25-10-2025, 03:57 PM
Part 1: MRS Sharma
The grandfather clock in Professor Sharma’s office chimed five times, its brass pendulum slicing through the silence like a guillotine. 45 year old Manjula Sharma traced the condensation on her teacup—cold Darjeeling, untouched since her last seminar on Kashmir’s geopolitical fractures. Razak lingered by the door after the others fled, his lean frame blocking the exit. "Your lecture on colonial trauma," he said, voice low and deliberate, "it felt personal. Like you were dissecting my bones."
He moved before she could protest, pinning her against the oak desk. His fingers dug into her hips, possessive and unyielding. When his mouth crashed against hers, she tasted mint and the ghost of nicotine—a student’s rebellion. "Professor Sharma," he growled against her neck, biting the tendon there. The honorific twisted into something filthy, a weapon. Her sari’s silk tore under his grip, exposing her shoulder.
Her gasp dissolved into a moan as his hand slid beneath her waistband. Calloused fingers found her wetness, circling with brutal precision. She arched, desk edge digging into her spine—pain and pleasure flaring in equal measure. "You debate liberation theories," he murmured, thrusting two fingers deep, "but you’ve never felt occupied." His thumb pressed her clit, and she shuddered, thighs trembling.
He unbuckled his jeans with his free hand, freeing his cock—hard and thick. No preamble. He shoved her blouse aside, yanked her hips forward, and entered her in one vicious stroke. The stretch burned; she cried out, nails scbanging wood. "Look at me," he commanded, slamming deeper. Her vision blurred. Each thrust echoed the clock’s pendulum—methodical, relentless. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto her collarbone.
"Professor," he rasped, pounding into her cervix. The title was spit, a brand. She came violently, walls clenching around him, as the clock chimed a sixth time. Razak didn’t slow. His hips pistoned, driving her into the desk with each impact. Outside, student protests chanted for autonomy. Inside, Manjula surrendered to the invasion, her moans syncopating with their cries.
He withdrew abruptly, leaving her hollowed and dripping. Before she could gasp, Razak shoved her shoulders down—not onto the desk, but onto the worn Persian rug smelling of old tea and dust. Her knees hit the hardwood as he stood over her, cock glistening with her slick. "Open," he commanded, thumb pressing her lower lip. She obeyed, tongue flat, eyes fixed on the vein pulsing beneath his skin. The taste flooded her mouth—salt, musk from her pussy earlier. He gripped her hair, forcing her deeper onto his length until her throat spasmed.
As she choked, tears blurring the carved desk legs above her, Razak spoke. His voice was calm, conversational, while his hips rocked into her face. "Beijing approved the grant." Each thrust punctuated his words. "Five hundred thousand USD." Manjula gagged, saliva dripping onto the rug. "For your Kashmir oral histories project." He pulled her head back just enough to let her breathe, her lips swollen. "The Cultural Preservation Initiative wired it yesterday." She stared up, incredulous. The Chinese organization—the one requiring "neutral" scholarship—had stonewalled her for months. Razak smirked, pushing her down again. "I convinced them," he said, fingers tightening in her hair. "Told them you’d document... *cooperation*."
Her mind reeled between humiliation and elation. The research—her life’s work—funded. But the cost? His cock slid over her tongue, heavy and claiming. She sucked reflexively, the act now threaded with complicity. Razak groaned, hips stuttering. "Good," he murmured, watching her. "Now you understand occupation." His release hit the back of her throat, bitter and warm. She swallowed, the check’s ink-stained promise burning hotter than his semen.
Razak stood relaxed, his breathing steadying, but his dick still throbbed against her lips. Manjula kept her mouth open, catching the last pulses. The taste—salty, metallic—mixed with the rug’s dust. She started sucking his dick gently, cleaning remnants of cum from his shaft with slow, deliberate strokes of her tongue. Her focus narrowed to the ridge beneath his glans, the faint tremor in his thigh muscles. She licked upward, a careful sweep, gathering the slick residue. Her jaw ached, but she persisted, the rhythm almost meditative. Above her, Razak sighed, fingers loosening in her hair.
"Stand up," he ordered, voice rough but calm. She rose unsteadily, knees protesting. He didn’t touch her, just watched as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The silence stretched, broken only by distant chants from the quad. "The grant requires oversight," he stated, buckling his jeans. "My oversight." He gestured to her torn sari. "Fix yourself." As she fumbled with the silk, he added, "We meet weekly. Here. To discuss your... methodology." His smile was thin. "Thursdays. Five o’clock."
Manjula nodded, numb. The desk clock ticked. Her throat still burned, her lips felt bruised. Yet beneath the violation, a treacherous flicker ignited—not just relief for her work, but the raw, undeniable thrill of his control. She met his gaze. "Understood," she whispered. Outside, the protesters’ cries for freedom swelled. Inside, her own liberation felt terrifyingly different.
The grandfather clock in Professor Sharma’s office chimed five times, its brass pendulum slicing through the silence like a guillotine. 45 year old Manjula Sharma traced the condensation on her teacup—cold Darjeeling, untouched since her last seminar on Kashmir’s geopolitical fractures. Razak lingered by the door after the others fled, his lean frame blocking the exit. "Your lecture on colonial trauma," he said, voice low and deliberate, "it felt personal. Like you were dissecting my bones."
He moved before she could protest, pinning her against the oak desk. His fingers dug into her hips, possessive and unyielding. When his mouth crashed against hers, she tasted mint and the ghost of nicotine—a student’s rebellion. "Professor Sharma," he growled against her neck, biting the tendon there. The honorific twisted into something filthy, a weapon. Her sari’s silk tore under his grip, exposing her shoulder.
Her gasp dissolved into a moan as his hand slid beneath her waistband. Calloused fingers found her wetness, circling with brutal precision. She arched, desk edge digging into her spine—pain and pleasure flaring in equal measure. "You debate liberation theories," he murmured, thrusting two fingers deep, "but you’ve never felt occupied." His thumb pressed her clit, and she shuddered, thighs trembling.
He unbuckled his jeans with his free hand, freeing his cock—hard and thick. No preamble. He shoved her blouse aside, yanked her hips forward, and entered her in one vicious stroke. The stretch burned; she cried out, nails scbanging wood. "Look at me," he commanded, slamming deeper. Her vision blurred. Each thrust echoed the clock’s pendulum—methodical, relentless. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto her collarbone.
"Professor," he rasped, pounding into her cervix. The title was spit, a brand. She came violently, walls clenching around him, as the clock chimed a sixth time. Razak didn’t slow. His hips pistoned, driving her into the desk with each impact. Outside, student protests chanted for autonomy. Inside, Manjula surrendered to the invasion, her moans syncopating with their cries.
He withdrew abruptly, leaving her hollowed and dripping. Before she could gasp, Razak shoved her shoulders down—not onto the desk, but onto the worn Persian rug smelling of old tea and dust. Her knees hit the hardwood as he stood over her, cock glistening with her slick. "Open," he commanded, thumb pressing her lower lip. She obeyed, tongue flat, eyes fixed on the vein pulsing beneath his skin. The taste flooded her mouth—salt, musk from her pussy earlier. He gripped her hair, forcing her deeper onto his length until her throat spasmed.
As she choked, tears blurring the carved desk legs above her, Razak spoke. His voice was calm, conversational, while his hips rocked into her face. "Beijing approved the grant." Each thrust punctuated his words. "Five hundred thousand USD." Manjula gagged, saliva dripping onto the rug. "For your Kashmir oral histories project." He pulled her head back just enough to let her breathe, her lips swollen. "The Cultural Preservation Initiative wired it yesterday." She stared up, incredulous. The Chinese organization—the one requiring "neutral" scholarship—had stonewalled her for months. Razak smirked, pushing her down again. "I convinced them," he said, fingers tightening in her hair. "Told them you’d document... *cooperation*."
Her mind reeled between humiliation and elation. The research—her life’s work—funded. But the cost? His cock slid over her tongue, heavy and claiming. She sucked reflexively, the act now threaded with complicity. Razak groaned, hips stuttering. "Good," he murmured, watching her. "Now you understand occupation." His release hit the back of her throat, bitter and warm. She swallowed, the check’s ink-stained promise burning hotter than his semen.
Razak stood relaxed, his breathing steadying, but his dick still throbbed against her lips. Manjula kept her mouth open, catching the last pulses. The taste—salty, metallic—mixed with the rug’s dust. She started sucking his dick gently, cleaning remnants of cum from his shaft with slow, deliberate strokes of her tongue. Her focus narrowed to the ridge beneath his glans, the faint tremor in his thigh muscles. She licked upward, a careful sweep, gathering the slick residue. Her jaw ached, but she persisted, the rhythm almost meditative. Above her, Razak sighed, fingers loosening in her hair.
"Stand up," he ordered, voice rough but calm. She rose unsteadily, knees protesting. He didn’t touch her, just watched as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The silence stretched, broken only by distant chants from the quad. "The grant requires oversight," he stated, buckling his jeans. "My oversight." He gestured to her torn sari. "Fix yourself." As she fumbled with the silk, he added, "We meet weekly. Here. To discuss your... methodology." His smile was thin. "Thursdays. Five o’clock."
Manjula nodded, numb. The desk clock ticked. Her throat still burned, her lips felt bruised. Yet beneath the violation, a treacherous flicker ignited—not just relief for her work, but the raw, undeniable thrill of his control. She met his gaze. "Understood," she whispered. Outside, the protesters’ cries for freedom swelled. Inside, her own liberation felt terrifyingly different.
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