Five on the body

The summer afternoon hung over Professor Samsonov's dacha with a heavy heat. The taxi stopped at the wrought-iron gates, and the student Sasha got out: eighteen years old, short platinum hair, a white tight-fitting top, and denim shorts that barely covered the tops of her thighs. In her hand, she held a thin plastic folder with her grade book.

Sasha approached the intercom, rose on her tiptoes so the camera could catch her face, and smiled as if she already knew how it would all end.

A second later, the heavy gates slowly

slid open. Sasha inhaled the hot air, adjusted her hair, glanced once more at her reflection in the taxi's dark window, and, without looking back, walked along the gravel path to the house. The heels of her sandals clicked confidently, as if counting down the last seconds before the start of an exam she intended to pass at any cost.

Sergey Viktorovich was waiting for her on the spacious terrace overlooking the pool. The sun beat directly onto the white tiles, reflected off the water, and blinded the eyes. He sat in a wicker chair, wearing a dark blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows and formal trousers, as if he had come not to the dacha but to a dissertation defense. On his nose were thin glasses with a metal frame, in his hands a cup of coffee from which he hadn't taken a single sip.

Sasha came out of the house through the glass door, unhurriedly. Her hair was slightly tousled by the wind, the top clung tightly to her chest, and the shorts sat so low that with every step, a thin strip of tanned skin above the waistband was visible. She stopped two meters away from him, placed the folder on the glass table, and smiled that very smile that made half the course's blood pressure instantly drop.

— Good afternoon, Sergey Viktorovich. Thank you for seeing me so quickly.

He nodded curtly, without getting up, and pointed to the chair opposite.

— Sit down. I hope you've prepared.

Sasha sat down, not just sat, but settled in as if posing for a magazine: one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out and slowly crossed with the first. She opened the folder, but instead of notes and exam tickets, she pulled out a small silver can of whipped cream.

Sergey Viktorovich frowned.

— Voronova, what is this?

— This is... supplementary material, — she replied calmly and pressed the button. A white stream of cream shot upward. Sasha held her index finger under it, then slowly licked it, never taking her eyes off the professor. — I thought that theory without practice is dead theory.

He swallowed, set the cup on the table so sharply that coffee splashed over the rim.

— Sasha, I don't understand what you're getting at.

— I'm getting at this, — she stood up, came closer, stopped half a meter from his knees, — that I'm ready to take the exam right now. At any cost. I'm not at all opposed to... delving deeper into the subject.

With these words, she grabbed the hem of her top and pulled it off over her head in one motion. The white fabric fell onto the tiles. Her chest was now right at his eye level: small, firm, with pale pink nipples already hardened from the cool breeze and her own excitement.

Sergey Viktorovich leaned back in his chair as if wanting to move away, but his back hit the wicker backrest. His voice became hoarse:

— Voronova... this is unacceptable.

— Unacceptable? — Sasha leaned a little closer, placed her palms on his knees and spread them apart, standing between them. — But leaving a student without a grade right before the end of the session is acceptable?

She knelt down right on the hot tiles. The sun beat on her back, her skin glistened. Her fingers slid to his belt.

— Sasha...

— Shh, — she whispered, looking up at him. — Now comes the practical part. And I am a very, very diligent student.

Sergey Viktorovich still tried to resist, but only with words now. Sasha, kneeling between his spread legs, unbuckled his belt with one precise movement, as if she had done it a thousand times. Her fingers were cool from the tiles, and when she ran them along the inside of his thigh, he shuddered so hard that the coffee in the cup sloshed.

She looked up — her eyes held everything: audacity, promise, and the absolute confidence of a winner. Then she slowly pulled down the zipper of his trousers. The sound of metal cut through the hot air. The professor instinctively gripped the armrests of the chair, his knuckles whitening slightly.

Sasha was in no hurry. First, she simply ran her palm over the bulge through the fabric of his underwear, feeling how his cock, already hard, hot, twitched under her hand. Then she leaned down and pressed her lips to that bulge right through the fabric — warm, moist breath penetrated the cotton. Sergey Viktorovich exhaled something like "God..." and closed his eyes.

She pulled the waistband of his underwear down, and the man's cock sprang free, heavy, with a swollen head. Sasha licked her lips as if before the most delicious dessert, and with the first touch of her tongue, collected the clear drop at the tip. The professor jerked his whole body.

She took him into her mouth slowly, halfway, then deeper — so deep that she felt the head press against her palate. Her lips closed tightly, her tongue began to circle. Sergey Viktorovich let out a low, stifled moan — a sound he probably never allowed himself in front of people in his life.

— Look at me, Sergey Viktorovich. This is your favorite subject, after all... observing the process.

He opened his eyes — cloudy, the eyes of a lost man — and saw her lips enveloping him again, her cheeks hollowing, how she looked directly at him and still managed to smile with the corners of her eyes.

At some point, Sasha felt he was on the edge: his thighs trembled, his fingers in her hair clenched to the point of pain. She released him for a second, rose higher, pressed her chest against his knees, and whispered right against the head:

— Not yet. First, you'll give me my grade... then I'll let you come.

And she took him into her mouth again — deeper than before, so deep that he saw her throat expand. Sergey Viktorovich arched up from the chair and made a sound that was no longer human — long, hoarse, full of surrender.

Sasha didn't even let him catch his breath.

She rose from her knees, grabbed Sergey Viktorovich by the tie — the only thing still in order on him — and pulled him up. He stood, swaying, shirt unbuttoned, trousers down to his knees, cock still hard, glistening with her saliva. Sasha turned him around, his back to the wide wicker lounger right by the pool's edge, and with one push, sat him down — dropped him onto his back.

A second — and she was already standing over him, legs on either side of his hips. The sun beat directly onto her body: small breasts with hard nipples, flat stomach, thighs covered in an even tan. She slowly pulled off her tiny shorts — there was indeed nothing underneath. Shaved, smooth, already wet vulva.

Sergey Viktorovich looked up from below, as if hypnotized. His glasses had finally slipped off and fallen onto the tiles. Sasha crouched over him, took his cock in her hand, and ran the head along her lips — up and down, smearing her own wetness. He exhaled something incoherent.

— Now the most important practical lesson, professor, — she said and slowly, very slowly, lowered herself.

The first centimeter — he already growled.

The second — he grabbed her hips so hard that white finger marks were left.

When she sat all the way down, taking him completely, both froze for a second: she — enjoying how he filled her, he — because it was too much, too sudden.

Then Sasha began to move.

The pace increased.

She switched to short, hard thrusts, kneeling over him and literally impaling herself from above. Her breasts bounced, her hair became disheveled, drops of sweat rolled down her back. Sergey Viktorovich was no longer a man — a beast: he growled with each exhale, digging his fingers into her buttocks, helping her sink deeper, harder.

Sasha leaned forward, pressed his wrists to the lounger above his head, and whispered right into his lips:

— Louder, Sergey Viktorovich... let the neighbors hear what a strict professor you are.

He growled for real — low, guttural, and began thrusting upward so fiercely that the lounger creaked and began to move across the tiles. The water in the pool splashed in rhythm. Sasha accelerated to the limit, her thighs slapping against his, the sound wet, loud, obscene.

The last seconds she spent sitting fully on him, moving only her hips back and forth, squeezing him inside her with rhythmic spasms.

Sasha continued to move slowly for a few more seconds, squeezing everything out of him to the last drop, then simply froze, sitting on him, feeling him pulse inside.

Silence.

Only heavy breathing and the distant hum of cicadas.

She leaned down, kissed his parched lips, and said quietly:

— A-plus, professor. The grade is definitely mine now.

Another ten minutes passed.

Sergey Viktorovich lay there beside himself: his shirt was torn, hair disheveled, eyes cloudy. He lay on his back on the lounger, and Sasha, still naked and glistening with sweat, turned her back to him and mounted him again, but now facing the pool.

She lowered herself slowly, guiding his still-hard cock into her. When he was fully inside, she exhaled through her teeth and arched her back, thrusting her buttocks upward. The professor gripped her hips with both hands, his fingers digging into her skin leaving red marks.

The lounger creaked and moved across the tiles. The water in the pool splashed from their rhythm. Sasha sped up: up — *slap* — down, up — *slap* — down. Her buttocks slapped loudly, obscenely against his thighs. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his knees to make the angle even deeper, even harder.

Sergey Viktorovich no longer spoke — only wheezed and growled. His hips rose to meet hers on their own, trying not to let her escape when she "popped off" again. Once, she rose so high that the man's cock slipped out completely and slapped against his stomach. Sasha laughed lowly, took it in her hand, held it upright, and impaled herself again — sharply, to the hilt. He howled.

Sergey Viktorovich remained lying there with his cock, indecently erect and trembling, covered in her juices. Sasha turned around, knelt between his legs right on the hot tiles, and took him into her mouth — deep, straight to her throat.

Two or three movements were enough.

He roared, grabbed her hair with both hands, and began to come — with powerful, long spurts. Sasha didn't pull away: she held him deep, swallowed everything he spilled until the last drops trickled onto her tongue.

When he went limp, she slowly pulled his cock out of her mouth, ran her tongue over her lips, collected the remnants, and swallowed. Then she looked up — calm, victorious — and said quietly:

— Put the grade in, Sergey Viktorovich. And make the signature bigger, please.

He, still breathing heavily, reached a trembling hand toward the table where the grade book lay, opened it with shaking fingers, and, without getting up, wrote a bold "excellent" and a sweeping signature. Sasha stood up, pulled on only her shorts — the top remained on the tiles — and walked toward the house, swaying her hips. Semen still glistened on her stomach and chest, a drop slowly rolling toward her navel.

At the very door, she turned around:

— Thank you for your objectivity, professor. Until next semester.

And she disappeared behind the glass door, leaving him lying there, a naked, broken man who had just received the most expensive grade of his life.