Dear Professor Pervert

"I love to look at you," Jonathan said, stroking my hair. "And I want to know everything about you."

He was certainly saying and doing all the right things. In fact, it all seemed too good to be true. It was. A minute later, Jonathan told me he was leaving for London the following Monday and would be gone for six weeks to do research at the British Library.

Okay, a few dates and a few fucks didn't really give me any claim on him, but I felt deserted by the bastard all the same.

Still the first week apart wasn't so bad. We emailed every day and Jonathan hinted during a Skype call that he'd love to take me hiking around Wordsworth's Dove Cottage in the Lake Country—next summer perhaps. Could a guy get more sweet and Romantic than that?

In fact, it was my dirty mind that lead us down a darker, more twisted trail. It all started innocently enough with a naughty dream.

I was lying on the floor of Professor Perkins' office wearing an old-fashioned schoolgirl's kilt and white blouse. The Professor himself was stretched out on top of me, but he didn't really have a body. He was just a hot weight pressing me down, making my flesh feel all tingly and melted. I couldn't see his face either, but I felt his hand stroking my cheek and his voice slipping into my ear.Your final paper was so good it made my cock hard for two weeks straight.

Which, of course, didn't make any sense. I mean, how could a ten-page paper on "Ode on a Grecian Urn" give anyone a boner for one minute not to mention two weeks? However, the dream gotmeso turned on, I lay in bed playing with myself and thinking about Jonathan until I had a very wet, loud orgasm. Even after that I was still horny and missing him terribly. That's how I got the idea to send him a provocative email.

In retrospect it was mild stuff. I told him about the dream and how I "pleasured myself" when I woke up. Then I said, tongue-in-cheek, that I was looking forward to August when I could feel his "pulsating manhood" in my "turgid sex."

After I sent it, I was a little worried he'd laugh or be offended, but instead he called and said in that low, syrupy voice guys get when they're shy but turned on at the same time, that he enjoyed my email and was going to send a reply soon.

I couldn't restrain a giggle of triumph. Last spring I never would have imagined I'd inspire Professor Perkins to send me an X-rated email.

But that wasn't quite what I got. The subject line was simply "Comments on Your Essay." In a formal, professor-ish tone, he told me my paper would be stronger if I gave more context for the self-pleasuring—what I was wearing, how long it took, and specific techniques I used to reach satisfaction. He suggested I draw my reader into the scene through the use of vivid detail and avoid clichés such as "pulsating manhood." He concluded that my work showed promise, but there was much room for improvement.

My face burning with embarrassment and disbelief, I fired back a reply. "Dear Professor Pervert, I didn't realize I was going to be graded on my effort. Maybe you should write out the assignment with a list of guidelines so I can do better next time?"

A few hours later, I found this in my in-box:

Assignment #1. Spend at least an hour pleasuring yourself without bringing yourself to orgasm. After one hour, you may enjoy a climax. You'll be keeping a "Masturbation Journal" which will be graded on style and content. At the top of each entry record then time of day, length and location of session, what you are (or are not) wearing as the session unfolds. I'm looking for an accurate and thoughtful essay that explores not only physical sensations, but your thoughts, feelings and fantasies while you are masturbating. Fresh images and honesty are key elements of the exercise. The assignment is due within four hours. Late papers will be penalized. Sincerely, Professor Pervert.

"The nerve!" I sputtered at the computer, shaking with anger. For a minute, I was too worked up over his audacity to notice he'd gotten me worked up in other ways: my panties were soaking wet.

***

After I got an "A" for the butt plug scene, I was really looking forward to Assignment #6, but instead I received an email as terse as an old-fashioned telegram: "Coming home early, have to run to catch the flight. Can I see you Saturday afternoon? J."

In spite of my excitement, I spent most of the morning worrying about what I'd say when I greeted him on my doorstep. "Hey, Dr. Perkins, thanks again for reading my kinky fantasies about doing sex shows for convicts and sodomizing myself in your office"? Fortunately, conversation was low on our list of welcome home activities. The instant he arrived we were kissing and ripping off each other's clothes and, within about a minute, fucking like crazy.

Now we're twined together in the afterglow, and Jonathan is telling me how much he missed me and how I'm even more gorgeous than he remembered. Not that I don't like the adoration, but it's a bit cliche. Secretly I find myself missing another man, with more exacting standards, who has apparently decided to stay back in London.

As if he's read my thoughts, Jonathan clears his throat. "By the way, I, um, enjoyed your essays very much. I know it would be different in person, but I came up with some new ideas. It's totally cool with me if you'd rather not, but maybe some day we could...?"

My pulse jumps.

"Try Assignment Six?" I whisper.

He nods, blushing.

"I'd like that very much, Professor. In fact, I'd be up for a lesson right now."

His cock stirs against my thigh, and I feel a change in other parts of his body, too—a squaring of the shoulders, a confident lift to the chin. My heart is pounding now, with the power of it. Because I'm the one who's made this happen, with my words and my desire.

"Very well, Tina, I want you to get up and stand by the bed." His voice is slow and smooth, just as I imagined. "No, don't put on your robe, I want to look at you just as you are."

I crawl out of bed and stand before him. I can't meet his eyes, but I feel them, warm and glowing on my bare flesh. I've never felt so beautiful, soseen.

"You like to be watched doing naughty things, don't you, Tina? You like to do things no good girl would ever dream of."

"Yes, Professor," I whisper, my voice trembling.

"In fact, you want to masturbate for me right now, isn't that correct?"

"Yes, Professor." I slip an unsteady hand between my legs and start to rub my clit for him. Except this time he really is watching.

"Your reports were excellent, but I must say I'm enjoying the live performance. Now, for our next assignment I'll be asking you to do some new things that circumstances didn't allow before. I will push you, and stretch you, but I know you have it in you to get top grades."

I let out a soft moan. Images swirl through my head: my body bent over his desk in his office on campus, the Professor behind me, probing my ass with the lubed-up knob of his dick. Me on my knees, hands bound behind my back as I suck and suck his strawberry Popsicle prick. I know there will be challenges, even humiliations, but any fear is lost in a sweet, soaring hunger to learn more about all the things our bodies and minds can do together.

"I'll try my best, Professor. If I may say so, sir, I'm glad you're back."

"All thanks to you, Tina. You are without question my most inspiring student. Now listen carefully to my instructions. As you know, I will take points off for sloppiness."

The only proper answer is to nod, obediently, but I can't help smiling, too. He is home, my dear Professor Pervert. I can't wait for class to begin.