Archive of Our Own ^beta

She’d noticed him.

When he first walked in, hanging around the back of the establishment, looking around with a schooled expression on his face. It was almost the same poker face he wore after a student would ask a question about the syllabus instead of the lesson. She remembered it well; the way he looked pacing up and down the gallery, lecturing her and others on linguistics 101. 

She’d seen his stern expression every Tuesday and Thursday for just one semester; commanding, proud, no nonsense. Slightly irritable. Her heart fluttered with an unexpected anticipation, at what, she wasn’t sure.

She didn’t think he’d been here before. She’d picked his face out of the crowd right away, when she should have been focusing on her movements on the pole and the rowdy man in front of her who was, at least, tipping her well despite being obnoxious.

She’d always thought of him— Dr. Solo— as the hottest professor she’d ever had. The Indiana Jones archetype, completely oblivious to the girls batting their eyes at him.

She was sure he had barely noticed her, or any of his students, for that matter, in one of many large intro classes he taught. He breezed in 30 seconds before the start of class, lectured, announced tests, and breezed right back out. 

Hurried, busy, important. Stony faced at asinine questions that could be looked up. Engaged when a student seemed passionate.

She’d asked him a question exactly one time, and it had been a good one— one about the subject matter. One she was able to make useful in her final paper. He’d stared at her when she asked it, seeing her for the first time, his facial muscles relaxing ever so slightly, and launched into an answer that took several minutes to complete.

That was how she categorized him. Hurried, busy, important. But he had taken the time to answer her thoroughly.

She couldn’t think on it for long, busy working as she was. She was surprised when, about ten minutes later, her manager tapped her on the shoulder and said she’d been requested in a private room.

Good, she thought. Money. It was good to be requested, and not always terrible.

When she opened the door to the private room, the large burgundy bench in the shape of a half moon was occupied by… him. 

Dr. Solo. 

It was jarring, actually, to be met by the face of someone she knew. It hadn’t happened to her ever, and she’d been at it for two years.

Why , she wondered. Just because? She regained her composure, narrowing her eyes. Figuring him out.

“You requested a lap dance?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah.”

He gave her nothing else, and she knew her boss was very possibly watching through the camera in the ceiling.

Okay, then . He seemed neither hurried, busy or important. He seemed… tentative. 

Best to get started then. Maybe he had some weird kink about former students. Maybe he wanted to humiliate her. Maybe he had a savior complex and would tip her well. Only time would tell, and it didn’t matter anyway.

Time to act.

“What do you like, stranger?” she asked coyly, walking around in front of him, letting his eyes trail her body, barely concealed by a dark red set with silver cords and lining— little more than a thong and a bra that lifted her breasts up and made them rounder and curvier than they really were. 

No grinding, dancing, or rubbing against him, not yet. She liked to ease into it, find out what the client wanted to exact the best experience for all involved.

He was staring at her now, she realized, more intently than before. Discerning. He didn’t answer her, he scrutinized her.

"Have we met before?" He cocked his head to the side.

She had been mistaken then; he hadn’t realized who she was. It was not as if they knew each other beyond that one class she’d taken, and it had been a year. She would've bet money that he’d chosen her on purpose. But no— she wasn’t special to him then, not recognizable. He’d chosen her the way the men that come in to see her dance always do; based on some superficial trait that he likes and she possesses.

He was so much taller than her he was able to reach up and flip the ends of her bobbed light pink wig as he studied her, squeezing the plasticky strands between thumb and fingers.

He snorted.

“You didn’t think it was real?” she laughed, but grabbed his hands and put them both at his side. "I touch you, sir, you don't touch me.”

She was gentle, yet firm, because she was feeling an odd mix of tender affection for this larger than life man who didn't seem to know what he was doing here, but she could hardly throw caution to the wind.

“No, no, I don’t guess I did,” he said, answering the question about the wig, his tone not at all affronted.

He leaned crookedly back on the bench, legs wide as if on a throne, a stance that would be full of swagger, except that any swagger was disrupted by the genuine curiosity of his expression, and the way his eyes were going from dilated to discerning and back again as their gazes locked.

She walked into his open legs and braced her hands on his broad shoulders, hoping he liked what he saw. Hoping he’d leave her a good tip. Hoping he remembered her fondly. She gauged his reaction at the way her breasts were now at eye level.

She stayed there for a minute, undulating ever so slightly closer and farther away, building his anticipation before taking a leg and placing it on the bench next to him, the heel of her shoe digging into the pleather of the bench. Her stance pulled his eyes from hers and down to her barely covered pussy, just as she'd hoped, and she leaned into the stretch before settling on his thighs and swinging her other leg over so that she straddled him. Her face was now inches from his, and he looked at it again, at her lips and her throat and then back to her eyes, hungry from his perusal of her body up close.

“Shit.”

He said, realization dawning, his voice so low she almost didn’t hear him over the beat of the music that filtered in from outside of the room.

"Hey, teach,” she smiled.

He snorted.

".....Rey, is it?"

She leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

"Fact or fiction? You knew it was me the whole time. Ever since you walked in the front door."

He blew out a puff of air.

"Fiction."

She moved to his other ear, making sure that her breast brushed his chest, causing a tingling throughout her body that it probably shouldn’t.

"Fact or fiction? You have a school girl kink and sought me out." She writhed on him seductively as she spoke.

He chuckled.

"Fiction, but I do remember you. Now that I can see past the hair."

She pulled back and settled deeper into him, forcing his legs to close a bit so she could move more effectively against him.

"Do you…. Do you want me to leave?" he asked. Sincerely. But strained.

Did she? She ground herself against him knowing this was probably crossing some type of line for her. She had always been attracted to him; had thought of him since. Had envisioned them together, even. But she’d never fantasized about this, here, working, made up and armored as she had to make herself be.

"No, I don't want you to leave." 

She replied simply, not willing to divulge more of her thoughts than were necessary for the transaction. "Just tell me what you like."

"I like….you, I think."

She let out a small laugh and stood up off of him, turning to bend over to give him an eyeful of her ass.

“Everybody does.”

He made a small sound and she craned her neck, watching his eyes go ever darker and his tongue dart out against his lip.

"Do you want to see more? I don't mind. That's why I'm here." 

She wasn't sure if he was embarrassed at knowing her or just too shy to answer her directly. She reached behind her, moving her thong so that he could see… everything , thrusting her hips lewdly… suggestively… replicating the motion she would make if they were not in this situation, if he were not paying her for his enjoyment only. If she were fucking back against him.

He still hadn't said anything, and she was happy to lead. She backed up until she was on him; could feel his cock under his black jeans, pushing rhythmically against him in a way that fueled her own pleasure, rather than just making routine motions.

She hoped it wasn't obvious… to him, or to her boss that would be watching through the camera. When her thighs began to burn she turned around and dropped to her knees, crawling up his body, rubbing her entire body against him over and over, looking up at him with wide, innocent, playful eyes. It felt more intimate than it should; the feelings coursing through her, until she found herself straddling him again; reaching a hand up to run it through his hair, his face so close she could feel his breath on her neck.

"Is this okay?" she breathed.

He made a noise of ascent. 

“I wish you would take this off,” he said.

“My clothes?” she asked, confused. “I could take it off, for you. Did you want a lap dance with me completely naked?” she asked, unsure of what she was even doing, reaching to unclasp her bra.

“I meant the wig,” he said. “I want to see the Rey I remember. I remember exactly what you looked like, in the first row of my class. I remember everything.”

The way he said her real name thrilled her. 

She finished removing her bra because she wanted to, as it put her nipple exactly at his mouth. His mouth was so deliciously close. She’d barely have to move. 

“Fact or fiction?" she asked. “You want to suck on them?”

He swallowed hard, eyes dark, chest heaving.

“Fact, then.”  

“That would be touching, wouldn't it?” 

He licked his lips.

“Do you see that camera up in the corner of the room behind me?” she asked, purposefully not turning around. “Just be discreet. I want you to. I'll keep dancing on you while you do.”

She had never wanted a client this way. She had never relished in being wanted by one. But she was obsessed with the idea of feeling his mouth on her while she ground against him.

She began swirling her hips again as if she was just giving a regular lap dance, but when his mouth closed over her nipple and sucked gently, electricity coursed through her.

This was all kinds of wrong, and far beyond her boundaries, but a fire was burning in her core now. She was used to pretending to enjoy what she was doing just enough to earn good tips, to be good at the job. Just enough to make it all worth it. 

“Fact or fiction? You wish you could see me come.” Her voice came out thin, and high, and desperate.

“You know I do.” His voice was impossibly deep. 

She laughed.

“Well, not necessarily… I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't want to. But if you do, I'm sure I could come this way," she said, turning and sticking the other, neglected breast directly against his lips, as if she were leading a man to water. As if her life depended on him sucking on her just so.

“Harder this time,” she begged. 

He obeyed.

She hoped to the stars she hid her orgasm when it crested over her. She was dry humping him through his jeans, searching for his cock, aching for it; seeking out the right friction, the right movement, the right feeling. When the waves finally hit her, she swallowed her noises, which only increased the intensity of what she felt. She was wild with it. 

He’d made her come so easily. She’d made herself come, unabashedly using his body, so easily. 

It felt like it had lasted forever; him switching between licking her nipple with his broad tongue and then sucking, hard, while she rode him; him growing harder and harder, more strained underneath her.

She reached down to stroke him, never stopping moving, as if she were a robot meant to do this. Which is, of course, she sort of was.

This time it was him that asked.

“Fact or fiction? You want to make me come, too. You’d be good at sucking me off. You’ve thought about me before this…” 

His voice came out in a desperate rush but then trailed off, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say all that, and definitely not that last part.

She swallowed hard, swinging her legs around so that she sat in his lap sideways, but she undulated her body still, as if she was still performing for him, and what was happening wasn’t happening. As if her entire core wasn't throbbing in an afterglow.

Keep up the act, she thought. 

“So what if I do want to?” she asked. “I also want you to grab my tits with that big hand of yours, but that's not what I’m here for. I want you to take your hand and slide it inside of me with two fingers, but that's also not allowed. It’s not what I do.”

“We could.”

Alarm bells began ringing in her head and she sat up abruptly.

“I'm not a hooker.”

“I wasn't suggesting I pay,” he said.

She took in a quick breath.

“Rather forward of you isn't it?” she asked sharply.

“It is, but… fact or fiction?” he repeated. His voice was taking on a different edge, sounding more and more like the professor she knew. “You've thought about this before, you’ve thought about me before, and we don't have to let this night be what we are.”

She stood and took a step back, wordlessly replacing her bra after picking it up from where she'd thrown it on the long bench. 

“Fine. Fact,” she admitted. “Same question for you.”

“Fact,” he stated, with an air of finality.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered.

“Unbuckle your pants, pull yourself out, and put your hands back down on the bench where they belong.”

She dropped to her knees before him for a second time that evening, this time marveling at the sight of him erect in front of her. He was large, and hard, and beyond ready.

At first, a little lick right up the cleft, a teasing suck on the shaft. She couldn't help but to tease him, rubbing the head against her lips, against her cheeks, until she couldn't take the anticipation any longer. She knew he was watching her rub him against her face, even with her eyes closed. She knew he loved what he saw.

He groaned when she took him in fully and tried desperately to hit the back of her throat while still creating suction. She wanted this to be the best blow job she’d ever given, grabbing at the base of his cock with her hands and starting a rhythm that she intrinsically knew he would like. 

It didn’t take long until he was gasping and trying to form words as she bobbed up and down.

"I'm gonna…"

She popped off but kept stroking, only long enough to ask him if he wanted to come down her throat or across her chest.

"Ugh….I— ugh…on your…I want to see…"

She went back to it, licking with her tongue flat on the underside, and stopping when she had just the head in her mouth. She swirled her tongue around it inside her mouth, sucking hard until just the right moment, when she leaned back on her knees and began jerking him off just above the area where her breasts were, until he was groaning and gasping and painting her chest with his cum.

He hadn’t moved his hands from where she’d placed them, not once. She’d wanted him to, actually, towards the end, but she knew tonight their time was up.

She gingerly placed him back in his pants, wordlessly buckling his belt. She sat on his lap, sideways again, pretending they were casually lounging together, somewhere. Somewhere not here.

She whispered in his ear.

“Next time, I want you to pull on my hair. I want you to touch me, and I want you to fuck me. Get my number from the university.”

And then she left the room.