He kept touching me like that for long, torturous minutes. Slow circles. Soft pressure. Occasional dips of his fingers lower to gather more slickness and bring it back to my clit. He never rushed. He never pushed inside. He just worked me with that same focused, academic patience he used when dismantling a bad thesis, until my thighs trembled and my breathing turned ragged and I was fighting the urge to rock against his hand like an animal.

“Professor—”

“Quiet.” The word was soft. Absolute. “You’re not in control of this negotiation anymore. You offered. I’m accepting. On my terms.”

He withdrew his hand. I made a sound of pure...