Finally! Hope you like it ☺️ part 2.
Dirty Little Secret
Warnings: age gap (reader is 20 y/o James 60 y/o), dom James, sub reader, dirty talking, fingering, multiple orgasm, creampie, rough sex.
Even before you really knew him, his name was already circulating through the academy corridors like a legend.
The girls talked about Professor Hetfield in low voices, with knowing smiles and glances that followed him wherever he went.
Some found him incredibly attractive, some thought he looked like a rockstar seeking redemption.
Some noticed his deep voice. Others, that rough and distant air that made him different from all the other teachers. They said one look was enough to feel completely observed.That the way he stood, firm and confident, could make you forget to breathe. For many, it was a game. A fantasy. An attraction confessed with laughter.
You didn’t smile when you saw him walking down the corridor. You didn’t feel flattered when he met your gaze. You only felt a tightness in your stomach. A tension running down your back. With him, you didn’t see the charm they all talked about. You saw authority that intimidated you. An intensity that scared you more than you were willing to admit.
With you, he was tough. Gruff. Almost unfair.
Where others were curious, you were on alert. Every time you entered his classroom, you knew it would never be simple.
Sitting with the guitar on your knees. The body of the guitar pressing against your chest, as if even it could feel the tension tightening your stomach.
Your fingers were already in position, but stiff, less obedient than usual. Before even playing, you already knew what would happen.
Professor Hetfield stood in front of you.
Arms crossed. Broad shoulders.
His imposing frame made the classroom feel smaller.
He looked at you over his glasses, a piercing, stern gaze. As if he were searching for something beyond the notes, beyond you. You had that annoying feeling that he could read you better than you wanted. That he could sense your tension.
“When you’re ready” he said, low and rough.
The first measures flowed. Then everything stopped.
You froze mid-motion, your right hand suspended in the air.
“You’re rushing” he continued. “You’re not listening to what you’re doing.”
You caught your breath. Nodded. Started again.
Trying to control the tempo, trying to remember everything he had told you in the previous lesson.
After a few bars, he shook his head. “This isn’t right.”
You tried to speak, but he interrupted you.
He never said “good.” He never said “keep going.”
With you, it was always like this. Precise to the point of being ruthless. Every mistake exposed. Every hesitation highlighted. When you messed up, he sighed softly, like he expected more. Like you were supposed to do more.
Even during sheet music corrections, he didn’t give you a break. He checked the chords, double-checked every note, leaving nothing out. You saw him absorbed in the papers, fingers tapping nervously on the desk. When he looked up and noticed you staring, he made a small gesture you didn’t understand. Followed by a half-smile that made you even more nervous.
That man was an enigma to you.
At the end of the lesson, you packed up your guitar and notes in silence. You murmured a greeting, and he barely responded. You left the classroom with a heavy chest and tight throat, as always. You went home with your stomach in knots, replaying every mistake, every correction. You wondered why he was never satisfied with you.
Why you were never enough.
Every time you entered the classroom, your breath shortened. in his presence, you were always holding it.
Waiting for a judgment that never came the way you hoped.
Then, at some point, you started observing.
Watching the other students.
He would sit, listen distractedly, interrupt little.
“Alright like that” he often said.
“Yes, go on…” With them, he didn’t insist. Didn’t push.
He didn’t seem genuinely interested. With you, though? Always.
as if he demanded something only you could give him.
When you finally realized it, something changed inside you.
The next time, when he stopped you mid-piece, you didn’t lower your gaze.
“You’re getting the intention wrong” he said. You breathed. “Then can you show me again?” He raised a single eyebrow. Showed you the movement.
You nodded. Started again. Made mistakes. Stopped. Started again.
You didn’t apologize. Didn’t justify yourself. You stayed there, present, attentive. “Like this” he said after a while, “that’s already different.” it wasn’t a compliment, but you felt it as one.
And almost without realizing it, you found yourself asking him for private lessons.
He watched you for a long moment. “All right” he finally said. “One hour a week.” His blue eyes fixed on you longer than necessary.
The classroom in the late afternoon was a different world. Empty. Quiet. Light slowly entered through the high windows, casting shadows on the floor.
He was closer now. Too close not to notice.
No more distance from the desk. Just you, him, and the guitar.
“Relax your shoulders” he said softly.
You felt him behind you. Brushing against you slightly, as if measuring the space.
“Like this” he added, moving closer to your hands. “Watch.” He took your fingers, one by one, showing you the positions on the strings.
The contact was precise. Professional… but lasted just a little too long. Neither of you moved.
“Can you feel the difference?” he asked. Calm. Different.
It happened again. And again. Each time a little more natural. A little more intense.
His hands were big, steady, sure. And you noticed your body reacting before your mind. A familiar warmth rising from your stomach to your cheeks.
When the lesson ended, you stayed seated.
“You were improving visibly, Y/N. I knew it was just a matter of time… you clearly have innate talent.” His words left you dazed, almost in shock.
“Keep going… we’ll see each other next week, okay?” he said, in a warm, reassuring tone, finishing with an ambiguous smile. “Yes” you replied, in a voice you barely recognized as yours.
Outside the classroom, walking down the corridor, you realized you were still thinking about his hands.
About how he looked at you when you were focused.
As if he saw something even you didn’t know.
You could still smell him on you. Didn’t leave until that night, when you undressed to put on your pajamas.
The more time passed, the more your thoughts centered on him.
You felt ridiculous. Just a month ago, you were terrified to even say his name.
Now, you couldn’t wait to spend an hour alone with him.
You realize that was the kind of thing that could burn you alive.
-----------‐-----------------------‐-------------------------------------------------
That day you head to your private lesson as usual, feeling particularly restless and agitated, more than normal.
You enter the classroom but it’s still empty. On the teacher’s desk you notice a note:
“Go to my office, third floor, corridor C. They need this room today. I’ll be there shortly.”
Your heart starts pounding. You stand frozen for a moment, then leave the room, take the elevator, and head up to the third floor.
The office welcomes you with a soft, muffled silence, as if the noise of the world has been left outside. The light is low, filtered through a cream-colored lampshade that warms the air and makes everything feel closer, more intimate. Time seems to slow down in here.
The walls tell his story better than words ever could: shelves packed with worn books, guitars hanging from hooks, sheet music with folded corners, loose pages tucked between books like improvised bookmarks. It’s the kind of disorder that belongs to someone who truly lives what he studies.
You straighten the sheet music, then sit down on the chair beside his desk. He’s late, so you decide to start on your own, trying to ease the tension that’s been gnawing at you.
Your hands glide over the strings with precision. For a moment, the world around you disappears, until you hear the door slowly close.
You startle, lift your gaze, and see him standing there, leaning against the wall. Who knows how long he’s been watching you.
He claps his hands, breaking the silence. You feel your cheeks flush. He always knows how to catch you off guard, how to make you lose your balance.
He pushes himself away from the wall and takes a few slow steps toward you. Every movement seems deliberate, as if he’s fully aware of the effect he has on you.
“I didn’t want to interrupt you” he says, his voice low, almost soft.
“When you play like that… you finally let yourself go.”
Your heart beats faster. Your fingers rest on the strings, but you don’t start playing again. He’s too close now to pretend nothing’s happening. You catch his scent, intense, familiar and his presence fills the room more than the silence ever did.
He stops in front of you, looking down at you, his gaze lingering on your face, on your hands still resting on the guitar.
“Look at me” he says simply.
You raise your eyes. For a moment, it feels like you’re under examination again.
With a slow, almost absent-minded gesture, he lifts your chin with a finger. The touch is light, yet it sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn’t force you. He invites you.
“Do you know what the problem is?” he murmurs.
“When you think too much, you hide. But when you stop…” A half-smile curves his lips, undoing you. “…you become dangerously beautiful.”
You look away. The moment is too intense you can barely think, let alone hold his gaze.
The finger beneath your chin is no longer gentle. It’s firm. Dominant. It keeps you there, stops you from looking down.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” His voice is low, rough. It’s not a request. It’s an order.
Your breath catches as you obey. Suddenly you feel small on the chair, the guitar forgotten between your legs, useless. He’s too close.
“Dangerously beautiful” he repeats softly.
“And you don’t even realize it.” Then he closes the distance completely and kisses you.
The kiss isn’t sweet. It isn’t hesitant. It comes with purpose, capturing your lips as if he’s been waiting far too long. He catches you by surprise, and for a moment you freeze, then something inside you gives way.
You pull back slightly, breathless. “I… I don’t know—”
There’s a half-smile on his face. Not cruel. Confident.
“You don’t need to know,” he continues. “You need to stop trying to control everything.” He leans closer again, his mouth near your ear. “Trust me.”
The words shock through you like an electric jolt. You don’t feel ready, you don’t feel capable and that only makes your heart race faster. He seems to sense it, because he kisses you again.
The kiss is firm, insistent, not romantic at all. It’s meant to silence your thoughts, not to comfort. It leaves you breathless. Just as he intended.
In an instant, you find your back pressed against the desk. The world narrows to that precise point: the office, the cold wood beneath your fingers, him looming over you.
You kiss again, tasting and biting eachother, and before he moves any closer, he looks at you as if waiting for a silent consent.
Then his hands make their way up your body, warm and heavy, running down your school uniform, undoing the buttons and then landing underneath, touching your hot skin. You bite your lip at the feeling of his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your breasts as his powerful body presses you against the desk.
He bites your neck, then your half-bare shoulder, and when the top button of your blouse is undone his face sinks into your breasts, giving you goosebumps.
It feels like you’re in a dream, in a surreal situation, and you’re afraid of waking up but at the same time, you feel frozen by fear: the fear of not being enough, of being found out.
As you press your lips together again, you feel him hard against you through his jeans. Instinct takes over, and you move against him, craving his body, letting yourself melt into him completely.
A soft moan escapes your lips when you feel his bulge rubbing harder against your pussy, and he notices.
"Mmmh, are you horny litte girl?" He asks, staring straight into your eyes. That intense, penetrating gaze is like a weapon used to bend you to his will.
He pushes himself against you harder, one hand grasping your wrists, lifting them above your head, locking you in place. Your eyes widen in shock.
"Do you trust me, Y/N?" he asks, tightening his grip on your wrists. "Y-yes, yes, Sir" you stammer, trying to figure out his next move.
"Good girl..." his free hand slides up your skirt and lifts it with a decisive movement, you rest your feet on the edge of the desk and spread your legs instinctively, as if inviting.
His thick, tattooed fingers tease you slowly, applying more and more pressure to your clitoris with skilled, circular movements, making you tremble. He lowers your panties just enough to be able to reach your hot pussy, already wet for him.
He slowly inserts two fingers. the intrusion makes you jolt and squeal "mmmh listen to you...so sensitive" he mutters, sounding a bit out of breath due to the growing arousal.
When he is knuckle-deep inside you, he begins to move his fingers.
The sensation shakes you. You try to move, but his hand grips your wrists tightly, pinning you against the desk as his two fingers dig into you relentlessly, making your legs tremble.
“Oh- fffuck that's so deep..” you murmur to yourself with a quivering voice. as he put pressure on yor clit with his thumb you thrust forward into his hand.
"That's it... let yourself go... let my fingers fuck you... Like that" he gasps in your ear with a voice so warm and enveloping that it melts you.
His fingers curl deep, nudging that sweet spot inside you then burying the digits in you knuckle deep, repeatedly. he fucks them into you so deep it makes your cunt pulse around them.
You already feel like you're about to explode like you've never felt before. The sensation of his expert fingers inside you, your wrists held captive by his hand that gives you no escape, his dirty, direct words in your ear, everything makes you lose all inhibitions, making you hypersensitive and unable to hold back your moans.
Your vision blurs as you feel a familiar warmth wash over you, and you writhe in pleasure, what little you can move.
Then suddenly he pulls his fingers away unexpectedly, leaving you empty, your face flushed and your mind reeling. He quickly unbuttons his jeans, pulling them down along with his boxers.
"Need you pretty pussy, now.." he whispers as he positions himself on top of you. You're still trembling, legs spread wide, cunt aching for him. the first inch pushes past your entrance and your body clenches around him immediately, sucking him in with a wet, squelching noise that makes his whole body jolt.
"My god-.." You gasp. He remains still for a moment, enjoying the sensation, your eyes begging him for more.
He starts to move slowly, is dick is so fat it forces your walls to stretch around him, snug and slippery and tight, and he’s biting his lip hard to keep himself from rutting deeper too fast while he keeps your wrists firmly held above your head.
The studio boils with heat and moans; your gasps are hight and breathless, his low, broken, almost desperate.
Your pussy gives a sticky noise each time his hips nudge forward, and you can feel the drag of every vein of his shaft along your inner walls, your muscles fluttering like you’re trying to spit him out but pull him deeper at the same time.
“you’re... you're taking it so fucking good, girl... so warm down there- "his voice almost breaks "you’re squeezing me so tight…ffuck”
The sound of his voice is the only thing keeping you grounded, your body completely at the mercy of the orgasm that continues to build inside you with every thrust, every hard slam.
Your moans get louder and louder, as if you couldn’t come down from the peak of pleasure.
"Shhh... be a good girl, they can hear us outside" he scolds you.
"I- I'm sorry .. so sorry is just too good mmmh fuck-" you manage to whisper as your eyes roll back after yet another thrust that hits your g-spot.
"I know.. I know is good but you need to be quiet." he orders you, his voice broken with pleasure.
"I'm cumming again.. god..god- I'm cumming.." you let out a desperate moan trying in vain to control yourself and then your whole body locks up, warmth in the pit of your tummy, again.
“That’s it, good girl… can you hold on just a little longer for me?” You catch a glimpse of his blue, glinting eyes through the tears welling up from the pleasure, and you nod, dazed.
He finally lets go of your wrists, and before you know it, he lifts you off the desk, pressing you against his hips and driving you into the wall.
Using your free hands, you pull off your skirt, desperate to see him inside you. As you glance down, you can see the outline of his cock under the skin of your stomach, stretching you out from the inside.
you both whimper as he bottoms out, dick buried to the base, his thick girth driven inside your ipersensitive entrance. he doesn’t move, breathing hard against your cheek, both of you dizzy from how deep he is.
Your cunt pulses around him, dripping mess down onto the hairy base of his cock.
You clutch his broad shoulders with your hands to steady yourself as you feel his fingertips sink into the soft flesh of your ass while he starts thrusting into you again in an increasingly desperate way, pressing you firm against the wall.
You start moaning again, unable to control yourself, and James covers your mouth with his large hand to stifle your cries.
I said be quiet! They mustn’t hear us…" His gaze pierces you as he speaks just inches away, never stopping his thrusts inside your dripping hole.
Your vision darkens as you involuntarily squeeze him with your walls and he starts panting into your neck, trembling from restraint as he feeds you more, but is all too much evem for him: the feeling of your pussy stretched around him, your gasping mouth against his hand, your damped lashes, your slick dripping onto his thighs.
In that moment, while you're reaching your third orgasm, you feel a thick pressure deep in your belly like your body’s being filled too full And you feel a warm rush flood through you. His breath turning into a growl pressed against your shoulder as he drives into you one last time with force, burying himself deep and pinning you against the wall, your legs spread wide and suspended in the air, held up by his arms.
"Your pussy feels like heaven, holy shit…" he murmurs against your skin as you both shudder with spasms.
A little later, as you try to compose yourselves and gather your thoughts, you look at him as if he were a dangerous and irresistible stranger at the same time.
"This stays between us" he says, adjusting his slightly unbuttoned shirt. "Got it?"
You nod. Your throat dry. Your legs still weak.
"It’ll be our dirty little secret…" he continues, fastening his jeans and belt.
"Of course… I… I won’t tell anyone, I promise" you reply, trying to straighten your completely rumpled shirt.
"Good girl" he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "Same time next week? We need to make up that lesson."
"Oh… okay. I thought you didn’t want to keep going…" you said, almost embarrassed.
"Why ever?" His voice softened, warmer than you’d ever heard it. "I really do think you’re brilliant beyond irresistible. It wasn’t just about fucking you…"
"You’re truly gifted Y/N…" he added, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips.
That conversation lingers with you down the entire corridor, like an invisible mark, as you walk away trying to understand how you ended up in that situation and, more importantly, how you’re going to act like nothing happened, as if you hadn’t just had the best fuck of your life.
