Give the Student What He Wants Ch. 03

Let's see. As I tell this story, relaxing with my head in my young Master's lap, kissing his stiffening cock now and then, I'm trying to catch you up to how I got here. Today is Friday, January 27. I believe I left you last time on Sunday night, happily licking and chewing my own cum off of a damp washcloth.

You see, my Master, a college student I call Jason (of course not his real name), had finally given me permission to jack myself off. This was only after almost a week of servicing his magnificent member, with my hands and mouth. I was about to burst. When Master Jason granted me this kindness, I almost did burst. I dashed into the bathroom for the washcloth and got right to work. Seven or eight strokes. It was laughable. But I was a fountain of cum, like I hadn't been for years and years. Even though I'm a 40-something man, you could have measured my cum in pints, not teaspoons. I lost two pounds (just kidding). I caught it all, on the cloth, and got busy eating my jizz. Tasty, but not as good as Master's. I offered him some, but he turned it down.

That was late Sunday night. My Master went home, to sleep the morning away, like all 19-year olds do after a night of drinking beer, necking and cumming, and I got a few hours of sleep before getting up to teach my math classes. I teach at a midwestern state university, over a hundred miles from anything you'd call a city. Jason is in my 10:00 calculus class. That's how I met him, or to be more accurate, how he met me, or to really tell the truth, how he took me over, body and mind, with a little hypnosis and a promise that I could suck his cock on a regular basis. I'm his property, period. He says so, and he's always right.

My dullest class, a remedial class of high-school algebra, meets at 9:00 on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; Jason's calculus class follows, then at 1:00 another section of calculus. Of course, my algebra class no longer really "meets" on Monday morning -- they're all home in bed, sleeping off whatever excitement they enjoyed over the weekend. It's hard to blame them. They cut this class in high school, and didn't magically develop an interest in math over the summer. But, about a third of the class showed up on Monday (including, apropos of nothing, a gorgeous, well-endowed girl with a beautiful buttery cafe-au-lait complexion, who could easily be the next Miss November. Oh, for the days before Master Jason told me I was gay. . . ). I wade through the material, assigning homework problems with regret, because I'll have to grade them. But, as one of the critters on the Flinstones might say, it's a living.

I had my eye on the clock, watching the seconds tick slowly toward 10:00. I hadn't seen my Master since about 1:00 AM and that was 'way too long. At 9:50 I let the algebra class go, erase the chalkboard, put the algebra stuff away and got out the calculus stuff. Calculus-for-dummies isn't exactly fun and games, either, but at least it's a college-level class. Some students wandered in, as I watched for Master Jason. He's about six feet tall, muscular, and sort of handsome -- better than average, but not the tallest, strongest, or best-looking guy on campus. (I'd bet on him in a cock-size contest. But you have to remember, I'm biased.)

At last, he arrived. My face wanted to light up in greeting, but our affair is strictly secret, so I controlled myself. I can't control my prick, though. Even though I'd totally drained him just a few hours before, he was doing the iron bar routine again. I was wearing an extra restraint – a jock strap – that helped some, but I'm sure that some dirty-minded students noticed. "I've gotta solve this erection problem," I thought.

Jason didn't even glance at me. He just found a chair in his usual spot next to the window, sat, and got out his notebook. I was doing my best not just to gaze at him, but instead of gazing I was taking little quick, furtive glances in his direction. If any student saw me doing this, I don't know if he or she made the connection, or not. Deep down, I didn't care much.

Then it was 10:00, straight up. About half attendance. "Attention, please, class. It's time to start. Let's review a little from last time, to get a running start. We're working on the composite-function rules of differentiation – the product rule, the quotient rule, and the chain rule. If you remember, I said that the quotient rule is just a special case of the product rule – why?" I saw a couple of grudging hands, and the class was under way. Jason was paying attention, as usual – I'd of course promised him an "A" but I'd also persuaded him that as a corporate finance major, he'll need this stuff. No secret smile, no sly wink, nothing for me but the business-as-usual mask. He was really good at this secrecy game!

Ms. Decolletage was present, front row center, proudly displaying about 75% of her C- or D-cup tits. (Some professors actually resent sexy girls in sexy outfits in their classes, as if they're personally being prick-teased. I have news for them. Sure, they're being prick-teased. But all the boys are being prick-teased, equally. I've always been sure that they keep a count of how many heads (both kinds) turn, and that there's somebody, with an office in some sorority, keeping score. But it's not a problem. It's a perk.) She (Ms. Decolletage) is actually helpful, in my situation, because if anyone notices the bulge in my jeans, they'll assume that she's the cause, and won't think about me and Master Jason.

So, the math professor (me) droned on, and the 50 minutes dragged by. I hadn't caught Jason's eye all morning, and dropped my guard. Without warning he looked away from the window and raised his hand. By habit, I pointed to him. Usually I don't say anything. Pointing at the hand-raiser is sufficient. But before I could catch myself, I said, "Yes, Mast---," then, "Yes, Mr. D____?" To make matters worse, I turned beet red. Still worse, I let some of my adoration shines through my eyes. I felt my body language change, in an instant, from competent, in-charge professor to besotten, servile slave.

It didn't take two seconds to catch myself and get back into character, but two seconds is plenty of time for people to notice such things. I never found out if any students actually did notice – how would I? – but Master Jason did. Or, as I hoped at that moment, my lenient, understanding and forgiving Master Jason did.

His brow was slightly wrinkled, signaling his displeasure. "Professor, I think I understand the product rule, but did you make a mistake in that last example? Isn't the derivative of the logarithm of x equal to one over x?"

I can't tell you how many different, panicky thoughts raced through my brain in the time it took him to ask that simple question. Did my Master really mean to force me to explain things to him, or, worse, correct him, right in class? I was proud I'd gotten him to accept my private comments on his quizzes. Could I even make the words, "I'm sorry, but you're wrong," come out of my mouth? Then, when I realized that he was correct – the derivative of log-x is 1/ x – I had just as much relief as I'd had panic. He was right! I turned to the board and said, "You're absolutely right. My mistake. Maybe I should slow down and check my work, like I'm always telling students to do."

I gave him the patented sheepish-professor-to-bright-student grin, nothing personal about it, as my mind continued to race. How could I have thought he'd be wrong? What kind of treachery was that? My eyes tried to beam, "Imsorry imsorry imsorry imsorry imsorry." I can't decide if what happened later makes me think he got the "I'm sorry" message or not.

"Thank you, Mr. D___." I'd already divulged that I knew his surname, so that was okay. Raising my voice to announcement mode, I said, "Everybody else! Are you following? If you wrote my error into your notes, correct it now. If you do it wrong on the quiz it's your error, not mine. Mine has been fixed."

I got through the rest of the class, but my confidence was shot. It wasn't that Master Jason, pleased or displeased, made me nervous or afraid. It was that the struggle not to drop to The Position and beg to lunch on his cum took too much of my energy. That was another problem I'd need to solve. I couldn't very well ask him not to come to his own class. In fact, I was his slave. I couldn't ask him anything.

As the class stood up to leave, I saw Jason tear off a piece of paper he had written on. A note! For me? What would he say? I moved to the classroom door, as I did sometimes, wishing the students a "good one" and other nice things. I did the same for Jason, and received a many-folded scrap of paper. It almost burned as I continued the airline stewardess routine until the last student had gone.

Trembling, I opened the note. "Your apartment. Tomorrow night, 7:00. Have plenty of Sam Adams ready, cold." At the bottom was an afterthought: "You are in trouble, dr. b. No honey for you today. Think about what you've done and what we should do about it."

I thought about cancelling my 1:00 class and going home, sick, but I struggled through. Then I went home, sick. Really. I was so nervous I puked, just after I got home. Luckily, I'd bought the beer right away. Then I just sat, my mind a blank. It was a long afternoon.

Tuesday snailed by. I spent the morning in my office, pretending to work, but really playing Sudoku on a web site. I suck at Sudoku. Me, a mathematician. I wish I could play Sudoku as well as I can suck cock. That's the kind of profound mathematical thoughts I had all Tuesday. Should I make dinner for him? Should I eat dinner myself? I had no way to tell. I didn't eat. Puking on my Master would not make things better.

Seven o'clock arrived. No Master Jason. Eight, eight-thirty. I had that part figured out. I was getting these extra minutes to really sit and worry. It worked. I sat and worried.

A little after 8:30 came a double tap on the little door knocker. I took a deep breath, slunk to the door and threw the bolt. Just as I turned the doorknob, the door crashed open, knocking me on my butt and knocking the wind out of me. There stood my Master Jason. He'd kicked the door open. I took in a lot of details. He had on ordinary clothes, except on his feet. Heavy boots. Their footprint was on the door.

He didn't exactly look angry. He just looked determined. And huge. I flashed on the idea that maybe I was shrinking, or he was growing, or both. But it wasn't supernatural. Somehow his determination and firmness of purpose made him look bigger.

Master slammed the door. "Assume The Position." I struggled up to my knees, gasping for breath. Not fast enough. He put his boot on my forehead and pushed me over, so I tumbled half-under the dining table. "I said, 'Assume The Position.'"

"Y- Yes, Master. Y- Y- Yes, Master Jason." Still gasping, I arranged myself on my knees, rigidly in The Position, without being shoved again, or even slapped. My breathing still wasn't right, but gasping was not part of assuming The Position. I forced myself to breathe regularly.

"You better have the beer."

"Y- Yes, Master, in th –"

"Did I say talk, Bitch?" He snickered. "From now on you're demoted. You're just 'Bitch,' not 'Doctor Bitch.' Okay, Bitch. Don't speak without permission. Got it?"

I didn't know whether to answer or not. I stayed silent.

He laughed. "Caught in a contradiction, isn't that what you math types say? Listen, worm. If I stop talking after you hear a question mark, answer. Immediately. With respec—no, with worship. And don't do any boneheaded blurting like you did in class yesterday. If you can't talk without disobeying my orders, then don't talk. Even in class. Got it now?"

By now I could breathe a little better. "Yes, Master Jason." I managed to say it firmly, I hoped worshipfully, without quavering.

But he'd disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the 'snick' of the bottle opener, and he reemerged with the beer.

"Well, Bitch – " he appeared to like to say the word – "Well, Bitch, I've been thinking about this evening for the past day and a half. I bet you have too. Right!?"

"Yes, Master. I have tried to anticip—"

"SHUT UP, BITCH!" he roared. "I want your answer, not your opinion. And I never want to hear your excuse. You're a slave. Slaves have no excuses. They perform, or they are punished. You will be punished. Tonight. Here."

He didn't say anything I didn't know already, but even so, the ferocity in his words was terrifying. What did he have in mind? But I knew, at long last, to keep my mouth shut.

He killed his beer and his boots stomped into the kitchen for another. I stayed in The Position. When he returned to the living room carpet I couldn't hear him moving any more, but in a moment he roared again: "Doctor Bitch! On your feet! Stand right there, facing me!"

This time, I moved fast. Master was standing in front of the couch. If he relaxed backward, he'd be sitting very close to its center. He still looked determined, like he had a job to do, but I still didn't detect any genuine anger. Maybe his anger was play-acting. Maybe I was guilty of some wishful thinking. I stood straight up, sort of as soldiers do, standing at attention. I still had no permission to speak.

"Listen, Bitch. If you want to continue to service my cock, and enjoy my other favors, you have to have some self-discipline. Our arrangements are our secret, and no one else's! Got it?"

"Yes, sir, I mean Master."

"Did you almost blab, 'Master Jason' to the whole math class yesterday?"

"Yes, Master. I'm really ver—"

"SILENCE!!! You don't catch on very well, do you. Did I ask you if you were 'really' anything?"

"No, Master."

"Better. Now. What can we do to prevent you from blabbing our fun little secret? Cut out your tongue? Nah. Beat you black and blue so you're so traumatized you can't talk at all? Kick you in the guts until your intestines rupture? No. Not even I am powerful enough to kill. Besides, if you're dead, there's no secret to protect. You're the one in trouble, not me."

He began pacing up and down, in front of the couch. "I have it! This is goodbye, Ms. Bitch! You are hereby banished from my presence. You may speak to me in math class, about math, but you are not to venture to offer any personal comment, or note, or anything. Anything at all. I may drop by your office some day, to introduce you to my new Dr. Bitch, but you WILL NOT ATTEMPT to contact me in any way. How's that?"

I was still standing, rigid, but tears of fright, of loneliness, of bewilderment rolled down my cheeks as he pronounced sentence. The beatings he'd suggested didn't frighten me. That was only pain. He was banishing me to emptiness, for life. I understood about Professor Bridgman, now. I really hadn't when my Master had casually mentioned that he'd probably been the reason for a man's suicide. Now I did. And I started, with horror, to realize that he had absolutely no regrets or remorse for his treatment of Professor Bridgman, and probably wouldn't for me.

I would have collapsed, sobbing, in absolute terror, if I dared.

"Master, does your question require an answer?"

He sneered, "Go ahead."

"Master, please, I beg you, do not deprive me of your Presence. The beatings, the other violence you described, they'd be wrist slaps compared to that. I could bear beating, but not banishment!"

My tears were gushing, but I stayed on my feet.

"Wow, you've got it bad, don't you, Bitch?" he snarled. "You'd die, you'd really die, for one more taste of my cock, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, Master, but more. I'd die for just one more hour of your time, if afterwards you would be lost to me."

He immediately calmed down. "You mean it. I can see it in your face. You're by far the worst of all my bitches."

"Yes, Master, and proud of it." I was fairly sure by now that he hadn't meant to follow through on his threats, he just wanted to scare me. He succeeded! But I would never, ever, tell him I thought so, without a direct order. I was besotted, not stupid.

"Okay, Bitch, here's your sentence. I won't tell you, I'll show you, phase by phase. Got it?"

"Oh, yes, Master, and thank you, Master, thank you – "

"Shut up." He stood directly in front of me. "Assume The Position." I dropped. "Look at my waist. At my belt. Unbuckle my belt, and remove it." I reached up, but he kicked my hand. "With your mouth."

I complied. It wasn't that hard, really. Lucky for me that my Master was physically fit. If he'd had a beer belly, the task might have been impossible, and then what? It was, of course, fairly obvious where this was heading.

When I had finished, I held the end of the belt in my teeth. "Stand." I did so. "Strip. Absolutely naked." I was sure that the command included permission to move, but I moved as little as possible as I hastened to yank off everything I was wearing. My prick, for once, wasn't excited.

As I stripped, he'd sat down on the couch, crossed his legs, and relaxed, watching. He chuckled at my flaccid dick. "You know what's next, don't you, Bitch?"

"I think so, Master. You want me to lie across your knees, with my ass in position for a whipping."

"Give the man a Ph.D.!" he exclaimed. "One hundred per cent correct. Move." His voice changed for that last word, and hit me like the first lash of the belt. I lay across his knees. I was almost sobbing again, but this time with gratitude. I was not going to lose him. A whipping was trivial by comparison.

I had no permission to look, but I could feel by the shift in his thighs when his arm went up, and when it came down, whipping with the heavy leather belt. "One!" he said. "I'm not going to tell you how many, Miss Bitch. I'll let you wonder, 'Is this the last one?' each time."

"Oh, and by the way. You do not, you absolutely do not, have my permission to say a word or make a sound."

"Two!"

"Three!" The lashes made my butt cheeks burn like I'd sat on a hot stove. I didn't know if they were bleeding, but I knew they would be, before the end. I lay as still as possible and resolved to say nothing, to show that I could be a good little bitch.

"Four!" "Five!" "Six!" The hotness of the pain reached a limit, but now the strokes were driving the pain deeper into my muscles, and into my bones. Not just around my butt, either – all over. I was, simply, in agony.

But at right about this time, through the pain, I perceived something through Master Jason's body language. He was enjoying this. Not as sadism, but as affection. I didn't know why I was so sure, and I didn't understand how such a whipping could be done with love, but I was somehow sure.

And my body communicated this confidence to my Master. With each stroke, my dick grew bigger and harder than it had ever been.

The lashes continued. I won't say how many, but it was more than 10 and less than 100. Each lash caused my pain to grow exponentially (only a math teacher would think of such a thing at a time like that), as did the hardness and thickness of my prick. If Master noticed the latter – and how could he not? – he said nothing about it.

"Okay, Bitch, we're done with Phase One. Get up." I tried, but all my muscles were like jelly. So were my bones. All the firmness in my body was concentrated in one place.

"I said, 'GET UP!'" I was too afraid even to say that I couldn't. "OH, ALL RIGHT!" He wrapped his arms around my chest and thighs and stood up. This was the first time I realized how strong he actually was. Well-built, that was obvious. But this man was strong.

He turned around and lay my body down on the sofa, butt side up, away from the scratchy fabric. "What now?" I wondered, and found out almost immediately.

"Where'd you put that K-Y jelly?"

He was going to fuck my virgin ass, now, as my body oozed like jelly and I was in agony almost everywhere? What kind of man was my Master, anyway?