An Alumni Weekend to Remember

That night I opened the envelope she had left. Inside it were six short stories, all of them about Shannon and me having sex. In my office, in her apartment, in my house, even one on the campus green in the middle of the night, her riding me while I sucked on her nipples: "the professor's big cock slid in and out of my tight wet cunt until his cum splashed against my asshole while I rubbed myself to orgasm." All of the stories were incredibly erotic. And, not surprisingly, so well-written.

Included in the envelope was a photograph of Shannon sitting in the front row of my classroom, wearing that final skimpy outfit of the spring semester -- her short blue skirt, her legs open inviting me to dive between them to lick her juicy cunt, and her

creamy white top, her big soft tits pushing against the fabric. On the back of the photo she wrote, "Thanks for inspiring me to become a better writer, doc. Smooches, Shannon."

Her stories and her photograph gave me plenty of material for my own erotic short stories, which I began to write that fall. For some reason, doing so helped inspire me to write creatively again, my writer's block eroding as I found joy in composing stories again. I hoped to see Shannon Thorpe again some day, perhaps next Alumni Weekend. But if I didn't, she would live on in the pages of my stories, in my office, in my house, maybe even on the campus green.