Acts of Infidelity - Polly's PhD

Entirely at his mercy, I could do nothing but look up into Dave's face as the pace and force of his thrusts grew and grew.

The noises coming from the bedsprings were soon joined by new, unfamiliar wailings as wave after wave of a sensation I could not identify as either pleasure or pain, washed over me. Encouraged, he thrust faster, then faster still. The sensations multiplied, pressure building in my lower belly and loins until I was sure I was going to pee myself and desperately wanted it all to stop.

Then to my astonishment, his rhythm broke and he began to hammer into me with short, sharp stabs, each accompanied by a crude animal like grunt.

Never having seen a boy cum before, I was completely unprepared and badly shocked when, only inches above mine, Dave's face twisted and contorted as his body went into spasm and he began to ejaculate deep within me, his massive cock throbbing endlessly in my vagina.

The process seemed to go on for ages, his hips twisting as he ground the base of his cock hard against my entrance and clitoris in time with the extraordinary pulsing deep within my belly.

Then everything went quiet and still. I looked up through tear-filled eyes into a face which to my relief, was rapidly recovering its previous, handsome looks.

There were tears of pain, shame and regret in my eyes, mixed with an unexpected feeling of elation when he pulled his still-hard shaft from my trembling body and, his chest heaving, slipped off the semen filled condom.

Unable to look him in the eye or even think about the latex sack of sperm that had been inside me, I instinctively curled my legs to my chest and rolled onto my side as if defending my belly and pubic mound from further assault.

But it was too late; the deed was done. Polly was a virgin no longer.

Dave might have been predatory, but to be fair, he did not leave me, freshly deflowered, to cope with the trauma on my own. Instead he undressed fully and slipped naked into bed alongside me, holding me close as my trembling body tried to make sense of what had just happened.

In the silence that followed, I could hear my housemates talking, giggling and moving around outside the bedroom door. There was no way they could have avoided hearing us.

I closed my eyes, suddenly sober, shocked and exhausted.

***

He woke and fucked me again during the night. I still had absolutely no idea how to respond, so just lay there and let him have his way with me once more.

Though it still hurt, it hurt a lot less, and this time the extraordinary mix of sensations contained at least some real pleasure. Or was it still pain?

Whatever it was, it made me wail loudly into the darkness of the room.

***

In the morning I woke alongside Dave, both of us crammed into my single bed. My body ached in every joint and my vulva was on fire. I had the worst hangover I could remember too. After a few minutes desperately trying to pull myself together, I rose unsteadily to my feet in urgent need of a visit to the bathroom, a glass of water and a mug of tea.

Pulling my robe around my naked body, I left Dave asleep, slipped through the door and into the bathroom. There I drank deeply from the tap before tentatively opening my gown and inspecting the damage.

The first thing I noticed were the beginnings of hickeys on my neck, then tooth marks around my nipples and finally how extraordinarily distended my vulva was. Although I knew this happened as a woman's body prepared itself for sex, the reality still surprised me, as did the angry red colour of my puffy outer lips.

I bent over and touched them tentatively. They stung, and there were smears of blood down the inside of both thighs.

Virgin blood! Oh God! What had he done to me? The question was stupid. Dave had fucked me and fucked me hard.

Tea! I needed tea! And if I brought one for Dave, it might make him leave quicker. I pulled my gown around my body, made my wobbly way to the kitchen, opened the door and slipped inside.

The cheer that greeted me was both a shock and a humiliation. Three of my housemates were already in the room, drinking tea or coffee in their pyjamas. I was immediately surrounded by smiling, congratulatory faces and a hundred shouted questions I did not want to answer.

"How was it?"

"You lucky cow. I've always fancied him!"

"Is he as big as they say?"

"Is he as good as they say?"

I blushed as deeply as I had ever blushed before, fumbling for the kettle and filling it at the tap, trying to hold back the tears and feeling sick.

"It must have been good. We could hear you through two closed doors."

"You look like you had a good time Polly!"

"Is he still here?"

"TWO cups of tea, Polly?"

Now the tears could be held back no longer.

"Polly! Hey! Are you okay...?"

The cheers and taunts turned to genuine concern as the tears began to flow. Friendly arms encircled me, I was made to sit rather painfully on a chair and a mug of hot, sweet, truly disgusting coffee was thrust into my hand.

My friends gathered round as I wept out my pain, shame and humiliation.

The geeky girl's virginity had gone!

***

Dave was nearly dressed when I returned to the bedroom half an hour later, red-eyed and pink faced. In the cold light of day and with another cherry added to his considerable account, he had clearly decided that the less time spent in the company of his latest and geekiest conquest, the better.

No doubt in the past, he had found freshly deflowered girls to be too clingy or to have expectations beyond the mere physical shedding of their virginity. Experience had taught him that the best course was to make himself scarce.

In my case I felt no desire to begin a relationship with him or with any other boy. Yes, my hymen had been busted and my body now knew what an erect penis felt like, but there had been little pleasure, even less dignity and I had no desire to repeat the experience.

As I handed him his tea and heard him beginning to make his excuses, I knew that this was the first and last date we would have and was genuinely relieved at the prospect.

We drank our tea making strained conversation. I offered him breakfast hoping he would decline. When he did, he seemed pleased that I did not even try to persuade him to stay.

Once he had left the house, I had another little cry on my own, then tidied the room. There were blood and other earthier stains on the sheet and two used condoms in the waste basket. Staring at their pale, creamy contents made me feel nauseous, a situation not helped by my hangover.

When all visible signs of my fall from grace had been erased, I ran a deep bath and washed all traces of my spilled virgin blood and our combined bodily fluids from my body too. Then I dressed and tried to get on with my day.

That process was made much more difficult by the constant abrasion of my panties against my sore, inflamed vulva.

***

For some weeks after my defloration, I focussed solely on my work, much to the disappointment of my housemates who no doubt had hoped to see a transformation in me, their protégé.

As predicted, having succeeded in busting the geeky girl's hymen, Dave wanted nothing more to do with me, so I tried to get on with my life as if nothing had happened.

I thought I was being successful, but it's possible that my demeanour had changed without my noticing, because within a couple of months, to my surprise, I was asked out by Ian, an older, postgraduate student in the same department who used to supervise and help out at maths workshops.

Ian's advances were so tentative that at first, I didn't realise he was serious. But I was vulnerable, on the rebound, unused to male attention and agreed without thinking.

We went for a drink together the following evening, to the cinema the weekend after and it carried on from there.

Fortunately for me, Ian was and is a gentleman, bringing romance into my life for the first time. He bought me flowers, took me on dates to restaurants and to the theatre. When we kissed it was with some passion, but without the wanton groping that had accompanied my evening with Dave.

I won't pretend that Ian is anywhere near as good-looking as Dave. He simply isn't. He isn't as tall, as fit, as strong, as popular or as confident either. No girls go to the sports fields to watch him play in his tight-fitting shirt and shorts.

But he also isn't as unscrupulous, as manipulative, as shallow or as ruthless in his pursuit of a girl's body. He is at least as interested in my mind and my intellect, which given my body is nothing to write home about, suits me well.

When Ian and I first made love, it was after three full months of what could only be called courtship. We were both nearly sober and it was entirely consensual. It was clumsy too; neither of us really had any idea what to do or how to respond, but we muddled through and eventually his erect, latex-covered cock entered my vagina for the first time.

I was very anxious, expecting the same pain that my defloration had brought.

Perhaps it was because I was no longer a virgin; perhaps it was because Ian's cock was much smaller than Dave's; perhaps it was because my hymen had already been comprehensively broken but the pain, though still present, was far less than I had feared and the feeling of fullness was much more pleasant.

By the time we were doing it for a third time, it had become an enjoyable, if unexciting activity and despite there being no hint of an orgasm for me, for the first time, I had something that could be called a sex life.

We became engaged later in the year. Ian was granted his Doctorate; I graduated too and began the PhD study that I am currently pursuing.

The plan was that Ian would continue to study at the University and the two of us would live together. The problem was that Ian immediately got head hunted for a fantastic new job at an IT company in Manchester. It was too good a chance to turn down, but too far away for either of us to commute so we agreed to keep living separately while I finished my research.

It wasn't ideal, but it wasn't as if we have been living together until then, and we would be together every weekend. So, Ian found a one bedroom flat he could afford, and I moved back into University accommodation.

As any post-graduate student can tell you, the gap between the excitement of beginning study and the reality of long, grinding hours of research is a large one. Many times, it all seemed pointless, and I had three years of it ahead, but the precious title of 'Doctor' retained its appeal just enough to keep my nose to the grindstone.

Ian and I talked every night; I went by train to Manchester every weekend and we established a tolerable routine. Our sex life was regular if uninspiring; I still had no idea what a vaginal orgasm was and had no real prospect of ever finding out, but in those days, I had no idea what I was missing anyway so had no reason to feel I was missing out.

As far as I knew, short-lived, missionary-position-only penetration followed by a dozen thrusts and rapid ejaculation was what all sex was like. It felt good to be united physically with my boyfriend but no more than that.

Life seemed reassuring if not exciting, comfortable if predictable. Ian and I would eventually move in together, marry and pursue our careers before starting a family.

Then I met Harry.

It was only a week into my research when I first knocked tentatively on his office door and entered at his welcoming command.

A good ten years older than me, Harry had achieved the much-desired status of Doctor long ago and was now a Senior Lecturer and Researcher. Part of this exalted role was to supervise junior researchers in his field like me, so he and I had to meet weekly for review sessions.

As well as having one of the best minds I had ever encountered, Harry was tall, athletically built, well spoken, charming... and had the blackest skin I had ever seen up close.

It sounds silly now, but having been to an all-girls school in an upmarket area and then studied a very techy, minority subject as a first degree, this was literally the first time I had encountered a truly black man in any professional academic capacity, still less in the close, almost intimate relationship of a student and her supervisor.

I was simply fascinated by him from the start; his extraordinary intellect, his mildly accented voice, his broad, white-toothed smile, his warm, friendly supportive attitude but most of all, by his extraordinary body and almost glowing, ebony skin.

A little stalking on the University intranet and social media revealed that his parents had been first generation immigrants from Nigeria, but that he had been born in the UK. He was married to a full-figured, white English girl and had two beautiful pre-teenage children.

I was too naïve and too detached from my fellow post-graduates to know that he also had a fearsome reputation for seducing his students. All I knew was that I found him fascinating on an intellectual and sociological level and as time passed, something more.

As the term progressed and we had more and more one-to-one review sessions in his office, this fascination deepened. His professional advice was clear, helpful and unpatronizing, his criticism was fair and detailed. He looked me in the eye when we talked and took a keen interest in his tutee's life, both academic and pastoral.

Harry had a relaxed, non-judgemental attitude which encouraged frankness and confidentiality. Within a few weeks I found I had told him all about my family and their strict Catholic attitudes, something with his background he understood well. I had told him about my friends during my first degree too and of course, about my engagement to Ian and our unsatisfactory living arrangements.

I became completely fascinated by him. In return, he took a real interest both in my research and in me, but as far as I knew at the time, without any overt sexual content on either side.

As far as I knew at the time.

Consequently, I felt no qualms when he suggested changing our brief weekly review sessions in his office to longer sessions in local coffee bars. There, we discussed not only my research, but life in general; what we enjoyed, what we wanted from our careers and relationships. As I learned more about him, my fascination deepened further. The more we talked, the more I told him about my history and my plans for the future including my forthcoming marriage.

And the more I told him, the more his deep, dark eyes seemed to bore into my soul.

For perhaps the first time in my life, I began to experience the new and for me, completely unfamiliar sensations of strong physical, sexual attraction. I wasn't sure what they were or what to do about them, but I did know neither my deflowerer nor my fiancé had induced them in me before.

The more we met and talked, the stronger the attraction became. Harry's broad smile, powerful physique and ebony skin filled first my waking imagination, then my dreams with alarmingly damp patches appearing between my thighs at embarrassing moments.

Soon, our weekly reviews over coffee had morphed seamlessly into twice-weekly lunches, first in national chain restaurants then in more secluded, more intimate locations. It was all very gradual and to me, felt like the natural progression of a strong but still professional relationship. Well, mainly professional.

As Christmas approached, the mathematical aspects of my research intensified. To hit key deadlines, weekend working became a necessity which meant I had to spend more Friday and Saturday nights in Leeds and fewer with Ian in Manchester.

Fortunately, Harry was available to help, giving up parts of his weekends too, working late with me, helping with the more demanding analyses and keeping me company during some of the evenings when I finished late, exhausted.

A week before the end of term, I was invited to lunch at his house to meet his young, pretty, highly pregnant wife Sarah and their two boisterous, coffee coloured children. It was Saturday. We had spent the morning computer modelling a particularly complicated system, and would have to work the following morning too if the deadline was to be met, so I was not planning to visit Ian in Manchester at all that weekend.

"So, you're Harry's latest protege. The woman keeping my husband away so much!"

Sarah greeted me with a friendly smile, but I could hear the hint of resentment in her voice.

"I'm sorry..." I began but she cut me off.

"I'm joking... do I call you Polly?" she asked.

"Please," I smiled back.

As I entered their neat, Victorian terraced house, Harry's wife, the woman who he had married, who he lived with and who was about to bear him a third child, looked me up and down carefully, as if assessing the competition.

For some reason, I felt a completely unfamiliar surge of jealousy pass through me and began to do the same.

I soon wished I hadn't.

Sarah led me into the kitchen where Harry was waiting with a large glass of wine into my hand. He handed it to me with a slightly awkward smile, then went off to play with the children leaving his wife and me alone. We chatted for a while as she prepared the lunch, Sarah asking question after question, gradually relaxing as if every reply was reassuring her that the risk I posed to her marriage was small.

I couldn't blame her; I was simply outclassed. Sarah was taller than me, fuller-figured than me, had a prettier face, larger breasts and longer, shapelier legs than me and overall, was sexier than me in every way.

To my surprise, my heart sank. After a lifetime in the shadows of other girls, why did it upset me so much now?

"I hear you're engaged," she eventually asked.

For some reason, being reminded of this made me feel unexpectedly uncomfortable.

"Yes," was all the reply I could manage.

"It must be hard living apart," she continued. "I'd hate to be separated from my fiancé."

I confirmed that it was indeed difficult but hoped it wouldn't last forever.

"There are so many things I'd miss..." Sarah continued.

The look on her face was suggestive but in my naivete I didn't get her meaning straight away. It wasn't until she ran her hands over her large baby bump that the penny dropped.

I blushed. She grinned. Then Harry came back into the kitchen and lunch progressed.

I could feel Sarah's eyes watching both me and her husband throughout the meal, and tried as hard as I could not to send him any admiring glances, but I'm sure she spotted me at least once.

Far from dampening my budding desires, seeing Harry at home; seeing how handsome he looked, how beautiful, feminine and fertile his wife was, how good a father he was, was making those still not understood feelings in my heart, belly and loins grow even stronger.

As I left the house two hours later, Harry escorted me to the door while his wife finished clearing away the crockery. I could feel the warmth of his fit, strong, black body as we squeezed along the narrow hallway. It made me tingle.

"I'm sorry about Sarah," he said in a quiet voice. "When she's pregnant she gets a bit... territorial."

I smiled.

"It's okay. She's nice. And I've had a lovely time."

He ushered me through the hallway, putting his hand on the small of my back -- perhaps a bit lower than he had before.

"I'm pleased," he said. "See you for work tomorrow as usual?"

"I'm looking forward to it," I told him, truthfully.

As I reached the front door, I turned to thank him before returning to my room and my laptop. As I turned, I instinctively raised my face towards his to wish him goodnight.

I had misjudged the distance; Harry was a lot closer than I had expected. Our mouths were only inches apart.

Then suddenly they weren't apart at all. Suddenly Harry was kissing me in his own hallway. What's more, I was kissing him back. It was only one kiss, but it was on the lips and lasted much longer than a mere peck goodbye should have done.