Disclaimer: The author's imagination and passion are the only sources of inspiration for this novel, which is a work of dedication. Parallels between these pages and the past or present may be apparent to some readers, but they are completely coincidental. You are free to interpret this art anyway you see fit, and it is meant for your enjoyment.
The morning sun filtered through the tall, narrow windows of the Architecture building, casting long, geometric shadows across the linoleum floors. Kryztal walked toward her History of Architecture class, her heart racing. She felt a strange mix of dread and anticipation. She couldn't stop thinking about the way Professor Santillan had looked at her yesterday—those honey-gold eyes that felt like they were peeling back her skin to see her soul.
When she entered the lecture hall, she stopped in her tracks. The digital board displayed a new seating chart.
"Bakit binago?" (Why was it changed?) she whispered, her brow furrowing.
Her name was no longer tucked safely in the middle of the room. She was now in Row 1, Seat 1. Directly in front of the heavy oak podium. Directly under the shadow of Alexander Santillan.
She sat down, feeling exposed. Today, she wore a simple, deep-burgundy scoop-neck top and a denim skirt. She hadn't realized how low the neckline sat until she sat down; the gravity of her position caused the fabric to dip, revealing the pale, soft swell of her cleavage. Her ink-black hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, exposing the elegant line of her throat.
The door slammed shut. The sound was like a gunshot.
Alexander marched in, his presence even more suffocating than the day before. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, the top two buttons undone, and black slacks that hugged his muscular thighs. He didn't say a word as he set his leather briefcase down. He simply looked at her.
The silence stretched for five, ten, fifteen seconds. The other students began to whisper, but Alexander didn't care. He was drowning. Up close, Kryztal was a masterpiece of biological engineering. Her silver eyes looked up at him with a mix of innocence and curiosity, but his gaze was locked on the valley between her breasts. He could see the slight tremor of her pulse in the hollow of her throat.
Gusto kong kagatin 'yan, (I want to bite that,) he thought, his jaw tightening so hard it ached. His cock, already sensitive from his activities the night before, stirred hungrily against his underwear.
"Today," he began, his voice gravelly and thick, "we discuss the Gothic era. Complexity, height, and the desire to touch the heavens."
Throughout the lecture, Alexander was a man walking a tightrope. He paced the front of the room, his long strides bringing him inches away from Kryztal's desk. Every time he turned to the board, his mind was a filth-ridden sanctuary. He imagined pinning her against that very board, lifting her denim skirt, and burying himself inside her while the rest of the class watched in horrified silence.
He made sure to look at the other students—he was a professional, after all—but his eyes always returned to her like a compass to the north. He saw the way she took notes, her delicate hand moving across the paper. He saw the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating.
Huwag kang titingin sa dibdib niya, Alexander. Huwag, (Don't look at her chest, Alexander. Don't,) he scolded himself, yet his eyes betrayed him every few seconds, feasting on the exposed skin that looked as smooth as marble.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the session. The students scrambled to pack their bags, eager to escape the oppressive intensity of Santillan's gaze. Kryztal, however, lingered. She had a genuine question about the flying buttresses of Notre Dame, and she was too studious to let it go.
Alexander was busy stacking his papers, his back to her. He knew she was there. He could smell her—that intoxicating scent of vanilla and rain. It made his blood boil with a need that was bordering on insanity.
"Professor Santillan?" she called out softly.
He turned slowly. His face was a mask of cold, academic indifference, though his heart was hammering against his ribs like a caged beast. "Yes, Ms. Sydrin?"
"I was wondering about the structural integrity of the pointed arch... was it purely aesthetic, or did the height play a role in the distribution of weight?"
He answered her. He gave a perfect, clinical explanation, his voice steady. He spoke of physics and stone, of weight and gravity. But as he spoke, Kryztal stepped closer. She wanted to see the diagram he was pointing to in his textbook.
She was now less than a foot away. The heat radiating from her body hit him like a physical blow. From this angle, he could see the entirety of her breasts as she leaned slightly over the desk to look at the book. They were heavy, perfect, and so close he could have reached out and cupped them.
The scent of her was overwhelming. He could see the fine, dark hairs at the nape of her neck. He felt his self-control snapping like a dry twig.
"Ms. Sydrin," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously low.
She looked up, her silver eyes wide. "Yes, Professor?"
"What are you doing?" he asked, his eyes darkening until the honey-gold turned into a predatory amber. "It's very unprofessional. I hope you keep your distance."
Kryztal blinked, startled by the sudden sharpness in his tone. "I... I just wanted to see the diagram, Sir. I'm sorry."
"I've already answered your question regarding the discussion," he snapped, though his eyes were roaming over her face with a hunger that contradicted his words. "In this university, we maintain a boundary between faculty and students. Do not cross it again."
He was lecturing her, his tone harsh and biting, but internally, he was reeling. He loved how she flinched at his voice. He loved the way she looked up at him, small and vulnerable against his massive frame. He wanted to grab her by the waist, pull her flush against his hard length, and show her exactly how 'unprofessional' he could be. He wanted to hear her beg for mercy as he claimed every inch of her.
"I-I understand, Sir. Pasensya na po." (I'm sorry.) Kryztal stammered, her face flushing a deep crimson. She felt a strange shiver run down her spine—not of fear, but of something she couldn't name. The way he looked at her didn't feel like a professor looking at a student. It felt... dark.
"Go," he commanded, gesturing toward the door. "Now."
Kryztal gathered her things and practically ran out of the room, her heart thumping against her ribs.
Alexander stood alone in the silent hall. He gripped the edge of the podium so hard the wood groaned. He looked down at his crotch; the tent in his slacks was unmistakable, a testament to his lack of control.
"Fuck," he hissed, closing his eyes.
He had to get out of here. He had to go home before he did something that would end his career and land him in jail. But as he walked toward his car, he knew one thing for certain: the distance he demanded was a lie. He didn't want her away from him. He wanted her under him, screaming his name until her voice broke.
And he would have her. No matter the cost.
At the Santillan Residence - 11:00 PM
The shower was running, but Alexander wasn't under the water. He was standing in front of the steamed-up mirror, his naked body glistening with sweat. His muscles were taut, his veins popping from the sheer tension of the day.
His hand gripped his cock, which was turgid and pulsing. He closed his eyes, and he wasn't in his bathroom anymore. He was back in that lecture hall.
In his mind, Kryztal hadn't walked away.
In his fantasy, he reaches out and grabs her ponytail, yanking her head back to expose her throat. She gasps, her silver eyes filling with tears, but he doesn't stop. He growls into her ear, "You want to learn about foundations, Kryztal? I'll show you how a man is built."
He rips her burgundy top down, the buttons flying across the room. Her breasts spill out—large, pale, with dark, turgid nipples that ache for his touch. He groans, his thumb rubbing over his own glans as he imagines burying his face between them. He imagines his mouth closing over one breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive tip while she cries out.
"Kryztal... Akin ka lang..." (You are mine...) he whimpered, his pace increasing.
He imagines hiking her skirt up, tearing her lace panties aside. He sees her pussy—pink, wet, and trembling. He doesn't use his fingers. In his mind, he lurches forward, slamming his thick, throbbing cock into her without warning. He imagines the wet, slapping sound of his skin hitting hers. He wants to feel her tightness stretching around him, her body trying to accommodate his massive size.
He moves his hand faster and faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He can almost feel her legs wrapping around his waist, her nails digging into his back as he hammers into her. He wants to hear her moan turn into a scream, a raw, primal sound of total surrender.
"Scream for me," he whispered harshly. "Scream, Kryztal!"
He reached the breaking point. His body arched, his muscles locking as he erupted. He let out a low, guttural roar that echoed against the tiles. The white fluid splattered against the mirror, a messy mark of his obsession.
He leaned his forehead against the cold glass, gasping for air. His heart wouldn't slow down. The release didn't bring peace; it only fed the fire.
He wiped the mirror with his palm, staring at his own reflection. His eyes were no longer those of a professor. They were the eyes of a man who had found his prey.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to the empty room. "Tomorrow, I'll find another reason to make you stay."