I've always wanted to [f]uck [m]y professor. (F21/M39) | 2016

I had arrived back at university fresh from a month-long trip to Cambodia, more confident and self-aware and ready to take on a new semester. Though it didn't have anything to do with my major, I had decided to take Southeast Asian history in an effort to reconnect myself with my roots. The class was early on a Thursday morning and I found myself enjoying the long bus ride to our verdant campus, sipping my first coffee and watching the rain-glazed city go by.

It all started innocently enough — attending class diligently, spending time doing research around campus — but the more I got to know Professor W, the more I wanted to fuck him. This wasn't a basic, one-night stand attraction; it was a need that was almost insane, animalistic, had me climaxing as soon as I was able to get home and slide my fingers into my wet cunt. The way he spoke during lectures — cool, aloof, devastatingly eloquent — and how his eyes would linger on me once, twice, time and time again during class made me crazy. Of course, I wanted to write it off as just another schoolgirl crush; I had had feelings for teachers many times before in my life, and I had gotten used to seeing them go unrequited. But I had an inkling Prof W had his own ideas about where this was all going.

Prof W was tall, good-looking, always well dressed in a freshly-pressed shirt and cardigan. He was a perfect candidate for the vacillating affections of the vast amount of co-eds who would pass through his periphery, though the complete coldness with which he rebuffed their advances was admirable, to say the least. I couldn't figure if he was morally opposed to it or just plain oblivious, but I knew that I didn't want to lower myself to their level — not immediately, anyway. He seemed to treat me with a dignity and civility that he didn't bother putting on for the other students; the conversations that we had in passing were always genuine and, in a way that I still can't quite explain, sweet.

Nevertheless, I was surprised when, several weeks into the semester, Prof W took the seat next to me on the bus back to my neighbourhood. Not to say that I lived in the ghetto, but I lived in the ghetto: smatterings of used needles on the sidewalk and nightly ambulance rounds were de rigeur where I lived. There were a few new high-rises going up in the area but it mostly remained rough —which is why Prof W, folding his lanky frame into his seat with his briefcase and button-up and mesmerizing cologne, was such a sight to see on the loser cruiser.

"Hey, kiddo." He smiled. "Headed home?"

"Yeah." I said nervously, and then, with surprising pluck: "What are you up to? Volunteering weekly to feed the homeless now?"

He explained that he actually lived in one of the new buildings, and that his appointed quarters were embarrassingly swish. Incidentally, it was kitty-corner to my sad, decrepit building.

"So we're neighbours." I said. Then swallowed. "I've had a really long day. Want to go for a drink?"

He fixed his glacial gaze on mine for what seemed like forever, considering the implications of accepting. "Sure," he said. "I could use one."

We disembarked on the stop closest to our respective residences. There was a bar down the street that fulfilled our mutual criteria for a watering hole: it was both dark and chic. One pint turned into three, then another round, then a foolish creamy cocktail of some sort that he said he knew he would regret immediately.

"Want to come up to my place?" he said. "The view's nice. And I have wine."

A couple things you should know about me: one, I'm slutty as fuck when I'm drunk. Two, well, maybe that's all you need to know. I took my long legs and the deep swerve of my waist-to-hip ratio into the elevator behind him and before I knew it, he was switching the Black Keys onto his Apple TV and kissing me deeply on his plush, thousand-dollar couch. The view sure was nice from up there: the apocalyptic fiefdom of our shared neighbourhood and the revolving neon logo of some multi-national corporation stirred up some kind of Blade Runner vibe that I found weirdly arousing. He pushed me onto all fours so that I was facing this dystopic urban vista and pulled my ass into his groin.

In his presence, I felt grown-up and secure. Sexy. Devastating. He traced an idle line down the groove of my spine and purred, "I knew you were smart from the start. It's funny how you know that right away. It's unbelievably hot…"

I liked the details of his apartment: the bare walls and angular furniture — good interior design. And I liked his own ergonomic structure: the twin grooves cleaved alongside his hip-bones, the faint muscular indication of his six-pack. His dusky dark hair and that thin, wolfish smile. We kissed feverishly, like we were in the movies and giving the best performance of our lives. He stripped me down until I was down to my black lace bra and panties. I barely registered it when he fumbled for a condom and put it on — only sharply coming to my senses when he slipped two fingers into my bare, tight pussy.

"You're so wet," he said, transfixed.

"Oh, professor." I purred, naughtily. "You don't know how long I've been waiting for this."

It was hard to suppress my moan when he kissed up the ridges of my ribs and pulled my bra down so he could swirl his tongue around my hard nipples, working his fingers in and out of me. I came so quickly he laughed in amazement, burying his face in my neck.

"So fast?" he murmured. "Let's try that again."

Each time he pushed his fingers into me, my pussy got slicker, impossibly more wet. I couldn't restrain my screams and moans any longer — with my fingers tangled in his hair, I came again and again. Looking at me with that same animal desire, he picked me up and threw me into his bed, pushing his big cock into me with such force that we went from the end of his bed to the head of it.

"Fuck me, professor," I moaned again. "I've been so bad."

He kissed me and bit my neck, putting my legs up on his shoulders. "Mmh, that's exactly what I want to hear…"

We fucked madly until I came yet again. My thighs were soaked with my own cum; my hips bucked upwards with every of his thrusts, his dick reaching parts of my brain, it seemed, that had never been activated before.

"Stand up." He said. I obeyed. He guided me to his desk, where I knew enough to spread my legs wide and bend over, reaching across the desk to grip its furthest edge with white knuckles. He moaned audibly as he entered again, grabbing a fistful of my long, black hair. Here, I lost it — every stroke of his dick drove me closer to the wildest climax I'd ever had — the kind of orgasm that makes you gibbering and breathless and incoherent, half-laughing, half-crying in amazement. When he came inside of me, he moaned madly, deeply, wrapping his arms around my slim frame and crying out into my hair.

We slid down onto the floor and did the only thing we could do at that point: we held each other, tight. He wiped the silly tears from my eyes and kissed me again, maybe for the last time.