Erotica Lecturer's Extra Lesson Ch. 01

It's the first day of the course and I hesitate on the threshold of your classroom, wondering for the hundredth time what insanity drove me to sign up for an erotic writing seminar.

Writing is my catharsis, but I'm not sure my desires run dark and deep enough and I've never expressed my most intimate thoughts to anyone. Why would I pour them out in public now? Could I even let my mind fully explore all its recesses?

I finally step through the door and as I glance towards your imposing desk my heart sinks. Your brooding presence fills the room and as you look up towards me I'm suddenly drowning in eyes the colour of a storm-tossed sea.

I bite my lip and my eyes involuntarily drop from your searing gaze that burns a slow path down my body. I feel naked, vulnerable and small.

I tug nervously at my hem, trying to pull it further down my thighs. You notice and an amused smile flits across your face; a smile that widens into a wolfish grin as a blush turns my cheeks rosy.

I am the last of your five students to arrive and as I stumble into the nearest seat still flustered, you rise from yours. I swallow hard as I glance at your long, lean body encased in ass-hugging, low slung jeans and a casual black shirt and in that moment I know unequivocally that you're teaching the class not from a textbook, but from experience.

The thought that you're dangerous touches the edges of my mind, but I brush it aside. I'm just nervous about the course and I'm projecting, I reason.

Your rich baritone starts pouring over me like warm honey and I'm spellbound; immobilised as effectively as if you'd shackled me to the chair. My breath catches in my chest and I know I'd do anything, give anything, to have that voice whispering filthy words - perhaps even orders - into the curved shell of my ear.

The dissonance of that notion is as exciting as it is terrifying. My fantasies have always been rich, but I'd never even considered the notion of taking orders from a man. Right now that's all I want to do, though, and I feel a flush rising over my chest and my nipples contract painfully.

The hard tips press through the scant covering of a lacy bra just below the scooped neckline of my clinging silk dress. You notice within seconds and I can feel your amusement resonating across the room.

I'm angered and aroused at the same time, and my legs involuntarily cross as I feel my dark recess grow moist under your heated gaze. You have no right to revel in my discomfort, I silently rage. I'm here to learn; not for your personal pleasure.

My attention returns to your words just as you turn to me and ask: "What drives your passion? You have to write from the soul; if you don't believe it, how will anyone reading your words lose themselves in the fantasy? Everyone else here seems to have a clear direction; what's yours?"

I realise then just how far my attention has wandered; I've blanked on at least five minutes of debate and I stammer: "I'm not really sure yet. I'm going to have to give it a bit more thought. Um... that is, if you don't mind?" I hate the uncertainty in my voice; the vulnerability - and most of all, I hate that I've asked for your permission. But you just nod briefly and move on.

The hour-long class passes in a flash and all too soon you close by giving your first writing assignment and wishing us a good week. We stand collectively and start gathering our things.

One by one your students exit, but my nerves still have the better of me and as I turn towards my bag my dress sweeps across my desk and my notes go flying in all directions; first twirling in the air then fluttering into a wide pool on the floor. For a horrified second I stare at the mess. I mutter an apology and I bend, quickly scooping up notes with trembling hands.

In an instant your tall frame is crouched next to mine. You help me stack the pages on the desk and as you reach across me your forearm brushes against a still hard nipple. I freeze and my throat goes dry, but you don't appear to notice the contact or its effect on me and you stand, holding out your hands to lift me off the floor.

You tower over my small frame and as I look up at you the damp between my legs spreads and I feel myself flushing again. This you do notice and you smile.

I try to pull my hands free, but you grasp them tightly and ask: "Have you given any thought to that concept of passion? Can you tell me what you'll write about?"

My mind goes blank as I try to formulate a coherent reply. Eventually I say: "Just normal stuff. A man, a woman, romance in paradise..."

But you impatiently shake your head. "Wrong!" you exclaim. "I've been teaching erotica for a long time and I read people as well as I write about their fantasies. That definitely isn't yours."

My temper flashes and I hiss: "Well if you know everything, why don't you tell me? Come on; read my mind. Nobody ever breaches that barrier, but give it a shot anyway. Let's see how wrong you are."

Your body grows still and you gaze down at me. "Bravo little girl," you say, "Showing some spirit at last. How brave are you? Show or tell?"

And then it's my turn to freeze as I crane my neck to meet your gaze. "Really? Is that the best you can do?" I ask mockingly. "Is that how you generally bed your students?"

You chuckle, and reply: "No, not as a rule. I'm not short of company and as a student you'd have to ask me very, very nicely if you'd like to be touched. I make the odd exception, though." Then you fall silent and your eyes lazily traverse my body. "Well? You ask eventually, "Show or tell? Speak; it's now or never."

You don't wait for me to reply. You step into my space, bend towards my ear and whisper: "I know EXACTLY what you want; what you need. You need discipline, a firm hand and a strong man to keep you in line."

My hand flies up towards your face, but your reflexes are quick and you catch my wrist effortlessly. Then the other wrist is swept into the same fist and you pull my arms over my head. "What are you going to do now? You seem to be a little stuck," you say with a chuckle.

I furiously struggle against your grip, but you laugh and yank my arms higher until I'm stretched onto my toes. "Dear, dear... what now?" you ask mockingly.

As my foot lashes out towards your knee, you quickly turn to deflect it and in the same motion you lift me off the floor and throw me over your shoulder. "No kicking! That earns you a punishment right now," you growl.

You stride towards your desk, ignoring my small fists pounding against your back, and you drop me onto the floor in front of it. You grip the back of my neck, force my head towards the soft sheen of wood and hold me down firmly. With your other hand you yank up my dress, pull down my lacy knickers and in a flash the ruler that was lying on your desk is clasped in your hand.

I heave against your hand, not quite believing this is happening, and lash out with a hard kick backwards. It doesn't connect, but a split second later there is a searing sting across my backside.

"Two kicks earn you six strokes with the ruler. Do you want to make it nine? Kick again. Go on; I dare you!" you growl against my ear.

"That was one. Count down the rest, or we double it." I hear the ruler whistle through the air then feel a blinding flash of pain. There's a pause... "What was that? I hear nothing," you say. "I take it you want 12?"

My eyes are watering and my ass burns, but I quickly shout out "Two!" and with a chuckle you make the wood connect with my cheeks again.

"Better; but make it quicker on the next one or we just keep going," you say.

I call out the numbers as the ruler falls again and again, leaving red welts across my ass and the tops of my thighs. Tears streak my face. After the ruler has fallen for the sixth time, you bend over me again and whisper: "Poor baby; did that hurt? Let me make it better."

And then I feel your long fingers snaking between my legs. They edge towards a pussy that I suddenly realise is saturated, and I buck against your hand again. You simply push down harder against my neck with your left hand while your right one probes me. Two fingers slide into my wet heat and your thumb presses against my clit.

I've inadvertently spread my legs for you and as I suddenly feel my wanton, open position that gives you full access to my groin I snap them shut, but your feet simply knock my ankles apart again and your fingers probe deeper.

Then my body utterly betrays me. I feel pulsing waves building around my clit; deep in my pussy, and suddenly I'm cumming so hard that I scream.

"Good girl!" you tell me as your hand twists around and your thumb - covered in my juices - suddenly presses hard against the tight little bud of my ass. I try to jerk away but your body pins me to the desk and your fingers are insistent. A second later both my holes are filled.

As your fingers rhythmically push in and out, I find myself grinding backwards, trying to take you deeper. Then I hear the soft chink of a belt hitting the floor and the unmistakable rasp of a zip. Your large, hard cock probes me from behind and I feel you slide the head into my pussy.

You pause then; teasing me, and I hear myself asking you, begging you, to fuck me. Only then do you thrust deep, plunging your full length into my body. I'm full to bursting and I cry out at the invasion.

You pound into me, harder and harder. My neck is still in your vice grip but I buck against it as I cum again and again. Then I hear a groan start deep in your throat and you finally explode inside me.

A minute later you pull out, leaving me inexplicably bereft at the emptiness.

"Now do you understand? That's what you want," you tell me as you zip up your jeans. "You want to be fucked like a dirty little slut. Go and write about that. Next week, lessons continue."