Bernehardt's Dorm Room Trap
html, body { margin:0; padding:0; }
I'd known for a few weeks now that Bernehardt saw me as a man.
When I stripped off my shirt in front of her to show off my abs, she'd pretend not to notice while stealing glances at my body. Unlike her usual confident expression, her cheeks would flush like a lovestruck schoolgirl.
As expected, she has zero resistance to guys.
Among the students, Bernehardt was famous as the "Ogre Instructor." Hardly anyone saw her as a woman. Fresh-faced kids like them just dated each other anyway.
Fucking morons who don't even know what real horniness feels like.
Bernehardt's body—covered head to toe in sculpted, three-dimensional muscle—was packed with allure that stimulated every peripheral nerve. The raw, seductive scent of a powerful female instinctively stirred the urge to submit.
"Hm? Your stance slipped a bit there."
Lost in thought for a second, my balance faltered. I gripped the wooden sword properly again.
"My focus is shot, Instructor. Could you check my form one more time?"
"Of course. Here, hold the sword like this."
I gave her an opening for some skinship, and like a dog eyeing a treat, Bernehardt darted over, layering her hand on top of mine where it gripped the wooden sword.
Her tough palm, callused from years of training, enveloped the back of my hand. She pressed her body against my back like she was hugging me, and it felt like being encased in a rigid shell.
Bernehardt's firm breasts pressed into my back. The chewy elasticity felt incredible. Her tits were like sticky rice cakes—springy and dense.
How good would it feel to rip off that sports bra and knead them to my heart's content?
Imagining her breasts squishing and reforming under my rough hands like fresh rice cakes, my cock twitched to life.
Not yet... hold out a little longer.
I recited the Heart Sutra in my mind to suppress my lust. No sense ruining a perfectly cooked meal by spilling salt on it.
"Grip the wooden sword like this... and swing it like so..."
Seeing her subtly overlapping her arms and legs with mine, I couldn't help but smile.
She acted like it was nothing, but her intent to get touchy with me was plain as day.
Is this what skilled women think when they're taming an amateur guy?
I could almost understand a little of how women play the field.
Bernehardt's hands were rough—not like a woman's, but a seasoned warrior's. But that roughness wasn't a turn-off. It had its own appeal, different from silky jade fingers.
Like the difference between tender, loving head and raw, primal fellatio.
"How's that? Feels like your stance is stabilizing now, right?"
"Yeah, I think I'm finding my rhythm."
"Good work. Keep at it."
She pulled her hands away with a hint of reluctance, confirming my hunch that it was time to harvest. Today was D-Day.
"Alright, that's enough for today. No point keeping you too long—it's not good for a student. I'm getting ready to head back to my room anyway. Good job."
With that, Bernehardt flicked the wooden sword from my hand with telekinesis, sending it flying into the storage rack in the corner.
"Instructor, I've hit a wall in my personal training. Mind if I ask you about it?"
"Hm? Of course. What's up?"
"It might take a while to explain, so maybe not here? How about we talk in your room?"
I threw a fastball instead of a curve. A bold declaration that I was barging into the teacher's quarters.
Bernehardt's eyes wavered sharply at my words, like she'd taken a surprise hit. My straight pitch was probably her ultimate weakness.
"Ahem! If it's that long, we could go to my research lab instead."
"No, I really want to go to your room, Instructor. It's more comfortable there."
I cut off any alternatives. Today, I was claiming Bernehardt—no matter what. In her room.
A teacher's lab made a fine fuck spot too, but that was dessert for later. Right now, I wanted the main course.
"Fine. Let's go."
Bernehardt relented. Her internal debate didn't last long. She let out a short sigh, realizing her answer had crossed the line.
I visited her dorm every weekend, but today the purpose was different. She had to sense it.
No matter how oblivious Bernehardt pretended to be, she couldn't miss the charged tension between us. She'd been the more aggressive one in our subtle flirtations from the start.
Handsome guys really do have it made.
Just sit back and the pumpkins roll right in on the vine. How unfair could the world get?
I left the training grounds with Bernehardt. On the way, we ran into Momos sunbae. Club activities?
"Ah! Johan!"
Momos sunbae wore a white T-shirt and short bloomers, a blue headband around her forehead. A few other succubus seniors trailed behind her, all in matching outfits.
"Hey, sunbae. Club stuff?"
"Yeah! Yeah! Volleyball club. Where are you headed? Oh! Instructor Bernehardt. Hello!"
Momos sunbae bowed politely to Bernehardt. She was in the magic department, so no classes together, but she knew the name.
I knew a few famous magic profs too—probably the same. Bernehardt was well-known at the academy for her skills and Spartan training.
"Good to see you working hard at club activities. Be careful not to get hurt."
"Yes~! Um, where are you two going?"
Momos sunbae glanced between me and Bernehardt.
"I hit a snag in training, so I asked the instructor. She said it'd take a while, so she'd explain at her dorm."
Momos narrowed her eyes at my words. I couldn't tell if she was eyeing me or Bernehardt.
She opened her mouth like she had more to say, but the other succubi called her.
"Momos! Hurry up!"
"Coming!"
She looked like she'd caught on. Succubi instincts for this stuff, maybe.
Bernehardt scratched the back of her head awkwardly as Momos retreated, her face saying she questioned if she was doing the right thing.
"Haa..."
Her short sigh perfectly captured her thoughts. But the dice were cast. Too late to back out now. Neither of us wanted to anyway.
I entered Bernehardt's dorm. As always, it was spotless.
She loved keeping things tidy. One wall held a display case of various potions, their colors brightening the room.
"Coffee first?"
"Sure. The usual."
Bernehardt poured the coffee. I pondered how to devour her.
Start with missionary? Nah, for a beast like Bernehardt, doggy to stamp my claim on that bouncy ass sounds perfect. God, I wanna pound it raw...
"Here."
Bernehardt handed me the cup. The warm coffee tasted off—bitterer than usual.
Hm?
Suddenly, drowsiness hit me hard.
Is this really okay?
Bernehardt replayed her actions over and over. No matter how she spun it, this was teacher malpractice.
What was a teacher, anyway?
A vital role guiding students right, imparting knowledge, nurturing the next generation, right?
And academy instructors bore even heavier responsibility. Yet here she was, a teacher, plotting to lay hands on a student!
Bernehardt, who'd lived sword in hand, couldn't justify her desire-driven impulses. They were indefensible—the worst betrayal of her principles.
Was she under hypnosis? How could she act like this in her right mind...?
Bernehardt gazed at Johan, dozing soundly on the sofa. His tall golden blond hair, refined features blending intellect and athleticism, lake-blue eyes flowing into a perfectly proportioned nose.
His full lips exuded unexpected sensuality for a man, and his softly curved jawline harmonized it all with masculine edge. Johan was a flawless creation of the gods.
Yeah, it was Johan's fault. If he hadn't stolen her panties, none of this would've happened.
"Johan... you're the bad one..."
She reached out, stroking his cheek. Too soft for a guy—like a baby's bottom.
Her hand drifted to her own face. Rough warrior skin, worlds apart from his. His talent might surpass hers, yet their bodies differed so starkly. Jealousy stung, and she pushed him flat on the sofa.
Envious of my own student. What a shitty mentor.
The thought flashed, but seeing him neatly laid out, reason fled again.
Yeah, Johan had tacitly agreed. This wasn't just selfishness. Self-consoling like that, Bernehardt slowly slid her hand to her leggings. Her shameful place was already soaking wet.