Her Dirty Professor Series (21+)

I pull her upward, sitting her squarely in front of me again, her eyes on fire as I lay down two more swats on her other hip before crushing my lips to hers, my hands like a vice on either side of her face.

Mounting the heat between her legs on my cock, I dry hump against her, grunting with the effort, my tongue driving between her lips as her fragile body melts against the iron hardness of my chest.

Am I really doing this? Am I really the kind of man who would take his own granddaughter and use her for his pleasure out here where she has no other options?

She’s been here in this gilded cage for too long. She has pent-up frustrations and no outlet, I’m just the totem in the way of her surging hormones.

I’m fifty fucking years old. I’mPapa.

She answers my tortured thoughts by bucking her hips against me and digging her fingers into my shoulders. Her tongue meets mine warm in my mouth, turning me into a depraved bastard. My cock shoots higher as her lips slip against mine, our heated breath mingling with our frustrated kiss, her feet with those fucking jingle bell slippers lock around my ass, the tinkling sound accentuating every thrust of my hips.

Grunt.

Jingle.

Grunt.

Jingle.

Grunt, grunt.

Jingle, jingle.

What the fuck.

I can’t think straight as we kiss; her warm, tentative tongue matches with my greedy, demanding one as she whimpers and grinds her covered pussy against my wood, clinging to me, tugging and pulling and moaning.

Jesus. What am I fucking doing?

It’s more than pent-up lust. I want to do these things for her. Take care of her, feed her, give her a fucking bath and brush the waves of her hair while she reads me one of her dirty books. I want it all.Text © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

Her fingers dig into the tops of my shoulders as I deliver a few harsh bucks of my hips, rasping our fabric-covered genitals against each other and I can’t breathe.

“Uh, uh, uh.” I grunt with each thrust, wanting in there, through that fabric, deep into her darkest parts so I can light her up inside with new life.

“More,” she mumbles into our kiss, her hips hitting a new gear, seeking refuge and relief that I will be the one to give her.

The only man. Ever.

I give it right back to her, nearly busting a nut as I spin her around. She clings to me up against the wall as I find a better angle to get at her pussy with the length of my shaft, driving up and down, up and down as she breaks our kiss, panting and blind as I dry fuck my granddaughter up against the wall.

“Come for Papa, baby. Show me who you are.”

“Who am I?” She babbles as our thrusting turns manic, desperate. Her hands leave my shoulders, tugging and twisting until she’s pulled her shirt above her tits, showing me those sweet little nipples I’ve watched a hundred times while she was in the shower.

“You are mine is who you fucking are.”

“Show me, Papa. Show me what it means to be yours.” She arches her back as I drag her body up and down over my dick, the wet heat between her legs soaking through her jeans and into mine as I draw her sugar and savory scent in through my nose.

“I will,” I say, holding her hips in the clutch of my fingers, dry boning her until her eyes roll back and she starts to shake.

She releases my name on her orgasm like a brand onto my soul. I will kneel before her and give up everything to keep my little snow queen safe and by my side for the rest of time.

If it means keeping her here in my frozen castle for the rest of her life, so be it. I’ve never felt joy like this. A sense of purpose.

As my own orgasm renders me sightless, I bite down on her barely there breast, pinching the skin in my teeth, marking her as my own.

Next stop will be delivering a very special gift deep inside that tight virgin pussy of hers.

“Santa’s coming, baby,” I growl into her tit, releasing my frustration as I bang her against the wall, my feet slipping on the floor with the effort as she goes boneless in my arms.

There is no stopping this now. How it will not come to destroy everything I’ve built, I don’t know.

But, she will come first. Now and forever.

Gennero

Fucking hell, I can’t stop thinking about the sounds she made when she came. How her soft body melted into my arms as pleasure wove us together.

My obsession will not be quenched by a taste. It will only grow until the fire consumes us both.

I’m a sick fuck, yeah. I was probably headed to hell either way, but the devil must be sharpening his knives, thinking of all the ways he’s going to torture me for this. He’s probably getting the VIP treatment ready for me right now.

If it wasn’t time for Lucy and Carina’s dance lesson, with their teacher Alik turning up a couple of hours ago interrupting us, I’d be buried balls deep in her juicy cunt, instead of sitting here thinking about it while a ghost from my past shifts nervously just inside the private outside entrance to my workshop.

“Don Sabato…” Bobby Marconi inclines his head, and I have to suppress a laugh. Time was, Bobby would have gladly slit my throat had we crossed paths. Now, he comes here with respect and contrition. Oh, how the world turns.

I stand and cross the room, holding my hand out. And when he shakes it, I pull him into a hug. It’s strange, but these people from my past before I was forced into hiding give me a sense of familiarity and comfort. And under the rules of the Christmas truce, neither of us will try to kill the other. Not today.

“Fai come fossi a casa tua,” I welcome him to my home. “Close the door, though. Those fucking reindeer will wander in here looking for a warm place to shit if I’m not careful.”

He does as I say, then retrieves a medium-sized gift bag from the floor next to his snow-covered boots.

He always was a big guy. I remember him as a kid in the streets of South Chicago, running around everyone’s ankles when I was in my early twenties, and fuck his mother made the world’s best cannoli’s.

Can’t blame him for getting fat. It’s no crime. I just wish I had a fucking cannoli right now.

“Your wife here with you?” I ask, smelling a faint whiff of alcohol on him, as if he needed a little Dutch courage to come in here and make his greetings.

He shakes his head, clearing his throat. “We’re still settling in, you know? Just came to give you these-” He shakes the bag by his side. “-and make my apologies that I can’t come tomorrow. Our apologies, I mean. Shelly and me.”

There’s a lot more in those words than he’s letting on, but I won’t press it. She’s likely mad at him, upset that his life has led her here, away from friends and family and the life she thought she was building in the high rises of New York.

“How long you been here?” I ask. “A month? That first month or two can be tough, but she will get used to it.”

That’s the truth of this existence in exile, whether it be by the feds for witness protection or an agreement among families for whatever reason. I needed a truce, and this life bought that for me. A tense truce, but a truce nonetheless.

“That’s what Don Pugliesi told me, too,” he says with a nod, and a tickle of bile bites at the back of my throat.

I don’t hate Alfredo ‘the Don’ Pugliesi. We’ve been allies a long time and I’d even go as far as to call him a friend. Such as friends are in my world.

But for the last two years, he’s been pressuring me to marry Carina to his son, Sully.

That’s not going to happen.

Not a chance I was going to perpetuate with my granddaughter the cycle that started generations ago-marrying for the sake of alliances, never love. I won’t do it to Lucy and I sure as hell won’t do it to Carina.

As my mind wanders back to the way Carina’s tongue felt in my mouth, the taste of our kiss, I see Lucy coming at me with a kitchen knife, slashing at the air as I back away, spewing her hatred at me for what I have done with her sister.

I growl, then shake my head at Bobby’s expression. His eyes bulge, his chest caved in. “You are fine. Reminded me I have business to settle with Alfredo, that’s all,” I say, trying to keep my dick from rising as the image of my teeth marks on her tit assault me.

When the Don arrives tomorrow with his fucking son, I’ll be polite, but if he so much as mentions Carina, the Christmas truce will quickly become the Christmas massacre.

“It’s a… nice place you got here,” Bobby stutters, handing me the bag as I take my seat in a leather armchair and point him to the one next to me flanking the fireplace. “Someone said you got reindeer?”

I nod. “It’s a reindeer farm. That’s my cover. Really just pets for my granddaughters.”