Freshers' Fair 01

It would have to have been a Fresher! I had always tried hard, and succeeded, in keeping my personal life and my professional one in separate compartments. As women's adviser, specialising in students who identified as lesbian, I was well aware of the pressures they were under, and that last thing they needed was some bloody professor perving over them. As far as I was concerned there was no difference between a female professor and a male one when it came to sexual relationships with students. The answer was the same in both case: no. Then came Freshers' Fair and Isobel.

For those unfamiliar with Oxford's academic jargon, new students were known as "Freshers" and at the start of each academic year societies and clubs held a "fair" at which they touted their wares to the new students. It was a way of getting new members and making money, as quite often people came along to one meeting and then no more; but they had paid up and the society hung on to the cash.

I was there with the LGBT+ society, for which there was no charge. It helped those students who were shy or still closeted, to have a member of academic staff there - not that I looked much like one. At four foot eight with minimal boobage, I could have passed as a student myself. Had it not been for the badge saying: "Professor Hoff", I would have done so.

The day started well, with an influx of students, some nervous, some confident, all excited to one degree or another. I must have handed out a couple of dozen leaflets, and talked to five or six young women.

After lunch across the road in Gino's, I went back for the afternoon session, which was even busier. I was glad that Sharon and Gail had joined me and were able to take some of the burden. Reflecting it had been a great day, I was just getting ready to pack up when this tall blonde hove into view.

"Are you really a professor here?"

She had the brightest blue eyes. She carried herself with the confidence that success at an English public school gives you; I had known many such at St Hilary's, my girls' public school.

"Yes, I am."

"You're a bit small."

Golly, I thought, there was direct and then there was her.

"Yes, I suppose so. Can I help?"

"I don't know. I am gay and was wondering of your society held parties where I could meet the sort of girl I like?"

"Well we have a welcome do tomorrow night at my college if you want to come."

"Thanks. But will there be the sort of girl I like there?"

I smiled. This one knew she was gorgeous, and if she was here, she was also clever. I was guessing she had been a huge success at school and was looking to repeat that at Oxford.

"Not knowing the sort of girl you like, I can't say, but do come along to St Hilda's at seven."

"I like girls who know their place." She said this without pause or hesitation.

"Their place?" I stumbled a little, not quite believing what I had heard.

"Yes, their place. I have been a domme since I was old enough, and like girls who please me and are prepared to do as I tell them without cavil."

Yes, I thought, educated and articulate.

"I take it you are a lesbian, professor, what sort of girl do you like? Or are you married and boring?"

As it happened, I was not married, and I did not think I was boring, or that the state of marriage was. I should have ignored her, but answered instead.

"I am. I am not."

"But are you boring? I can't imagine you are very assertive. You don't have the build for it - or by the way you are reacting to me, the character."

I felt my stomach do somersaults. Every red flag was flying. "Get out now!"

"You are very direct!"

"You mean rude and impertinent to my superiors. God what is it with English women and politeness?"

"Are you not English?"

"Yes, I am, but I believe in directness. Now prof, are you going to answer me, or should I just bugger off?"

She had given me the opportunity. I should have said "bugger off", but instead I said:

"I was brought up to be polite, and I am here to help students, not flatter my own ego."

"As I said, polite and evasive. By the way I am Isobel Frobisher-Smythe."

That figured, I had heard the name. Her father had made millions from the stock market boom of the early noughties and had got out before the crash. She had both the confidence of new money, and the arrogance of gilded youth.

"Nice to meet you, Isobel, what are you studying?"

"In general, psychology; in particular, you."

"Well, like the rest of the team I am here to help," I said, trying to evade her basilisk stare.

"In which case, tell me whether you are one of those good girls who likes to do as they are told by a superior woman!"

The directness, her words, her attitude, and the way she looked, all sent shivers down my spine - and I felt a warm, wetness in my panties.

"That's really not an appropriate conversation to be having with a member of staff, Isobel."

"Appropriate!" she laughed out loud. "So you are a boring little nerd after all, fine, see you about."

And with that, off she flounced.

Flustered, I finished packing, said goodbye to Sharon and Gail and went back to college, with a growing consciousness that my panties were not very comfortable as the wetness dried. I examined myself back in my rooms, and the white messiness showed the effect that conversation had on me. Much though I tried to resist, I ended up taking my skirt off, lying on the bed and edging myself until I could not stop myself from having a huge orgasm.

I woke in the morning and dismissed the matter from my mind. There was a day to get on with, so I got on with it. New students to meet, returners to catch up with, and College and Faculty events to attend. It was a breathless day, and as the Provost insisted on giving one of his long "I can tell you all about life as a student" speeches, I had only moments to get to the staircase where we were holding the LGBT+ reception.

It split, as it tended to, into three distinct groups: the gay men, eyeing each other up; the lesbians, doing the same, and those who were indeterminate and just wanted to meet others. Of course, not everyone fitted those pigeonholes, but it tended to be how the groups divided as the evening went on.

I found such meetings a little problematic. It was not easy being four foot eight when you were surrounded by groups of taller people. I had a few nice encounters with "freshers" to whom I was able to give leaflets and advice.

"There you are," said a voice from behind me. "You're such a bloody midget that you were invisible. Here, let me put you on the table here."

With that, I felt two hands grip me from behind and lift me. As I turned to face the person, I realised it was Isobel.

"There, now I can see you, and you can see my tits."

There was no doubting that. She was wearing a sexy, very low-cut white dress which set off her boobs to good effect.

"Isobel, did no one ever tell you about the importance of boundaries and personal space?"

"Yes," she smirked, "and I took no bloody notice. Tell me you didn't get off on me picking you up and planting you on your cute butt on this table, and I will fuck off."

I breathed heavily. How the hell was I going to deal with this young woman?

"That's not an appropriate answer."

"It's the only one you're getting. If you want to stop looking at my tits, that's fine."

"I am not looking at your boobs."

"Oh yes you were. Now, how long does this go on for?"

"We'll be stopping soon," I said, hoping I could wriggle down.

She picked me up again and put me back on the ground.

"Good, got to circulate, find you in a bit."

And with that, I was left.

I finished circulating. Other members of the Committee agreed it had been a good evening, and that we had done our job in providing a welcome atmosphere for the new students.

"Who was that Amazonian blonde, Professor?" Gail asked me.

"Oh she's Isobel Frosbisher-Smythe."

"I thought so," said Sharon, "she was the year below me at St Paul's and had quite the reputation."

"Ooh, share the goss," Gail asked excitedly.

"We all knew she was gay. Some boy tried to kiss her at the summer dance, and when he did not take no for an answer, she kneed him in the balls in front of everyone, and told him if he ever tried that again, he'd be speaking an octave higher. There were rumours that she had made some members of my year her personal pussy munchers, but there was no proof."

"Wow, Sharon, really? She's hot."

"Stay away from her," Sharon told Gail, "she's bloody trouble."

We packed up after that, and I told them they could go, and I'd do a final sweep. lock up and take the key to the porter's lodge.

Why, oh why was there always someone who left their bag behind at these events? Now I'd have to find out who it was, which College she attended, and get it back to her. Mind you, it was an expensive Prada bag.

It was slightly wedged under the leg of one of the chairs, so I got on all fours to release it, only to feel two hands gripping my bum.

"Ah, you found the bag, professor, good girl!"

I froze. It was her again.

I felt her hands slide under my skirt, lifting it.

"I do hate tights, professor. Do you mind if I pull them down?"

Before I could say anything, she had done so. I froze.

"Is that the key? Excellent. Let me lock the door so no one sees your panties. I do like white lacy ones, so you get a point back for that."

So saying, she went and locked the door.

I should have stood up. I should have pulled my tights up and pushed my skirt down, I should have told her to leave, and I should have taken the key and locked up and left. I should have, but I did none of those things.

I felt her hands on my panties, massaging my bottom.

"I do like your arse, professor. Let's get a better view of it!"

I felt a blast of cool air on my bum as she pulled my knickers down, and then a sudden sting of pain as she began to spank me. I tried not to show it was having an effect, but after the seventh spank, it began to hurt. By the twelfth I was sobbing. She parted my thighs and ran a finger along my lips, dipping in to check out the state of my pussy. From the juices trickling down my inner thighs, I had no doubt about what she'd find.

"Professor, explain to me why my spanking your cute little arse red should have made your pussy so wet?"

Then there was another hard smack.

"I asked you a question, answer it?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Stand up, face the wall, hands on your head and part your legs to keep your tights and panties up. Oh my Professor, you do have a cute red arse. You look more like a naughty schoolgirl than a Professor. Is that how you feel?"

"Please, Isobel, stop this now, and I will say nothing more about it."

"Stop what? What is to stop you pulling your panties and tights up, leaving here and reporting me for inappropriate behaviour? I have not even taken photos of you, I have no hold over you, so by all means bugger off."

She was infuriating. I stood there, knowing what I must look like and what signals I must have been giving off. My will struggled with my desires.

I felt her breath on my neck, her hands soothing my sore arse.

"Professor, I like my girls to be willing. This is just a taste. If you decide it is too much, inappropriate, or whatever woke crap you lot use, then I won't bother you again. I have taken no pictures, nor will I tell anyone about this. Give me your phone."

"It's in my bag," I said.

"Here, open it and taken the number that is about to ring you."

I opened my phone and did as she said.

"Now, file that under the word 'Miss,' okay?"

I found myself doing just that.

"Turn."

My hands still on my head, my tights and panties still at half-mast, I turned.

I felt her hand slip between my thighs and moaned a little.

"Delicious. I see you keep your cunt hairless. That's in keeping with how the rest of you looks. I like it. I like you."

She pushed a finger into me, making me whimper. Then she pulled it out and offered it to me to suck. I opened my mouth and tasted my slightly bitter taste, cleaning her finger.

She smiled.

"See, I knew you were a good girl Professor. Now, to repeat so it gets through the fog of cunt cream induced giddiness. I will say nothing about this to anyone, and I will stay away from you. I am well aware, so are you, that at this moment I could get you to do anything I told you. But I don't want that from you. I don't deny I have done it to others, but that is not how I want this to be with you. If you want to see me again, text 'yes Miss' to my number. Got it?"

"Yes, Miss," I found myself saying.

"There, I knew you were a good girl. I'm off now, bye! Oh, one final thing, don't get yourself off tonight!"

And with that, she turned on her heels, opened the door and left, leaving me standing with my private parts on view.

Hastily I pulled my panties and tights up, very conscious as I did so of how very wet I was. I could still taste myself. I shivered. Of course, I could go back to my room and masturbate to the orgasm I craved, but although I did go back, I did not masturbate.

What on earth was happening to me?