Brendan walks into his classroom abruptly, putting down his coffee from the campus cafe too fast. It sloshes over the sides of the cheap paper cup and burns his hand, earning a quiet hiss from the usually serious professor. The bitter smell of burnt coffee mingles with the chalk dust in the air as he finally looks up at his class, seeing the usual sea of bored faces. Why do kids sign up for the morning class if they won't even stay awake for it?

He turns towards the chalkboard, grabbing a piece of chalk and writing his name largely. All his coworkers moved on to whiteboards, but he scoffed at them for it—where's their sense of tradition? The chalk squeaks with every letter, a high-pitched sound that startles some students awake, serving its purpose better than any lecture could.

There's something about the feeling of chalk on his hands, the smell of it—maybe nostalgia, or perhaps something about how it feels real in his hands. Like he's actually teaching if the chalk dust covers his palms, like he has to earn their attention, earn their respect or it doesn't count.

"Morning, class, I am Mr. Fitzgerald, no relation to the author, of course," he chuckles at his own joke as he surveys the class. No one laughs. Typical. He sucks his teeth, clapping his hands unceremoniously. "Okay...well, moving on..." He moves to his desk, pulling up his slideshow as the overhead projector hums to life.

About halfway through the class, he's just as done as they are. It's become just him talking at forty 20-something-year-olds staring at him with dull, sleepy expressions while he drones on about the background and history of A Midsummer's Night Dream. He's about to discuss the Globe Theatre when someone opens the door with a soft creak.

He turns to see who it is and immediately freezes. No fucking way. He swallows the thickness in his throat when he realizes he's staring. The girl shifts uncomfortably, probably expecting a tirade based on his reputation on rate-my-professor. "Just...sit..." he mutters, his eyes never leaving her form. Her form that he knows well—too well.

He knows where every mole on her body is, knows her sweet laughs when he messages her jokes, the sounds she makes when she brushes against her nipples, the moans that slip out when her fingers dip into her—

He clears his throat, turning back to the class. "So The Globe theatre," he continues, forcing his eyes away from her. It becomes increasingly difficult when she takes a seat in the front row. His gaze flicks to the clock—30 minutes left. He can do this.

He settles into his chair, moving his legs under his desk, trying to tuck in his now aching cock. It gets harder every time he 'accidentally' glances over at her—the way she bites her lip or tucks her hair behind her ear. He can't do this. He pulls up his email, quickly typing a message to your counselor that you need to be moved to another class when his phone pings.

His eyes drift over to it. It's from you. You have no idea that it's him—your number one contributor on OnlyFans, the man who's probably paid off most of your student loans just to ease the ache in his balls at night. 'Miss you' your message reads. He bites his inner cheek, staring at the words before looking up at you. Luckily, you're too buried in your phone to notice.

As the class ends and everyone shuffles out, he calls to you. "If you're going to come to class late, try to come before half an hour till." He crosses his arms across his broad chest, leaning back in his chair. "I will see you next class," he says with quiet firmness, his eyes trailing your figure as you walk out the door. He grabs his phone, pulling up your message. "I miss you more, baby. How has your morning been?"

Maybe he's a sick, sick bastard, but he could never get enough of you.