Fucking my Professor

True Confessions

If you can imagine for a moment a final exam in a university upper-level English course, picture about 12 students in a small room vigorously scribbling away, answering discussion questions for 90 minutes about authors and themes, each of their chairs parked against a long, wooden table where we've spent hours during the semester discussing and reading poetry out loud. The room is old with large windows looming down from high on the wall. We are perched on the second floor. Paint is peeling off the cinderblock interior with water stains on the ceiling and the flicker of florescent lights.

The professor is middle-aged with thinning, blonde hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He smokes two packs a day and drinks at least a pot of coffee, but somehow his teeth remain white. His thin lips and narrow face seem to complement his sharp hazel eyes, so clear you can almost see through them. He's lanky and agitated and pacing around the table in dark socks, having removed his penny loafers. He's making everyone nervous -- except for me.

I've got an 'A' in this class. No question. He doesn't give shit one about the answers on my paper. He only cares about my notes and my poems and the fact that I've come to his final wearing a spaghetti strap tank without a bra. I look disheveled in the typical exam week sort of way, brown hair in a bird's nest, wild tendrils streaming down across my face, not the slightest sign of makeup for days.

He likes the look... that 'I just woke up in your bed after you fucked me last night' appearance that he's never had the privilege of seeing in person but dreams about every night because I've sent him some selfies.

I'm taking my time, drawing lewd pictures to punctuate my sentences... watching the clock. I've got a chemistry exam to prepare for when I leave, and I'm going to be the last student to exit. I haven't had much sleep, and it shows.

Once the room has emptied, he closes the door behind the last student. There's a 'Testing: Do Not Disturb' sign taped to the narrow rectangular strip of glass that hovers over the doorknob. The door has no lock. Footsteps are passing in the hallway. Urgent voices are echoing. The building is a flurry of activity.

He approaches me wistfully in our isolated concrete cubicle. We've only kissed once when I briefly followed him to his office. His pale trousers are loose on his legs. I can't tell if he's hard.

"I have another class I'd like for you to attend next semester." He's mumbling on a mint because he knows I can't stand the taste of cigarettes. I'm standing by my chair, and I kiss him -- this time much longer, more passionately than before. He crumbles my test paper, but I stop him.

"You'll want to look at that later," I smirk. I fold it up neatly and stuff in down deep in his front pocket. Yes, he is definitely hard. I graze him softly as I remove my hand.

"You know you have an 'A' in the course, right?"

"I know," I chortle. "Do you think I deserve it?"

"No," he says gruffly, but he can't hide his mischievous smile. He's such a nerd. Such a dork. Putty in my hand. Not at all in my league on a barstool downtown, yet mysteriously desirable in this room... in this moment. "You're the best student I've ever had. Seriously."

I run my finger down the front of his light blue oxford and loosen a button. "You haven't had me yet, Larry."

I've never called him Larry before... always by his last name. Always a doctor of poetic philosophy. But today, in his mind, he's in a bar shooting pool. One of his braless students who has graduated from his class is leaning over to knock down a combo. He looks down her blouse at her plump, perky tits. He's got her test paper in his pocket. She's drawn a dick on the back followed by a personal erotic poem. It's about sucking his cock until he comes in her mouth. He's going to get hard when he reads it -- but not harder than he is right now.

Larry's never been with a girl like me. I don't have to ask. He lives with his mother. She's a prude whom I suspect still buys all his clothes.

My professor coughs nervously. He loves it when I say naughty things. At the beginning of the semester, he lustfully demanded that I read raunchy poetry aloud and in front of his class. I never knew erotic poetry existed. I was shy and embarrassed at first, blushing and stuttering as I enunciated the words. He made me read several passages repeatedly.

"Speak the words clearly, Megan."

"F-U-C-K" I rumbled from the depths of my gut. The class moaned in unison.

Soon afterwards, I started writing sex poems for his assignments, duplicating the smut that I presented in class. I started writing from my gash, not my grey matter. I wrote my poems for him, but he didn't let me read them aloud. Otherwise, everyone would have known. He thought our thing was private.

It wasn't. Everyone knew. Everyone could see that he wanted my pussy around his PhD prick. Professors always get what they want. That's what I told him in my poem beneath the sketch of his penis. That's why I drew him so hard and ready.

"I can't take your course, Larry." I unhook another button on his shirt. His chest is artic white, completely hairless with a slightly sunken sternum. He's never lifted a barbell in his life. "I've been accepted to nursing school. I start fall semester."

He sighs and drops his head. I'm sitting on the table in front of him, completing the process of popping his buttons. He's standing there letting me do what I want. "Have you ever taken your shirt off outside in the sun?"

Larry shakes his head. "I burn too easily," he mutters.

"I bet." I'm giggling. I'm licking his icy pink nipples, curiously light in color, hairless and sensitive. "That's why they make sunscreen."

"It doesn't help," he says hoarsely. I'm making him lose his voice, or maybe that's just the cigarettes. His pecs are flat. There are tiny tufts of fur under his armpits. He's wearing some sort of cologne foreign to his personality.

He's staring at my boobs. I'm only a B Cup.

"I told you I'd come braless for my test. What's this stuff that you're wearing?" I kiss him behind the ear, lick him down his neck.

"It's French," he responds, like that's somehow impressive. "I can't believe you're not dating anyone," he blurts out of nowhere as I unbuckle his belt.

"We're not going to date, Larry. We're going to FUCK." I slowly pull down his zipper. His trousers fall open. The weight of his belt sends them sliding to his ankles. He's wearing tight, white briefs; the kind that mommies put on their ten-year-old boys. No stains, no holes, no ghastly skid marks... thank God.

His mom would be proud. I should send her a gif. Her baby's tenting the front of his Fruit of the Looms. I drag my forefinger down his erection. "You look pretty big."

...not

"We can't do this in here," he protests. "Let's go to my office."

"You're going to do it right here, Larry. You're going to do it right now. Step out of your trousers and kick them to the wall before you spill something sticky on them." He does as I ask while I slip off his shirt and blindly sling it over my back. "Let's see what you're working with." As I reach for the elastic waist band tightly hugging his hips, he covers my hands with his own. I hesitate.

"We could get caught, Megan. I could lose my job."

...Like I could give a hot hymen in Hades. Jesus, I'm a bitch....

"Yes, you could, Larry." I ease down his shorts and snug his sketch-artist schlong into the heart space between my thighs and my crotch. I'm still wearing jeans and a skin-tight white tank. There are sparse golden curls on his circumcised cock with no hair on his balls or his legs. His bottom is baby smooth, and I sink my sharp nails into his cheeks. He groans. I squeeze.

"You like that?" He nods. "Then get rid of these." I'm tugging at his underwear, still strapped around his knees. "I prefer my men worship me naked."

"Worship?"

"You want to slide this inside me, Larry?" I'm holding him in my palm, more certain than ever he's still a virgin. He's really not that big, even at maximum erection. This is the precipice of his manhood's capacity, shiny and purple as a peacock's full plumage, oozing with anticipation.

"This is not the place, Megan."

"Your dick thinks it is. Do you want me to just jerk you off? You're not leaving this room until you spurt out your cum." His shaft bobs in response to my demand and for a solitary moment, I think that he's prematurely shooting his wad.

He finally hands me his shorts, and I flip them nonchalantly towards a large window at the top of the wall. Now, they're hanging off the ledge of an alcove. There's no way to get them down. "Holy shit, I'm so sorry."

...not really.

Larry's looking at his undies, distressed, as I stand up and peel off my Levi's for ladies. "Want me to flip my panties up there too, or would you prefer to take them home?" I have visions of him trying them on. I shimmy out of my see-through thong. Larry's hypnotized as I sit back on the table and stroke him.

Someone stops at the door as if reading the sign, contemplating knocking or just walking right in. I pull Larry close and keep fondling. He's terrified and tense, clothes scattered on the floor, tighty whities hanging high from the window.

The person in the hallway moves on, but the clatter beyond our room seems louder. "At least put a chair against the door," he begs.

"Shut up and shove your prick in my cunt, Larry." He does... I lie back, thighs wrapped around his gyrating waist, grinding against his angular pelvis. The table is rocking. The heavy legs are creaking. There's not a doubt in the building about what's going on. "Fuck me, baby! Fuck me goooood." He loves it when I talk dirty.

How many times have I stood before Larry's class offering metaphorical passages of sex for his amusement? My professor insisted. I complied. Professors always get what they want.

"Harder, Larry. Come on! Mess me up." I rip off my shirt so he can check out my tits, then massage his smooth scrotum into a sperm-spewing knot. His breathing is erratic. His bare chest is pounding. I never actually see the person open the door. Larry has only been inside me for a minute.

He unloads in my snatch almost instantly, tucking his head as if the intruder could never guess his identity. I hold his face to my breast. The door closes abruptly. I'm raking my fingers through his dispirited mane. "Finish up," I softly whisper, gently tugging on his ass whilst mimicking his last feeble thrusts. "Give me all of it."

He humps as he whimpers, desperate strokes of discovery, until he dribbles out the last drops of bravery... my arms and my thighs still embracing his trembling frame. I feel his penis fall out and the warm stream that follows. It takes nothing to make him crumple to his knees.

"Look at me, Larry." I'm standing directly over him, my crotch plastered to his childlike face. He's scanning my whole body, glancing up into my eyes. "Kiss it, baby." He does. "Now, lick it," I insist. I'm soaked with his semen. The air reeks of his confessional scent. I pull his face into my sloppy satisfaction. His mouth latches to my cum-covered clit. "Everything's okay, sweet professor. I'm taking the pill, so you can't get me pregnant. You've got one less paper to grade. We have the room to ourselves. Why don't you get me off."

He's sucking my nub like a baby drains a nipple. Cleaning off the creamy colostrum. Making me crazy to gush down his throat. Bringing me closer to the perfect climax. I'm amazed he knows how to give a girl head. It must be something he's absorbed from the poetry. I squeeze the final drops of spunk through my slit.

"Eat it, Larry. Swallow it down. Our bitter, little secret."

All worry is forgotten till I explode in his mouth...then, I notice the damn sign is missing. The next class is waiting outside, taking turns snapping pics as they peep through the clear, narrow window.