FORBIDDEN CONFESSION AN EXTRA SPICY EROTICA COLLECTION

The rain hammered against the old house, a relentless rhythm that matched the frantic beat of Eleanor Vance's heart. She clutched her sodden literature textbook, the pages already soft and warped from her nervous grip. Her grades were a disaster. Her life, frankly, felt like one too.

She was twenty-one, stuck in a marriage that felt more like a business arrangement than a partnership. Passion?That was a word she only read in books. Books she couldn't understand, apparently.

Professor Alaric Thorne, her last hope, was thirty-five. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a single lamp throwing his sharp features into shadow. He looked less like a dusty academic and more like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And right now, Eleanor felt like he wanted to dissect her.

"Miss Vance," his voice cut through the quiet, deep and smooth. "Your last essay on 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' was... frankly, it was shit. Utter, unadulterated shit."

Eleanor flinched. She'd expected "catastrophe" or "abysmal." Not... shit. Her cheeks burned, a hot wave of embarrassment washing over her. She knew it was bad, but his bluntness was jarring.

"I... I'm really trying, Professor," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. She smoothed down her sensible tweed dress, feeling suddenly exposed.

He leaned forward, a faint, almost predatory smile touching his lips. "Trying isn't enough, Eleanor. Not for the grades you're pulling. Which is why you're here. My office hours are for the hopeful. My home, little one, is for... the desperate."

The way he called her "little one" sent a jolt through her. It was possessive, intimate. His eyes, dark and intense, seemed to strip away her layers, seeing straight through her polite facade.

"I appreciate you making time, Professor," she managed, trying to sound composed. Her heart was pounding like a drum against her ribs.

He picked up a heavy book, not a classic, but something with a plain black cover. "Time is a valuable commodity, Eleanor. Especially when one is teaching someone to truly feel. To understand the raw, messy truth of human nature."

He paused, his gaze flicking from the book to her chest, lingering for a moment. Eleanor felt a familiar flush creep up her neck. Her breasts, full and round, always seemed to demand attention, even under layers of fabric. They were pink and round, like sprinkles on a cupcake, and she suddenly felt a strange, hot awareness of them.

"So," he continued, his voice dropping, becoming a low murmur that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. "Let's talk about... the real stuff. Not some dusty old poem. Let's talk about what makes people tick. What makes them moan."

Eleanor's eyes widened. "In a... literary context, sir?"

He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that was anything but academic. "Of course, Eleanor. Everything is literaturee, if you know how to read it. Even a cheap porn flick. It's all about desire, isn't it? About what people really want, deep down."

He rose from his chair, a tall, powerful presence, and walked slowly around the desk. Eleanor instinctively stiffened, her breath catching. He stopped directly in front of her, close enough for her to smell his scent – a mix of something musky, clean, and undeniably male.

"You see, Eleanor," he said, his voice a husky whisper, his eyes locked on hers. "You're failing because you're afraid to look at the ugly parts. The dirty parts. The parts that make your pussy twitch."

Eleanor gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Her face burned. He'd just said pussy. Her professor. Her dignified, brilliant professor. But she couldn't lie. A strange, hot tremor had just gone through her. And she couldn't deny that she'd also thought about his dick. About how it would feel, filling her, stretching her whole.

"I... I don't understand, Professor," she stammered, though her body was screaming a very different message.

He reached out, his large hand brushing a stray blonde curl from her forehead. His touch was electric, sending a jolt through her entire body. She froze, her eyes wide, like a rabbit caught in a snare.

"Oh, I think you do," he murmured, his thumb stroking her temple. "You're just too polite to admit it. Too innocent. But that's what I'm here for. To strip away that innocence. To teach you what it means to be truly free."

His gaze dropped, slowly, deliberately, to her chest. Eleanor felt her nipples harden, pressing against the thin fabric of her dress. It was mortifying, yet thrilling.

"Tell me, Eleanor," he said, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. "Do you know what makes a woman truly beautiful? It's not just her pretty face. It's the raw hunger in her eyes. The way her body responds to a man's touch."

He paused, letting the silence stretch, thick with unspoken desire. The rain outside continued its relentless drumming.

Then, his voice, low and commanding, cut through the tension. "Show me, Eleanor."