I am considering attending art school on my art show's opening night. It’s a photographic series of my nude body. The poses aren’t hypersexual, but the black-and-white images evoke eroticism and sensuality in subtle ways.

“Awesome turnout,” someone says. I turn around. It’s my favorite professor.

“I think so too. I was so worried no one would show up.”

His brows furrow. “This body of work is incredible. People were going to show up. Be proud.”

My heart feels warm at his praise. I follow him as he walks through the gallery. We stop at one of the more revealing photos: a close-up of my palm pressed gently over my pelvis, fingers hovering delicately close to my folds. The lighting covers most of me, and only the implication of a sexual act is evident.

“This may be my favorite one,” he tells me.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

He pauses. “The action is silent and soft; gentle. Pure. The darkness in the image feels aggressive, fiery. She should be named Lolita.”

His description does something to me. Maybe it’s because I thought about him when I took these photos. I lay on my floor, naked in front of a camera, and touched myself while picturing this man fucking me. And now he’s telling me it’s his favorite photo. I swallow hard.

“That’s a beautiful description,” I say. I look back at the photograph to avoid his gaze. “It makes me happy that this is your favorite. You’ve helped me so much this semester; this whole series should be dedicated to you.”

A smirk forms on his face; playful, threatening. He looks hungry.

“You should go mingle with the rest of the guests. I’ll see you in class on Monday.” And with that, he walks away. Even so, I catch his gaze periodically, practically feeling his hands running up my thigh.

I step outside the gallery to find a moment alone. The halls are empty and quiet as the night begins to wrap up. I turn the corner and step into the figure drawing room. I admire the sketches hanging along the walls and hear the door snap shut. I whip around. It’s him.

“Oh! Hi, professor. You startled me. I’m just admiring the sketches from this morning.”

“Mmm, yes. They’re lovely, aren’t they?”

He’s walking to me with purpose. He places a hand on the middle of my back when he reaches my side. “I’m shocked you haven’t left yet,” he says. His hand slips lower, right above my ass. I jerk out of his grasp and step away.

“What’s wrong?” He steps closer to me until the back of my legs hits a desk. His hands are gripping my thoughts and spreading my legs open.

“We—I can’t. I can’t do this. I need to go,” I say, trying to escape his grip. His hands are tight on my thighs, fingers digging in deep. I slap his hands and try to pry them.

“Oh, honey. There’s no use.” He chuckles. Fear paralyzes me as I realize what’s about to happen. His tongue runs along the shell of my ear. “We both know those photos were for me. We both know you wore this outfit for me,” he says, as his fingers trail down over my breast and to the waistband of my skirt. “And we both know you want to fuck me as badly as I want to fuck you. I can smell your arousal.”

“You know nothing. Those photos were for my boyfriend,” I forced out, knowing he could read the lie on my face. I tried pushing myself off the desk again, but he grabbed me and whispered.

“I’m going to fuck that sweet cunt of yours until every bit of me is drained.” I could hear the smirk in his voice. I was filled with fear; I was not on birth control. If he didn’t have condoms, I could get pregnant. I can’t be a mother!

But on the other hand, the thought of him marking me, breeding me, aroused me to the point of no return. I kept putting up a fight, but he knew I was eager for his cock.

“Fuck,” he moaned as he rocked his cock deep into me. I gasped from both the force and the stretch. “Goddammit, you’re tighter than I thought you would be.”

His hands cover my mouth, and the other digs into my hip. I hope he leaves bruises. I want to ask him to do so, but I want him to take me.

I hear him laugh. “Listen to yourself, moaning while I take your cunt. You fucking love being taken like this, knowing anyone could walk in at any moment. They’ll see me taking your cunt as my own.” He slaps my ass a few times.

Then he’s picking up speed. “Please don’t cum in me,” I beg. “I’m not on birth control; I might get pregnant.”

He slaps my ass hard. “You’re fucking perfect.”

“Please,” I beg him again as he fucks me harder, more profound.

“Fuck your please. I will ensure every drop of my cum is in your cervix.”

I moan. I moan. And then I give in. He knows he has me because he starts to praise me.

“You’re taking my cock so good, by the way. I love watching it disappear inside your wet, warm cunt. I’ve wondered for months how you would feel cumming on my cock.”

I’m grunting, moaning, and shifting my hips to ask him for more. “Are you going to cum on my cock? Does it turn you on that your professor is getting you pregnant? I will split every hole of yours open and fill them with cum.”

And he did. Every part of me is bruised and sore, and despite his efforts, I have cum dripping out of my throbbing cunt. When he’s done with me, he took my underwear, so I was forced to walk around with his cum dripping down my leg. Walking to the door, he kissed me. “Keep your front door unlocked tonight,” he said with a grin. “Just for me; I will be there in an hour.”

I am home now, and the door is unlocked.

I am dressed in a sheer babydoll nightie. I quickly washed myself, shaved my legs, and shaved my pussy smooth. My pussy lips are swollen, and my pouty lips are painted red with lipstick.

All for him.

I am ready to be his, the woman on display tonight for everyone when it was on display only for him.