My Professor Gets Asian Lesson

Let me tell you about a professor I had in grad school ("had" in many ways...). At the time, I was with a short term boyfriend who I wasn't very sure about--he was rather dull and eventually his inability to tell stories in interesting ways annoyed me to such an extent that I couldn't bear to be with him. He was perfectly acceptable when he was silent, but as soon as he tried to tell me about his day, or even when he was trying to say something serious (very rare), he babbled like a fool.

I guess the only reason I was with him was because he was gorgeous, in the way that some men can be--long eyelashes, brooding eyes, dark features--effeminate in many ways. My vanity got the best of me since everywhere we went in public women could not help staring at him, and I felt the envy in their eyes as a source of great pride.

He had a wonderful cock, as pretty as he was, and I wish now that I had taken pictures of him nude with his perfectly proportioned hard-on, but he never wanted to record our sex-making, and so I have no visual representations of him except my memories.

It's lucky that he never spoke while we were having sex, but eventually his dullness infected even that part of our relationship and I was too bored to even get horny. He loved being with an Asian girl, and I could tell that he was a "Rice King," choosing to be with me because I was Asian even though he could have had his pick of white women.

To get to the point, being with him left me looking for more interesting games, and so in one of my seminars, a young professor caught my eye. He was brilliant, with a touch of arrogance that he was smart enough to know to hide, but it slipped out every once in a while and I knew that he knew I was catching it, because I would smirk every time he slipped and he began to catch my eye with each smirk.

I couldn't tell if it bothered him or pleased him, because he was so composed and in control in class that he would never lose a beat. He seemed like one of those men who could never be flustered. Unlike many of the professors in my field (let's just say its in the Arts...), he was very masculine--not insensitive, but certainly aberrant in his self-confidence, as if he had been the captain of his high school football team or president of his senior class. This, as you know, is not the typical background of PhDs, and so perhaps this was why I was drawn to him.

I gravitate to men who seem in control, of course, but also I felt a challenge to poke a hole in his composure, and so I would continually try to distract him in seminar by flirting, wearing slutty clothes, exposing my cleavage, opening my legs to him while wearing short skirts. Nothing seemed to faze him, and so I began to get bolder and bolder, trying to get some kind of rise from him (not necessarily an erection, mind you, a raised eyebrow would have been victory for me...).

By the end of the semester, I had begun to suspect that he was gay, or that there was just nothing there (maybe he was getting an erection, but his penis was too small to dent his pants?). After the last class, he invited all of us to his home for a potluck dinner, and I was assigned the dessert. I plotted and planned for days trying to think of some way of using the dessert as the last gambit in our sexual game (I was convinced that both of us were playing, although there was still no evidence that he had even noticed me, except for those occasional cryptic moments of eye contact).

I have to admit that I failed to come up with something clever for dessert, and ended up just baking a pie. It felt like I was carrying a semester's worth of failure when I entered with that pie, and when I handed it to him inside his door, he looked at it, barely glanced at the short black miniskirt and fishnet stocking I was wearing with my knee high black leather boots, and uttered a slightly sardonic "how interesting, a pie..."

Quite frankly, I was now pissed off, and I spent much of that evening sitting on the couch seething, uncertain whether I was being insulted, mocked, or worst yet, just ignored. The other students were annoying me with their blatant flattery of him, gushing about how wonderful the class had been, and how much they had learned.

He took it all in with a thinly veiled humility, as if he were mocking their insincere sincerity, and I became even more convinced that he was also mocking me, and that he had noticed all my attempts at flirting through the semester and disdained them. I have a bad habit of drinking in excess when angry, and so by the end of the evening I had imbibed a quarter of the total alcohol available, just over two of the eight bottles of wine (I know because I opened both bottles myself and kept them near and continually replenishing my glass...).

Perhaps because I was drunk, I barely noticed that everyone else had left one by one and with one last pair of students who had driven there together standing up and heading for the door, I found myself sitting on his leather couch alone. He sat down on the other end of the couch and poured himself a glass of wine from the only bottle with any wine left in it and said with the same composed voice he used in class, "I believe that it would be quite unethical of me to allow you to drive home, and so I can either call you a cab or you may spend the night on my couch, if you wish."

Being drunk, I said the first saucy thing that came to mind, with much more of my seething anger coming through in my voice than I intended. "I'll only sleep on your couch if you intend to fuck me, otherwise you can call the cab." At that point, after 14 weeks of cool reserve, he finally lost it. He was in the midst of sipping wine at that moment, and he literally choked and sputtered, as if he were in a bad television sitcom. He stammered something incomprehensible, and then stopped, as if he didn't know what to say next.

I burst out laughing, partially out of relief that I had finally gotten to him and cracked that polished exterior, and partly because for the first time since I had seen him in the first day of class, he looked comical. He looked at me aghast, and then turned away with his cheeks flushed, and for a moment, he looked exactly like Hugh Grant bumbling with his English schoolboy charm in some bad romantic comedy.

I figured I was going to pile on now that I had him at a disadvantage. "So you do want to fuck me, don't you? I knew all that flirting on your part was serious. Shame on you! Isn't that highly unethical?"

He was stuttering now, protesting that he had not been flirting, and that I had misinterpreted his gestures. "Gestures?" I kept poking, "Is that what you call them? I define them as come ons. You don't have to be a hooker on the street to know what your gestures mean." I was quite drunk, and slinging away at him now that he was flustered.

But then he surprised me. "Well yes, I must admit that I find you very attractive, and that it was quite difficult to ignore your Dragon Lady charms," he admitted, strangely composing himself as he confessed that he had in fact been flirting with me.

It was now my turn to be caught off guard, since I had merely been taunting him in order to get a rise out of him, angry that he had ignored me all semester. Now he was admitting that in fact what I had feared was a one way street went both ways. "I had thought that I was in fact quite in control of myself and had managed to hide it, but it's obvious now that you read me like a book. I often found myself fantasizing about you, about what it would be like to fuck you, even as I was prattling on about some idiocy or another, and as much as I tried not to stare at you, I suppose I must have been gawking at you constantly. Quite wrong of me..."

He was now looking me straight in the eye, and whatever disadvantage he had been at evaporated. He was in control again, and a smirk marked the corners of his mouth. "It really was annoying how you would mock me every time I got too full of myself; I really ought to have punished you in class and humiliated you in front of your classmates."

Somehow, his reassertion of his command was burning through me--I could physically feel my labia swell and a slickness seep into my panties. I was surprised at the meekness of my voice, almost as if I had just turned into a shy, submissive, Asian girl stereotype, as I whispered, "Why didn't you?"

He kept staring at me, as if I was now the book and he was reading every page, flipping through the superficial signs and decoding me. I suddenly saw myself not as the complex, sophisticated, difficult woman I imagined but an open book, as easy to comprehend as semaphore. "So," he went on, "signifiers and signified exposed at last. Stand up, and let's finally get a good look at you."

Without even a thought or hesitation, I stood up. He sat back on the couch and again sipped his wine, completely relaxed. "Turn around, slowly..." I did, aware now of his eyes, which I had competed for in class, focused solely on me. I felt naked, even though I was still clothed. What did he see as he stared at me, measured me? Did he find me wanting? "Bend over and lift your skirt, show me what you have been teasing me with all term. Show me your tiny Asian ass."

I faced away from him and bent at the waist, slowly reaching behind and lifting my skirt. I had worn fishnet stockings and a garter belt, with a black skirt that just barely reached the tops of the stockings. When the edge of the skirt crept high enough to expose my underwear, he told me to stand wider. I opened my stance and held my skirt over my ass. It felt like his stare was a cool breeze on the back of my thighs, cold and calculating the degree of my arousal. "Are you wet?" he asked.

I whispered in reply, "Yes."

He told me to pull my panties down to my knees. I did, immediately feeling the warm wetness of the fabric at the crotch of my panties slide away from my lips, exposing them to his gaze. "Your lips are quite large, are they swollen right now?"

I answered "yes" again, feeling a flush at how clinical his questioning was, and how calm he was in the face of my sexual arousal.

"Show me how wet your are." I reached between my legs with my left hand and slid two of my fingers inside, pulling them out coated with thick slick mucous. I was so wet that a long trail dripped off the tip of my index finger, hanging and stretching for three four five inches until it finally dropped onto the floor.

"Naughty girl, you've dirtied yourself and now you've dirtied my floor. Get down on your hands and knees and lick that up." I kneeled down, my panties still around my knees, and awkwardly crawled on my elbow and knees back two feet, with my butt turned up towards him, until I found where my secretions had dropped on his hardwood floor.

There was a question mark shaped trail that glistened, about four or five inches long, and I bent my face down to the floor and carefully stuck my tongue out, delicately lapping it into my mouth with one then two long strokes. "How does it taste? Do you like the taste of your own cunt?"

Somehow, hearing him utter the word "cunt," in a harsher tone than the rest of the words, made me feel the burn of shame and humiliation, as if it named the prone position I was in at that moment. I was just a cunt, a sexual object on display in front of his eyes, ready to be probed and used at his discretion.

"You haven't answered me. Do you like the taste of your own cunt? Do you taste yourself every night when you masturbate thinking about me?" I had the sudden thought that he had seen me all those nights when I had done precisely that, fucking myself with my fingers or my favorite dildo while imagining him pounding into me, and then licking myself off the vibrator as if I were cleaning my juices off his cock. His knowledge of my secret fantasies sent a shiver through me.

"Yes, sir, I always taste myself after I come, I love the taste after I've come thinking about you." I was still on my elbows and knees, waiting, and I was suddenly surprised when I felt something hard and smooth wedge its way between my wet lips. It took a second for me to realize that it was the toe of his shoe, and as he jammed it further into my open cunt, the part where the hard sole stuck out from his shoe flicked my hard clit and I spasmed, my stomach muscles and buttocks uncontrollably clenching and my hips thrusting forward.

The toe of his shoe slipped out of my pussy and up the crack of my ass past my anus, leaving a wet trail. "Fuck yourself on my shoe. I know you want to relieve yourself. Show me how horny you are. Show me what a dirty Oriental whore does to relieve herself. Make yourself come on my shoe." I pushed my hips backward until his toe had slipped between my lips again and began to rhythmically thrust back and forth, humping his shoe.

I'm not sure if he moved his foot at all, if he did the motion was lost in my insistent thrusting. I was concentrating on rubbing his shoe in a long stroke from the opening of my cunt downwards so that each stroke snapped my clit twice, once on the down stroke and again on the upstroke. I began to whimper, a pathetic moaning that seemed forced out of me by the hardness of his shoe. It only took a minute or two until I began to convulse, my knees drawing together as the orgasm clenched all my muscles again and again. My clit shrank away from his shoe, too sensitive in the aftermath of my orgasm, and he pulled his foot away as the waves of pleasure subsided.

Now that you've had your relief, come lick my shoe clean." I wriggled around on all fours until I was facing him. He still held the wine glass in one hand, but his other hand was slowly stroking his cock through the fabric of his trousers. I could see clearly the outline of his hard-on, it created a tent in his crotch, an obscene mound upon which his hand languished.

His shoe, black leather dress shoes with wide soles, like stylish versions of the classic Doc Martens, was now resting on the floor, and the toe of his left shoe glistened with the reflection from my secretions. I was surprised how much of the shoe was wet, almost three inches from the tip, all the way past where the laces began. I leaned down and licked myself off his shoe, tasting the bitterness of the shine of his shoes mingled with the clear tang of my mucous.

When I was done, he sat watching me for almost a minute, impassively, as if I were an insect he was examining in an experiment. Each second that went by seemed endless, and I yearned for him to say something, anything, like a dog waiting for her master to give a command. He still held the wine glass and took an ostentatious sip, savoring the bouquet as if it were more interesting than I was for that moment. I was back in the seminar room again, hoping for his glance, for his attention.

I could see his other hand still slowly stroking his cock through his pants, but it almost seemed an absent minded motion, disconnected from me. I hated this momentary disconnect, and relief flooded through me when his eyes met mine again. "Crawl over to the coffee table and choose one of the wine bottles. You are going to fuck yourself with it, and so choose well."

I crawled over and looked at the eight bottles. Six of them were red wine bottles, fairly similar in shape, with a cylindrical top and a straight barrel below. The other two were white wines--one was long and slim, at least two or three inches longer than the others, and the bottom was slightly tapered; the other bottle was a dessert wine, smaller than the others.

I thought about choosing that one, since it was just a little larger than my favorite dildo, but I feared that it would displease him to see that I had chosen the smallest bottle of the eight, and so I reached out and picked up the long white wine bottle, holding it in my hand carefully as I crawled back to him.

"Take your underwear off and give them to me. Then lie on your back and spread your legs up in the air." I handed him my underwear and he brought them up to his face, delicately savoring the scent in the same way he had inhaled the bouquet of the wine earlier. "Musky, slightly earthy, with a pungent nose, but fresh, clean, and a long lingering finish full of spicy and exotic notes," he uttered, "you have quite a strong fragrance, much more complex than I had imagined." Somehow, this pleased me, and I wanted even more to please him.

I sat and then lay back on the floor, raising my legs up in a "V." I waited again, feeling his eyes stare at my swollen and wet lips. "Fuck yourself with the bottle," he commanded, "Use the top first but then finish yourself with the bottom. I want to see how deeply you can take the bottle, so don't be gentle with yourself. Fuck yourself hard." He paused. "You made a very good choice, by the way."

I slipped the bottle inside myself and began stroking it in and out. It made an obscene, wet, sucking noise each time I pulled it outwards, and it's hard cold surface was so different than the way my silicone dildos felt. After several minutes of fucking myself, the glass warmed up and I was just left with the feeling of the hardness of the bottle lip sliding in and out. The narrow top part of the bottle was almost six inches long, and on each stroke in I pushed it all the way in so that the taper of the middle part of the bottle hit my lips and clit.

I was close to coming, and began to speed up the pace. Just as I was about to start coming, he suddenly said "Stop!" I obeyed, hanging on the edge of orgasm, with a few tiny convulsions beginning inside, near my cervix, in anticipation of coming. I waited. Five seconds, ten, half a minute, and just as the near climax began to subside he told me to turn the bottle around and "finish" myself off. I remembered his instructions not to be gentle, and I was so tense and anxious with desire that I would not have been gentle in any case.

The bottom end of the bottle was much wider than it seemed, since the taper very quickly after a few inches widened to even more than the normal width of the other wine bottles. It took a few short strokes to get the bottom inside me, and since I was gripping the end that had just been inside me, the bottle was slippery at first. But as my secretions dried, the bottle actually became sticky and tacky to the touch, and I was able to get a good grip and began pounding it in and out of my pussy.

I quickly climbed back to the plateau I had been left hanging at, and then surpassed its heights. The hard glass of the bottle stretched my lips and the tugging on my erect clitoris was almost painful, especially as I was now rather violently jamming the bottle in and out of myself, pounding myself like a cheap prostitute in an Oriental whorehouse.

I had never felt more like a slut, and the thought of him watching me, judging me, evaluating my performance as if he were grading me, sent a wave of humiliation and anger through me, triggering the opening waves of a full body orgasm. I was convulsing, arching my back off the floor so that only the clenched points of my buttocks and the back of my head touched the floor. My legs were swaying wildly, like stockinged palm trees in the wind, and the painful, almost ripping feeling deep inside me each time I roughly pounded the bottle inside myself mingled with the waves of pleasure that rippled outwards from my vaginal canal.

I came, and then again, with a slight trough before yet another orgasm. It was the first time I had actually had multiple orgasms piled one on top of another like that, and because I had neglected to fully breathe during it, my vision began to black out and a buzzing started in my ears as the third orgasm subsided. It actually felt like an out of body experience, as if I was floating above the floor, above my spasming body, as if the pure pleasure was separating from all those feelings and sensations that were not involved in the orgasm itself.