Prof! Harry part 3 (Patreon)

this is a lil steamy :-) 

(thanks for being patient with me, midterms were a jerk!)

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iii.

Harry knows that sexual dreams normally have some form of a metaphor behind them; their connotations rarely limit themselves to a mindless erotic fantasy. For someone to have a dream in which they are in the midst of such an intimate act, it must have been on their mind for some time, and if not for a long time, then it was an ever-present torrent of emotion that they were experiencing. They could aspire to be like that person, or feel ineffably close to the other in the dream. Maybe they’ve had feelings for this person and their subconscious mind is wrestling with the ideations, making them a reality if only for a moment that they could pretend that it was real. 

Whatever the backing, Harry is a hundred percent sure that you’re not meant to have these types of dreams about your student. Furthermore, he shouldn’t be having these dreams when she’s sleeping off vodka shots on his couch. 

Yet here he was, breathless, heart hammering and mind reeling as he peeled his sleep heavy lids open to the ceiling fan in his room. He was moist from sweat, his body was flushed red like he’d been pawing at himself in his sleep, and every nerve on his body was awake -- he could feel everything. The cool air whipping from the fan blades, the touch of his sheets against his skin, the energy that the room possessed -- vibrating and erratic. And Harry felt the heavyweight of his cock between his thighs, the tip ruddy and engorged, his balls swollen. His mind was tainted with pure smut; filth and obscenities that would make even the most well-acquainted with sex blush. 

He was barely awake -- teetering on the edge of consciousness and falling back into the blissful outlet of his dreams -- but his hand migrated in the flow of where all his blood had been directed. He’s dizzy with want, dripping with need. The head of his cock had never been so slick and slippery with his own juices, at the mere idea of taking Y/N in bed. In his dream he’d had himself deep inside of her warm, soaked walls, pulsating with need, squeezing around him like it was coaxing him even deeper. Her moans sounded like they were crafted by devious angels, a siren’s song to lull him and his being into another plane of existence. She dug her nails into his shoulder blades, she rocked her hips against him in an effort to meet his thrusts, Harry whined into her plushy mouth as he took her breast into his hand, kneading the flesh as it bounced. 

“You’re perfect,” he remembered moaning, “God, you’re so fucking perfect.” 

Mentally, it was too much for him to comprehend being half awake. 

Physically, he needed to cum or he thinks he might just explode. 

His fingers lace around his cock in no manner of calm and teasing as he normally does when he’s touching himself. No, his grasp is firm and unyielding on his poor prick, slicking up his own juices as lube which makes an incredibly filthy noise. Toes curling into the mattress, he digs his teeth into his bottom lip to stifle the pitiful whimpers threatening to exist his throat. The blood roars in his ears, every single nerve-ending sizzle with a fiery pleasure that he soaks in. It feels so good -- he doesn’t think that it’s ever felt this good before -- it nearly takes the breath away from him. 

His hand is sticky and slippery, his whole body is so tensed up he wouldn’t be surprised if he caught a cramp. Every part of him is fully awake apart from his brain, which is still chugging to catch up with his movements. He’s going to cum. . .he’s going to cum so hard, all because of --

“Dr. Styles?” A voice emits from the bottom of the stairs, and a shiver rattles through his being, “Can I come up?” 

Harry would have just thought it was some trick from his mind -- that he’d conjured up something to push himself just right over the edge -- but it becomes very clear that this isn’t the case once he begins thinking. The voice that calls to him is the same voice that he recognizes calling him Dr. Styles in his office hours, even when he questions her why she insists on the Dr. knowing that he doesn’t have his Ph.D. “I think it just suits you better than Professor Styles is all.” 

He removes his hand from his cock and contemplates on lying to her but what if she had heard the bed creaking? Had he been cursing or speaking without noticing? He takes a shaky breath as he looks down, his cock creating a very noticeable indent in the covers, and he quickly turns on his side, bunching his sheets around so that it is more so obscured, “You can.” He responds, his voice croaky and low and he suppresses a full-body shudder -- the way the sheets are sliding against him drags him makes him realize that he was so sensitive, he could cum from just that alone. 

The wooden stairs creak soundly as she takes them, Harry fluffs the covers a little around his groin and cuddles deeper into the pillow, watching the door with worry melting through his being. She appears only a few moments later, looking a bit disheveled, hair dragged up in a messy ponytail and the throw blanket that he had given her is wrapped around her body loosely. Harry can tell that she didn’t have her pants on, her legs bare -- he tries not to think anything filthy. She pouts her lip out, “M’so embarrassed —“ she begins, stepping deeper into his room, “I’m sorry about last night, I was like — I pregamed with about four shots and then had two fruity cocktails so I don’t know how present I was, but I’d been sober enough to remember that...oh god, to remember everything.” 

“Don’t be embarrassed, Babe,” he clears his throat, shuffling a little more, trying not to appear incredibly tense, “Everything is okay.” 

Y/N shuffled in further, the door groaned a bit as she pushed past it, “It’s not though —“ She reaches up and knuckles at her eye, sniffling, “I don’t want you to hate me. I promise it’s only a crush.”

Harry cards his hair from his face, his whole body thrumming — how could she still think that he could hate her? That his response was because he was making a desperate attempt not to do anything stupid, “Sweetheart, I promise you that I don’t hate you and it’s okay that you have a crush. It’s flattering and…” he swipes the back of his hand over his dry mouth, only debating for a moment if it was worth saying — it was nowhere near appropriate but he couldn’t handle her thinking that he disliked her in any way, “...and if circumstances were any different, this would be something I’d pursue, but — I’m your professor. I don’t want things to get...it would be difficult.” He sighs heavily, “You’re incredible, you must know that. You’re bright and smart and so sweet, I reckon you’d give me a toothache if you had the chance to, so trust me — I could never hate you. Quite the opposite actually.”

Her face appears sad almost, as she slinks further into his room, walking towards his bed and her arms along with the blanket, fan out over him. She drags him into a hug, her arms sling around his neck, her face in his chest, “This is ass,” she murmurs, and Harry laughs in spite of the both of them, reciprocating the hug. However, he had momentarily forgotten about his problem, until she kneed up closer on the bed and her thigh brushes against where his cock had been nestled and cuddled. Something between a moan and a whimper and Y/N makes a small noise of her own, brows raising as she lifted some and looked between them. 

“Oh,” she comments, eyes flickering up this his now embarrassed gaze, realization flushing over him, “You’re —“

“I’m sorry,” he rushes, shaking his head, “I woke up with it and—“

“It’s okay! I promise, it’s natural, I just —“ she breathes a shuddered breath, “I should probably leave ‘cos I really wanna help but….but I can't right? That’d be crossing a line?”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, “Fuck,” a poignant fluttered energy sizzles, like molten heat that makes his cock twitch, “Yes—yes it would be...it would be bad.” 

“Yeah,” she nods in agreement but makes no move to leave the bed, “I could. . .I could stay and watch though, right? If I kept my hands to myself?” Harry shudders at the honeyed tone of her voice, his breathing bated as she tugs the blanket closer to her body, pulling her feet up onto the mattress with him and crawling over his body, getting comfortable on his bed beside him. She gives him the semblance of a choice but her decision is already made. “That’s not as bad.”

It is. . .god, they’re crossing so many lines right now he might as well just erase the line in general.

“Yeah, that’s not as bad,” he murmured, and Y/N took this as her verbal cue to pull the covers that shielded him from her, downward. The fabric glides against his cock and he bites down on his bottom lip, suppressing a mewled noise. His prick first moves in the direction of the sheets to the point where it snapped back toward him, so stiff that he slapped against his abdomen.

Y/N’s eyes go wide, marveling at him, lips parted and head tilted in the way she does when she’s intrigued by something, “Oh wow,” she starts, her gaze flickering to him for only a moment before back toward his groin, “S’even bigger than I thought --” Harry’s eyes flutter shut, “I know it’s inappropriate, but in those pleated trousers -- the tan-ish ones you wear with the striped shirt and the sweater vest -- I can sometimes see you. It makes my mouth water.” 

“Fuck sake,” his hand moves lower, ignoring the logical half of his brain’s last attempt to deter him is overwrought by the passion-driven side of his brain mitigating his actions, “What’re you doing to me, Babe?” 

“Hopefully good things,” she sighs, “Your hands are big so that makes sense. Wouldn’t add up if you had big hands and weren’t massive.” 

Harry had never claimed to lack narcissistic tendencies, and the ego-stroking that accompanies her watching sets him ablaze. He wraps his fingers around the shaft, melting into his own touch as Y/N’s hand falls unto his bare thigh, the pads of her fingers gently digging into the skin. He moves slowly, twisting upward, watching as the skin shifts and a bead of precum appears at his slit. Harry touches at it with his thumb, massaging it around his tip, the muscles in his abdomen tensing in response. 

He’d not thought of himself to be an exhibitionist until the intense rush that evades him when he pulls his eyes from his cock and looks to see Y/N watching him, wonder dancing behind her gaze, want lingering in the way she gnaws at her lips. Harry could cum right there, the buildup from the moment he had opened his eyes threatened to meet its peak as she began to stroke along the sensitive skin of his thigh. Harry mewls, heels digging into the mattress, blood roaring in his ears. 

“I can’t touch,” she reiterates, but she begins to lower, her head dipping down until her breath washes warmly over his prick, “But I really, really want to. . .s’that make me bad? Am I a bad girl?” 

“No,” he answers breathlessly, shaking his head, “You’re so good. Such a good girl.” 

She hums softly, repositioning herself so that she is comfortably reclining on her side, still close enough that if she merely leaned in just a little bit, her lips would be touching his cock. Her eyes follow as he struggles to keep his hips from fucking into his palm, thumb stroking at the sensitive spot where the head meets the shaft, coaxing more precum to bubble and blurt from his slit. The feeling is explosive, the way she regards him as his prick might have the answer to the universe, and she keeps swallowing thickly like her mouth is watering for him. Harry would give anything to have her pretty, bitten swollen lips sliding against him -- or to have them migrate down to his balls, swollen, and full -- heavy in his hand when he reaches down to cup them. 

Harry groans raggedly, bristling when she looks up at him with a small, warm smile, “Your noises are so pretty,” her hand appears from behind the knitting of the blanket, hand settling at his stomach where he’s softer, stroking her fingernails in delicate little designs around the laurel tattoos that frame his hips, goosebumps left in her wake, “I wish we could. . .y’know,” she’s shy -- Y/N’s always been a little shy, and the fact that she is able to sit and watch and touch him while he touches himself, but can’t bring herself to say fuck is equal parts mind fucking as it is precious, “You’d be the biggest I’ve ever had though and I dunno’ if you’d even fit -- but you would feel so good. Oh,” her hand slides down to his thigh, dancing along the fine hairs there, “I’m just so wet thinking about it.” 

And Harry reckons it isn’t fair that she’s the one doing all the teasing -- she knows how to use her words, but he could too couldn’t he? Harry had always garnered compliments about the filth he could spew, but she was certainly giving him a run for his money. But maybe it was the spark that sizzles through his body, or the teasing glint in her eye, or the sudden realization that they had gone too far for him to even continue holding any inhibitions -- words leave him easily then.

“You’re wet, hmm?” He inquires and she nods, “Why don’t you let me see then?” 

Y/N abides his request compliantly, withdrawing from the shielding of the blanket and spreading her thighs for him, showing off the damp front of her white panties, proving that she had not only been wet enough to soak through the front, but the fabric was thin enough that he could make out cunt beneath it. 

If it were possible, Harry feels himself get harder, and as he pauses his right hand on his shaft, he uses his left hand to spread her thigh a little further for him. With his thumb, he just barely grazes over the wet cotton, “Well look at that,” he coos, “You’re this wet for me?” 

She nodded, “I woke up this morning from a dream about you and I’d soaked right through them. You only made me wetter though.”

“So, you’re telling me,” he begins, keeping his hand dormant on both his cock and her thigh, though he does grant himself a little squeeze, “That you were g’na come up and have a conversation with me in these soaked little panties?” 

Y/N pouted her mouth, “I couldn’t leave without apologizing.” 

“I think you’re just a naughty little thing,” he strokes over the swell of her clit, squeezing himself again when she clenches, “Do you wanna cum for me, Sweetheart? Wanna show me how you touch yourself when you have filthy little dreams about your professor?”

Her eyelids flutter, chest heaving, her tongue lulled out over her lips to wet them, but she shakes her head, “I want you to cum. I want you to make me wait for it, even if it’s not today -- want you to edge me until I can’t stand it.” Harry’s eyes nearly roll back into his head, the hand on his cock beginning to move over his cock  again -- she wants him to make her wait, “Want you to tell me it’s yours now and m’not allowed to touch until you say.”                 

To punctuate her statement, she leans forward, and lets a string of saliva slide from her mouth and onto his cock, making the glide slicker and the moan that leaves Harry is obscene but makes her smile. Lightning strikes at all his nerves, dissolving into shockwaves that pool and somersault in his tummy, “You’re g’na make me cum,” he whimpers out, and Y/N doesn’t miss a beat before she is bending in, sliding those swollen, wet, pretty lips around his cock and stroking her tongue against the slit. Harry cums almost instantaneously, toes digging into the mattress, all of the muscles in his body contracting as he empties his load into her more than willing mouth. 

Y/N drinks him in greedily, and what slips from her mouth she licks off his cock without question. Harry is breathless, panting as he looks down at her, where she tucks his softening cock away in his boxers and drags the waistband up just a little. She lies her head on his hip, cheek to his skin and she looks up to him with this moony gaze that has him seeing his own stars. 

“I’m hungry.” She murmurs.