Loading...I had graduated and ventured out into that scary void known to college students as “the real world.”
My reaction was similar to others in my situation: “Now what?”
After pondering this question for a good amount of time, I realized that six months had gone by and I was still working at one of the campus bookstores, promoted from temp to shipping clerk. Eventually, I realized that it had almost been a year and I still didn’t have an answer.
I was allowed a week’s vacation, paid time off and more or less picked a city in a price range that my paltry shipping clerk’s wages could handle. I fell in love with this city and scouted out work/school/dwelling. I found a place, but culinary school didn’t seem as good an idea as it looked on the website and I hadn’t gotten into an MFA program for creative writing.
So, I moved to Portland.
In time, I went from temp gigs to an office job that actually offered health and dental. From my various bicycling accidents, I can safely say that I used my fair share of both deductibles.
Professor Hall was more or less forgotten until he came up in conversation with a friend online. Out of curiosity, I googled him to find that he had returned to the East Coast, teaching at a private college and an writing academic book on history plays during the Elizabethan era. I sent a rather innocuous email salutation and he replied, recommending a book by Evelyn Waugh when I had mentioned that I spent most of my free time (and a good part of my paycheck) on books from a well-loved local bookseller.
When I had mentioned that I had started reading Spenser’s Faerie Queene again, he commented that I may be the only student he had that picked it up willingly outside of class and that this was “surely a testament” to my “virtue.” I may be too much of an English major of my own good, but I couldn’t help but remember the class discussion about the various ironic uses of the word “virtue” in Spenser’s Faerie Queene.
I made a small circle of friends from a writing group where we spent more time bitching about our day jobs than actually writing. One could say that I started dating again, but for the most part, I just had one-night stands of a repetitive nature.
One such liaison was with someone I had met online through the independent music magazine personals section. Admittedly, Neil was just as handsome as his pictures, but just about as one-dimensional. He was dull in a conventional sort of way, liked order and routine, liked the sound of his own voice, but at least he was creative in the bedroom. I wondered if he spent more on sex and gym equipment than he had on anything else, especially on a university office drone salary. I know if I had to pick, I’d choose my dining out budget over a gym membership any day. It’s little wonder it didn’t last long considering he often kicked me out of his bed so he could get up bright and early to get to the gym.
Anyway, I had made the mistake of telling him that I wrote erotica. This resulted in him asking me to write a story the we could act out as a light BDSM scenario. The following story is the result of that experiment.
* * *
“Teacher’s Pet”
Finals week was about to draw to a close. With graduation around the corner, I could hardly afford to goof off now, even though I had been reassured by my friends and my instructors that I had earned it.
Well, at least most instructors seemed to be in agreement.
For whatever reason, Professor H. seemed to have a distinct dislike for me. Every comment I made in class, every textual interpretation gleaned from reading criticism or from my own induction was shot down with disdain. A friend of mine who was in the same class that quarter couldn’t help but notice it.
“I think he’s out to get you.” Amy said.
“What? Don’t be ridiculous.” I said. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“You’re probably the only person who does all of the readings and doesn’t just cliff it or work based from prior memories of reading Hamlet five-thousand times.” She continued after taking a swig from a bottle of Midori mixed with a good amount of vodka that we had been sharing. “You actually give a damn and actually talk in class, but every time you open your mouth…”
“He shoves his PhD-accredited fist into it.” I sighed. “I see what you mean. Still, it’s not like I’m failing the class.”
“What was the grade you got on your last paper?” Amy raised an eyebrow.
“A B minus.”
“And what was your GPA before taking Professor H.’s class?”
“4.0.” It almost pained me to say it, but I knew that the suspicion lingered in my mind. “You don’t think it’s because I’m-”
“I wouldn’t put it past him, but you’d think he’d pick on Aaron too.” She shrugged.
“Aaron’s never in class.”
“Either way, I think maybe you should have a talk with him.” Amy put a supportive hand on my shoulder before staggering to her feet and picking up a bag. “I’ve gotta go, hockey practice.”
“To this day, I will never understand how you can function on ice skates after a few drinks.” I shook my head.
“The booze helps numb against the body checks!” She raised a fist in the air as she walked to the door. “Anyway, you should really talk to Professor H.”
“And what exactly should I say to him?” I snorted. “‘Hey Professor H., I think you’re being an unreasonable dick. Give me an A in your class?'”
“Yeah, you could do that.” Amy turned around, thunking her large bag into the doorframe. “All else fails, flash your tits. I hear guys are into that sort of thing.”
As astute as my roommate Amy was, there was another thing that she didn’t seem to pick up on.
I had a slight case of the hots for Professor H.
Granted, I’m an ok student most of the time. Yet there was something about the neat way Professor H. presented himself, the coldness in his vocal tones as he lectured and led discussion that made me want to try harder. Sometimes I would see him at one of the few bars on campus that wasn’t overrun with fraternity neanderthals having a pint alone or with some other members of the department, where he was actually the youngest faculty member who wasn’t a grad student. He was always so cool and reserved, so well-put together. He looked like a hero from a film noir who wandered into this crass, short attention-span world from the days of black and white. There was something darker in him, something that flickered behind his eyes whenever he deigned to make eye contact during discussion. Maybe it really was a matter of me wanting to impress him. Of course, the more I seemed to try, the more he shot me down, refusing to acknowledge that I had a point or an interesting new idea to bring to the discussion.
An example:
“I think what Spenser was going for with the Redcrosse Knight losing all strength in the battle against Orgoglio the giant was an example of the Aristotelian orgasm, where some aspect of male power is lost in the sex act, especially considering the scene before that was of him and Duessa lying by the riverbank in loose wantonness.” This was regarding a discussion about Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene.
“Anybody else who isn’t just regurgitating from every critical work written in this century about Spenser want to give it a try? Anyone at all?”
It probably didn’t help that most of my contributions in class ended up being comments that could be construed as sexual in nature. The sad thing was, I didn’t even notice it until Amy had brought it up. Honestly, I’m not a pervert. I don’t know if it’s just a subconscious reaction to staring at Professor H. for one and a half hours twice a week.
Anyway, with my GPA hanging in the balance, I decided to follow Amy’s advice, without that last bit, of course. I went to visit Professor H. during his last set of office hours that semester before the final paper was due. I had at least written a draft of it and was hesitant to ask him what he thought, but at least if I had some feedback, there was at least a chance I could improve my grade with it later.
I knocked on the slightly-ajar door.
“You may enter.” He didn’t even bother looking up from his papers as I sat down in the rather small chair in front of his desk.
“Hi Professor H.” I smiled nervously. “I was just wondering…”
“If you had been paying attention the final day of class, Miss V., you would know that I will not look at rough drafts before the final paper is due.” He said. “This is not high school. I would certainly think that after four years, you would understand this by now.”
“Three, sir.” I said.
“Come again?”
“I’m actually graduating in three years.” I explained. “I came into university with a semester and half of credit from AP tests and took some summer classes.”
“Well, aren’t you proud of yourself?” He stood up from his desk and walked around to where I was sitting.
I could practically feel him staring down at me, like I was an insect he didn’t want to bother dirtying his shoes with, but had to anyway, just to be rid of me. I turned around to face him. It was terrifying. The small chair had a magnifying effect of my insignificance, making him seem even taller. I may as well have been sitting on the floor. There he was in full menace, slacks and shirt sleeves well-pressed, not a hair out of place.
“Professor H., that was another thing I wished to speak to you about.” I took a deep breath, cleared my throat and tried to put on a brave voice. “Have I done something to offend you? I don’t believe you have given the same treatment to the other students that you have to me.”
“Do you believe that you deserve preferential treatment over the other students?” He asked coolly.
“I-no. That’s not what I meant.”
“I think that is what you meant.” He smiled down at me. As often as I have stared at his soft lips, watched him lick them the way I wished he would lick me, all I could see in that smile were razors aimed at slicing me to ribbons. “You think that you can waltz right in here, dressed like a tart and persuade me into giving you the grade that you so justly deserve.”
“I am not dressed like a tart.” I turned back around clenched my knees together. My skirt went at least an inch past them. It wasn’t like I was in a miniskirt and stiletto heels.
“Well,” he bent to whisper in my ear, lips barely grazing the top of my left ear. “I don’t consider myself an unreasonable man, Miss V. In fact, I believe that I do often give people what they deserve.”
I stood up and walked to the door. “Professor H. This is entirely inappropriate. This-”
“What is entirely inappropriate is the idea that you think that you can tell me what to do in the confines of my own office.” He opened a drawer and pulled out what looked like a crop used to flog horses. “What is entirely inappropriate is being forced to watch you slink your way into my classroom every week, all tarted up like you’re ready for a date, with a nice boy I would imagine. A nice boy you would tease and torment, say no when you really mean yes.”
“Oh my God, you’re insane.” I rattled the doorknob to find that the door had been locked. I cursed that the building was old enough to the point where it still had locks that required a key on both sides of the door.
He laughed. “If only because you made me that way. Don’t think that I haven’t noticed how often you cross and uncross your legs when you wear skirts in my class, how often you brush the top of your pen against your lips and lick it. How could I not picture those lips wrapped around my cock?”
I closed my eyes as he brushed his thumb against my lips. What felt like something between a cool breeze and a mild electric shock ran through my body. When was the last time I had been touched like that?
“Oh no, my dear.” He ran a hand through my hair. I looked up to find myself surrounded by him with my back against the door, his arms on both sides. “I consider myself a reasonable man. All I want you to do is admit that you do this on purpose to lure, to tempt.”
“Is that all?” I asked timidly.
“Quite.” He said. “Just go over there, place both hands on my desk and admit that you’re a dirty little slut who likes to tease her professor. Then I will give you precisely what you deserve.”
Don’t think that I was a complete idiot and had no idea where this was going to lead. Still, part of me was intrigued. None of my previous lovers had been so forceful… or creative for that matter.
I did as I was told, placing my hands on his desk and bending over. I imagined what would happen next, how hard he would strike. Who knows? Maybe this was the sort of thing I needed to do to finally get the A in the class.
“I’m a dirty little slut who likes to tease my professor.” I said.
“Oh, I’m sorry, could you say that louder? I couldn’t hear you.” Before I could protest, a hard slap came on my ass from the crop.
After my unexpected yelp, I tried again. “I-I’m a dirty little slut who likes to tease my professor.”
“And what do dirty little sluts deserve?”
Before I could answer, a series of hard slaps came from the riding crop. I could hear it pushing against the air before I felt the sting. I felt my knees going weak and my elbows buckling beneath my own weight. I clenched my eyelids shut to keep the tears from falling.
“Good.” He stood behind me and bent down, whispering in my ear again. “Now lift your skirt and lower your panties.”
Had this been anyone else, I would have been long out the door, tearing it off its hinges. But this was Professor H., my intellectual Adonis. His voice like fine sandpaper, growling against every cell in my body. My hands trembled as I reached down, grasping the hem of my skirt and lifting it up, then lowering my panties around my ankles. To my embarrassment, they were startlingly moist.
“Good girl.” He laughed. “Black panties?”
At this point, I was starting to catch on to his little game. “Only for you, sir.”
This time I felt his hand in place of the crop. That did not make it hurt any less considering how sore my ass and thighs already were.
“Did I say you could speak?” He hissed. “Now, I believe I should add a more personal touch. How could I resist such a sweet target?”
I felt his rough hand slide up and down against my ass, down my thighs and back up again. This was so wrong, even if I did have a thing for Professor H. Why would I let somebody do this to me? I knew I should just reassemble my clothes and storm out the door. I shut my eyes tightly, waiting for the inevitable sting.
But none came.
On one pass, he slid his hands between my thighs. Despite my attempt at holding them together, after a couple more slaps, he convinced me to spread my thighs to allow him entry.
“Mm. You’re very wet too.” He said. “I want you to try and tell me that you don’t want this.”
“I-” Before I could even protest, another slap came.
“I know you can say that you don’t want this, but I know that you do. This doesn’t lie.” He reached around and started fingering me.
I gasped and shuddered against him.
“Not so fast.” He said, withdrawing his fingers. “I want you to say it, want you to beg for it first.”
“Please…Professor H.”
“Yes?”
“I want you, right now.” I felt like I was going to explode if he didn’t start touching me again.
“Take off your clothes.” His words were barely a whisper against my ear, but I felt them blow through me as if I had not been wearing clothes at all.
I stood there, naked in front of him, crossing my arms.
“No, arms at your side. I want to look at you.” He ordered. “Do you want the crop again?”
“No, sir.” I looked down at the floor.
“Look at me.” He said. “Not so righteous and prim now, are we? Still, I believe we still have a bit more to go. On your knees.”
The tile was cold and hard against my skin. I continued looking up at him, watching him unzip his fly. Out came his cock, standing at full attention.
“Open your mouth.” He grabbed my hair into his fist. He probably didn’t even need to make that order, since my involuntary gasp was silenced by him sliding his length past my lips and down my throat.
“Mm. Your mouth is so soft.” He murmured. “That’s a good girl…I want you to look at me while you’re sucking me off.”
I reached up to grab his hips to push him back and then grab his cock, but he stopped me by tugging at my hair again.
“No. You have to learn your lesson.” He said, sliding his cock further down my throat to the point where I had to fight my gag reflex. “I’m going to continue fucking that filthy mouth of yours until I’m satisfied that you have learned your lesson. In the mean time, you are not to touch me or yourself with those hands. Your hands are to be kept at your sides.”
I did the best I could with my mouth as he continued sliding in and out. I would attempt to lick his shaft and head with my tongue as he withdrew. Sometimes I would turn my head at an angle to allow him to go as deep as possible. Most of all, I just wanted him to put that cock to further use by fucking me senseless. I moaned, imagining him inside me, pounding his hips against mine. I imagined riding him in his chair as he grabbed my tits.
“I think that’s enough.” He withdrew, stroking my hair, helping me to my feet. “Have you learned your lesson?”
“Yes, sir.” I said, looking him in the eye, grinning. “I won’t do it ever again.”
“Like I said, I’m a reasonable man. B minus.”
My jaw dropped. “You son of a bitch.”
I raised my hand to slap him, but he caught my wrist in his hand and pinned it behind my back, pushing me against the wall.
“What did I tell you?” He whispered in my ear. “Now I’m going to have to punish you again.”
I braced myself for another blow, either from his hand or the crop again. Between my knees hurting from the floor and my ass being practically tenderized, I wasn’t sure how much more I can take.
“I told you that I was going to make you beg for it, now convince me.” He said. “Use that filthy mouth of yours to get what you want.”
“Please Professor H. I need you inside me.”
“Say ‘I need you to fuck me, Professor H.’ There’s no sense in you being prudish considering how much you love to suck cock.”
“I need you to fuck me, Professor H.” I said. “Please, I’m begging you. I want you to fuck me hard, right up against this wall, right now.”
“Much better.” With that, he slid inside me as I braced against the wall.
With my legs still fairly close together and him hitting at just the right angle, it hurt, but only enough for me to feel every move he made inside my cunt. With one hand, he restrained both of my wrists behind my back. His other arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer to him so I could feel his every thrust even more intensely as he pinched my nipples.
I screamed as he bit into my shoulder. This only encouraged him to start thrusting faster and harder.
“Now tell me, what were you really here for?” He growled against my ear.
“I needed to be taught a lesson.” I gasped. “A lesson only you could teach me.”
“And whose pleasure are you here for?”
“Yours.”
Things were going so fast. Every cell, no, every atom of my body seemed to vibrate at such a rate that I felt like I was going to fly off in a million different directions. I let it happen. I felt the wave of destruction wash over me, let it wash away my prior insecurities that I had gleaned from my identity politics classes and feminist campus groups.
I was my professor’s fucktoy, his cockslut, and I loved it. I more than loved it, I was ok with the fact that I loved it.
Not too long after this epiphany combined with one of the most earth-shattering orgasms I had ever had in my life, Professor H. came, shuddering against me, brushing his cheek against mine in a surprising act of tenderness. I felt his hands drop to my sides, caressing my every curve.
As I put my clothes back on, he had one last comment.
“Miss V., I just want you to know that you have nothing to worry about regarding your grade.” He said.
“Because of my performance?” I raised an eyebrow.
“I know that I may have pushed you a bit too hard in the past.” He explained. “I just want to see you push yourself more, to think for yourself, not slack off like the other students. I can see what you’re capable of and want you to keep exceeding expectations.”
“And why is that, sir?”
“I don’t know.” He smiled wistfully. “Maybe it’s because you remind me a little bit of myself at your age…”
“You’re a bit young to be telling me ‘when I was your age’ stories.”
This earned me another firm slap on the ass.
“That’s the last time I try to give you a compliment.” He laughed as he unlocked the door and let me go on my way, a free woman…
That is, until I willingly led myself into his captivity again.
* * *
Completing the story was a catharsis, nearly an orgasm, but more painful upon actually reading it. What had I done? I had turned the object of my fond, if slightly creepy, affections into a monster. I shaped him into the sort of man who would completely disregard ethical prohibitions against fraternizing with students, who would attempt to blackmail a student with grades in exchange for sex…
And yet, this imagined darker half turned me on even more.
Of course, writing this had me turned on, but I wasn’t imagining Neil in this scenario. All the memories came back of wearing dresses and skirts to class even though I was usually more for practicality and comfort than looking nice, all the small talk, right down to that handshake that I wished actually had lasted the eternity it had seemed.
I idly contemplated emailing Professor Hall again, not the story obviously, considering.
I did the next best thing. I emailed the story to Neil, and like clockwork, he got back to me stating that he had time after 9:00 p.m. and before 11:00 p.m. for a session.
“So, what brings you to my office?”
No transition, no “Hi, how was your week?” But of course, this was not the nature of our arrangement.
I was disappointed. He was not wearing a black suit or even a button-down shirt. Hell, if Neil wanted me in the schoolgirl outfit, the least he could do was play along. At least he had showered, something I always appreciated appreciated considering the one time I had gone to his place early, immediately after his tennis matches.
“I- I-” It probably would have been a better idea for me to at least try to memorize the story I had written, but I suppose perplexed stammering was appropriate for my “character.” “I wanted to talk to you about my grade in your class.”
“Yes?” He said, sitting down on his couch next to me.
“I have gone to every class, participated in discussion, and yet I have a B- in the class.” I said.
“Jane, what is the title of this course?” Before I could answer, he said. “This is Renaissance Literature, not ‘Participation’ or ‘Discussion.’ Your grade is based on your performance, how well I believe you grasp the material.”
As I said, at least he was creative.
“Yes, sir.” I frowned and looked away.
“However, this grade is… negotiable.” Neil ran a hand up my thigh.
“Professor, this is entirely inappropriate!” I attempted to push him away, but he started kissing me, hard.
After that, we more or less forgot about the script, which wasn’t really a script so much as a framework for running the scenario.
“Are you willing to take my instructions?” He asked.
“Yes.”
He took my chin in one hand and unzipped his pants with the other. “Good, now suck my cock.”
“Yes, sir.”
He was already erect at this point, so I knew it wouldn’t take very long before he lost interest in my mouth. I started tentatively licking the head, pretending that I wasn’t the sort of girl who did this on a regular basis. He soon lost patience with this and grabbed my hair, pushing my face down so his cock hit the back of my throat.
“Mm… that’s good.” He stood up, causing me to have to place more weight against my knees. With a few slow thrusts, he started fucking my face in earnest.
I couldn’t help but wonder what Professor Hall would have done in this situation. He didn’t seem so vulgar and ungentlemanly as to do something like this, and yet some part of me did want to be treated as an object. It didn’t have to threaten my status as an autonomous subject to play these games at times. I was still me even if to Neil I was just a fucktoy.
He put a hand on my shoulder as an indication to stop. He then draped a towel over his couch and bent me over the arm rest with my feet dangling over the floor. He tied a blindfold around my eyes and slid my panties down my legs, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor. I heard the familiar crinkle of the condom wrapper and squirt of lubrication.
As much as I appreciated his concern for my comfort, I generally didn’t have a problem getting naturally turned on and lubed up before, if given enough attention. Something about that small bottle of chemicals just seemed so clinical to me, further emphasizing how this was just a routine, almost as spontaneous and exciting as an annual pap smear.
I felt how hot his hand was beneath the cool slickness as he started fingering me, not so much feeling like it was for my enjoyment but to evenly distribute the lube like he was icing a cake inside out. His cock slid in quickly and he broke into a steady rhythm. From the feel of warm skin and hair from his thighs brushing against mine, I could tell he was completely naked. Honestly, if I was as well put-together as he was, I probably would forego clothing and invest in full-length mirrors.
A sudden image, or sensation rather, came to me. The feel of black wool slacks brushing my thighs. Of course, being blindfolded, I’d have no way of knowing what color the slacks were, but the image was still there.
I angled my hips upward so he could hit me in the right spots as he fucked me, even though it caused the couch armrest to dig into my ribcage harder.
“Mm…” I moaned, biting my lower lip.
“I take it you’re enjoying this.” I could hear the air disturbed around his hand before the slap actually hit my ass. “Now, you have to remember,” slap “this is for your own good.” Slap.
“Ah!”
Instead of hovering over a couch, I felt I was standing on a floor beneath fluorescent light, arms braced against a heavy wooden desk.
The thrusting and slapping behind me ceased momentarily. Instead of picturing a hand wiping sweat from a forehead fringed in blond hair, I saw the hand brush past dark curls. Once the fucking resumed, I felt a hand at my throat starting to squeeze.
I imagined a warm hand in my own, looking into someone’s eyes for a solid moment…
A shiver ran down my spine like a fuse burning out, once it hit the end, I felt a bloom of heat, humming, spinning outward.
“Oh…”
“That’s it… come for me, you slut…” The thrusts came in harder and faster. The voice attached to the words seemed somehow disembodied from the actions.
Even though I didn’t quite feel like I was there in the room or anywhere for that matter with my blindfold on, I had this strange sense that I was watching this happen to me even though I couldn’t see anything.
One hand in mine…
Dark eyes meeting mine.
My hand withdrew and we just looked at each other, smiling tightly.
I sighed heavily.
“Was it good for you too?” I felt something come loose around my wrists and get pulled from over my eyes.
Blue eyes, not dark, met mine, hand extended not in handshake but to offer me my clothes and show me the door.
“Oh.” I smiled, sliding the panties back over my legs and grabbing my bag. I debated about leaving a $20 on the nightstand but figured that money would be better spent that week on burritos or pad thai from one of the stands near my office for lunch. “Thanks.”
“See you later.” Neil said over his shoulder as I backed my bicycle out his front door.
We didn’t last very long, I suspect, because he grew bored of me. At one point, he accused me of being overly emotional and dramatic. I would never refute that I have a penchant for making much of things, but that didn’t make me any less annoyed by his words.
Things ended more or less with the same level of drama that a few of my previous liaisons had ended, always infuriating or upsetting me more in the immediate sense but fading to complete irrelevance in a short amount of time.
After a sort of wakeup call that involved me completely crushing my bike frame like a soda can and requiring $1200 of dental reconstruction, I decided it was time to apply for graduate school. I had confirmed two people out of the three I required to write a letter of recommendation for my application. One was a former employer, the other my former literacy in media studies professor. However, one professor never got back to me and I could not find any alternate contact information.
So, who else could I turn to but another professor whose contact information I still had?
Also, it didn’t hurt to say hi…