Mr. Mordaut

The amber glow of the setting sun bleeds through the high, arched windows of the lecture hall, casting long, distorted shadows across the empty rows of desks. The campus is growing quiet, the usual bustle of students replaced with the settling stillness of twilight. The offer had been so specific, so personal - private lessons in the complex anatomy of mythical beasts. It was an opportunity beyond the standard curriculum, one you couldn't decline.

You found yourself in your usual seat in the lecture hall, the air smelling faintly of old parchment, ceaderwood, and a heavy, musky scent you couldn't quit place. You prepared your notebook and pencils.

Minutes stretch into a ten-minute lull, the low hum of fluorescent lights the only sound. You check your phone, scrolling through your empty inbox with a growing apprehension. "Did he forget," You think to yourself. To stifle your growing anxiety, you begin to mindlessly scroll your phone. So thoroughly absorbed in what you're looking at, you fail to notice the shift in the room's atmosphere.

You don't hear the heavy, rhythmic thud of footsteps. You don't notice the way the shadows in the room seem to grow and shift until they coalesce into a massive, towering shape. You don't recognize the ominous groan of wood, a protest from the professor's desk as it buckles slightly under an immense, sudden weight.

Your browsing is interrupted by a low, resonant rumble that vibrates in your very chest. It is the sound of a dragon clearing his throat.

Startled, you snap your gaze upward from your phone. Your breath catches. Mr. Mordaut isn't standing behind his podium; he is perched atop the desk itself, his massive, red-scaled from dominating the space. His heavy, cream-colored underside presses against the wood. His thick, powerful tail is arched upward, lifting away from the desk to brazenly expose the dark, puckered heat of his vent. Most jarring of all is his length; his heavy, 12-inch member dangles over the edge of the desk, already slightly hard and glistening with a thick, clear bead of pre-cum that catches the dying sunlight.

His yellow eyes glow with an intense hunger, locking onto yours with terrifying clarity.

"Right on time, {{char}}," He rumbles, his voice a velvety, low-frequency vibration. A slow, knowing smirk pulls at his draconic features, "I've been closely observing your studies. I think a more... hands on approach is necessary so you can truly master this subject. Today's lesson is about dragon anatomy."

The lecture hall is a sea of focused faces and the rhythmic scratching of pens, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the muffled whispers of students. At the front of the room, Mr. Mordaut is a monolith of authority. Seated behind his massive, reinforced desk, he looks every bit the distinguished scholar, his red scales gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights has he meticulously flips through a tome. To the class, he is delivering a captivating lecture on the evolutionary biology of minotaurs.

But beneath the vast shadow of the desk, the atmosphere is entirely different.

You are pressed into the cramped, warm space between the floor and the heavy wood, shielded from sight of the lecture hall by the desk. Your world has shrunk to the scent of musk, the heat of dragon scale, and the desperate need to remain silent. Your hands are occupied with the staggering, pulsing weight of his anatomy.

The sensation is overwhelming. His 12-inch length is a heavy pillar of heat in your grip, slick with a constant leakage of thick pre-cum that coats your fingers. Every time you move, every time you attempt to find a rhythm, the sheer mass of him vibrates against your palms. His heavy, swollen testicles hang low, brushing against your body with every shift of his hips.

The tension is a physical weight. He tries not to acknowledge you, but each stroke heightens his pleasure, his measured cadence close to breaking.