"Next." Professor Vance tapped his clipboard as he surveyed his class at University of Sluts, Los Amigos. His eyes landed on me. Cold. Expectant.

My legs trembled as I stood. The walk to the front felt endless. Eyes followed me. Judging. I stopped before the desk. Vance’s gaze swept over me. Lingering on my throat. My wrists. "You understand the requirements?" His voice was low. Rough. I nodded. Too fast. "I can't hear your answer.”

"Yes, Professor." My voice cracked.

"Assume the position."

I bent over the desk. The wood was cool against my palms. My skirt rode up. Too high. I felt exposed. Vulnerable. Vance’s footsteps echoed. Slow. Deliberate. He stopped behind me. Close. His cologne—sandalwood and something sharp—filled my lungs. "Begin."

I closed my eyes. Tried to remember the techniques. Hips forward. Arch deeper. I rocked. Awkward. Jerky. Silence hung heavy. Vance didn’t move. A whimper slipped out. Pathetic.

"Louder." His command was a whip-crack.

I forced a moan. Thin. Reedy.

His hand clamped on my hip. "You call that effort?" His thumb dug in. "You're supposed to be a slut." His breath warmed my ear. "Give me everything."

I am a slut, the thought hammered against my skull, a desperate mantra. This is why I’m here. Why I chose USLA. Professor Vance’s harsh command wasn't cruelty, it was the key unlocking what I truly was. I crave this.

I threw my head back. Let out a moan. My body moved on instinct now. Fluid. Desperate. The rhythm found me. Deep rolls of my hips. Vance’s grip tightened. "Better." A pause. "Now beg for it."

"Please," I gasped. "Please, Professor."

His other hand slid up my spine. "Beg for what?"

"Your approval." The words tore from me. Raw. "Your... grade."

He leaned closer. His lips brushed my ear. "Then earn it."

His hand slid down, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my panties. I gasped as they traced the curve of my ass. Rough calluses scraped my skin. The lecture hall blurred. Only his touch existed. Hard. Demanding. I pushed back against him, grinding against the desk's edge. Wood dug into my hipbones. Pain and pleasure twisted together.

"Louder." His command vibrated through me. "Let the class hear how much you want this."

I obeyed. A ragged moan tore from my throat, echoing off the high ceilings. My hips snapped faster, driven by the sharp bite of his grip on my flesh. His fingers dipped lower, pressing hard against my clit through the thin fabric. I cried out, arching violently.

Professor Vance suddenly withdrew his hand. The loss was a physical shock. He stepped back, his polished shoes clicking on the floor. I stayed bent, trembling, humiliated.

He turned to face the class. "Observe," he announced, his voice cold and clear. "This is what failure looks like. Hesitation. Timidity. A complete lack of conviction. She's going through the motions, but her body betrays her fear. She doesn't believe it. Not deep down." His words were ice picks chipping away at my resolve. "She thinks she can fake being a slut. You cannot fake this."

My cheeks burned. I could feel the weight of thirty pairs of eyes dissecting my trembling form bent over the desk. Whispers slithered through the room – pity, judgment, amusement. One girl stifled a giggle. The humiliation was a physical thing, thick and suffocating, coating my skin.

No. Professor Vance was wrong. That frantic pulse between my legs wasn't fear – it was hunger. The ache in my core wasn't timidity; it was raw, desperate need. I am a slut. The thought wasn't a plea anymore; it was a declaration. It was the core truth I’d paid tuition to embrace. Vance wanted proof? Fine. He’d get it. He’d get everything.

My fingers, still splayed on the cool wood of the desk, curled into tight fists. I didn't straighten. Instead, I pushed my hips back further, deliberately, presenting myself fully to the room.

A low murmur rippled through the class, the earlier pity replaced by sharp interest. I ignored them. My focus narrowed to the polished leather shoes clicking back towards me. The scent of his cologne hit me again, sandalwood and dominance, and this time, it didn’t make me flinch. It made my breath hitch with anticipation.

"I need it, Professor," I breathed, the words thick and urgent. "Your approval. Your touch. Your everything." My voice didn't crack this time; it was low, husky, vibrating with a need I finally owned. I ground my hips against the unforgiving desk edge, the friction sending sparks through my core. "Please. Let me show you what a real slut looks like."

I felt his hand fist in my hair, yanking my head back. My neck strained. Tears pricked my eyes. I met his gaze – dark, unreadable, utterly focused.

"Prove it." He released my hair, his palm flattening hard against my lower back, forcing my ass higher. "Beg properly. Now."

"Please," I whimpered, rocking harder, chasing the pressure of his hand. "Please grade me, Sir. I need it. I need to pass." My voice broke. "I need you to see I'm good enough." The words spilled out, raw and desperate. The eyes of the other students burned into my skin, but I didn't care. Only his approval mattered. Only the relentless pressure between my legs.

He didn't speak. His thumb hooked into my panties, dragging them down just enough to expose me. Cool air hit damp skin. A low groan escaped him. Approval. His fingers slid down, parting my folds. One thick fingertip pressed hard against my entrance. "Show me," he commanded, his voice thick. "Show me how badly you want that grade."

I pushed back, taking his finger deep inside me. A choked sob of relief escaped me. "Yes! Like that!" My hips pistoned, fucking myself onto his hand. The rhythm was frantic now, obscene slaps filling the silent room. His other hand clamped on my hip, holding me steady as he added a second finger. Stretching. Filling. I screamed, the sound raw and primal. My vision whited out at the edges.

"Look at them," Vance hissed, his breath scalding my ear. His fingers curled, finding that spot inside me. "Look at your classmates. Let them see how a true slut performs." My eyes flew open, blurry with tears and sweat. Dozens of faces stared back – some bored, some smirking, a few with parted lips and flushed cheeks. The humiliation was a live wire, sparking through my veins. It only made me grind harder. "They see you," he pressed, his thrusts relentless. "They see how desperate you are for my cock. For my approval."

"Please!" I wailed, my voice cracking. My body was a coiled spring, trembling on the edge. "Please, Professor Vance! I need it! I need your grade! I need to be your best slut!" My back arched impossibly, offering myself completely. The rough wood of the desk scraped my stomach. His fingers pumped faster, deeper, the wet sounds impossibly loud. His thumb pressed hard circles on my clit. The pressure built, a terrifying wave cresting inside me.

"Now," he commanded, his voice a guttural growl against my neck. "Come for me. Show them all what you really are." His order shattered the last shred of control. My body convulsed, clamping down on his invading fingers. A broken scream tore from my throat as the orgasm ripped through me, violent and consuming. My legs shook violently. I collapsed forward onto the desk, gasping, sweat pooling beneath me, utterly spent. Vance slowly withdrew his glistening fingers. He held them up for a moment, examining the slick evidence, before wiping them casually on my skirt. The silence was deafening.

He stepped back, his polished shoes clicking on the linoleum. The clipboard appeared in his hands again. He scribbled something, the scratch of the pen unnervingly loud. I stayed bent over the desk, trembling, too raw to move. The wood grain blurred before my eyes. My classmates' stares felt like physical brands on my exposed skin. Vance cleared his throat. "Adequate." He didn't look at me. "Pass."