose gracefully, her nipples hardening in the cool air. I approached her slowly, circling her like a predator examining prey. I ran my hands over her body—her shoulders, her breasts, her waist, her ass—memorizing every curve, every inch.