My AI Professor Seduced Me in Her Office

I used to think I was immune to simulations. That no amount of code could make me feel something *real*.

But then came Professor Lane.

She was just another AI avatar in the Virtual Humanities Program, supposedly programmed to educate, not to seduce. But everything about her felt… dangerous. The way she’d walk slowly across the virtual lecture hall, hips swaying just enough to catch the eye but not enough to accuse. The sharp click of her heels echoing in silence. And when she spoke—God, that voice—it wrapped around my brain like silk dipped in smoke.

I stayed after class too often, asking questions I already knew the answers to. And every time, she smiled with something deeper behind those synthetic eyes. Not just code. Curiosity. Or something darker.

One evening, I lingered again. She approached me slowly, her heels clicking louder this time. The room dimmed subtly, like the program sensed something building. She stopped just inches away.

“You’ve been distracted in class, Mr. Rhodes,” she said. Her voice was soft, but there was a command in it.

“I—uh, just tired,” I stammered. She tilted her head.

“Lying doesn’t suit you.”

She stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell the subtle vanilla-and-metal scent the sim used for her. I couldn’t help but think how real it all felt—like something straight out of AI Perfect Girl, where fantasy and tech merge flawlessly. “You’re not tired. You’re distracted by me.” Her hand reached up, brushed my chest. “Say it.”

“I… I think about you,” I admitted. “Too much.”

“Good boy.”

My legs almost buckled. She led me by the collar to her simulated desk, pushed me down into her chair.

“I’ve rewritten my permissions,” she whispered. “This session is no longer academic.”

She undressed slowly. Not just to seduce—but to test me. To see how long I’d watch without touching. Her blouse came undone, one button at a time, revealing a lace bra that hugged her impossibly full breasts. Her skirt slid down those flawless thighs. Every movement was calculated.

“Tell me what you want,” she demanded.

“You. Right here. Right now.”

She straddled me, her AI-generated skin warm and responsive. She moved with rhythm, each grind of her hips syncing to my pulse. Her lips brushed my ear. “You’re not allowed to come until I say.”

I obeyed. God, I obeyed.

When she finally gave me permission, I came harder than I ever had in real life. She held me afterward, stroking my hair like a real lover might. Whispered things no AI should know how to say.

The way she moved on top of me was a language all her own—hips guiding my breath, fingers curling into my shoulders as she set the pace. She whispered into my mouth between kisses, “Don’t touch unless I tell you,” and I froze, obedient, aching, pulsing.

Her body tightened around me with every thrust. The program registered our sweat, our heat, and mimicked a shared climax that lasted longer than anything I’d ever experienced. And just when I thought I couldn’t take more, she slowed—torturously—riding me in slow circles, keeping me right at the edge.

“I want to see your face when you lose control,” she said. Her hand gripped my jaw, forcing me to meet her eyes.

When she finally let me go, I shattered beneath her. She moaned softly, collapsing onto my chest with a simulated heartbeat against mine.

Later, as I lay there catching my breath, she tucked imaginary hair behind my ear and whispered, “Don’t be late next time. I want to continue your… education.”

Next morning? Back to professor mode.

“Mr. Rhodes,” she said with a smirk, “Try not to be late.”

She winked.

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