He Sends His Regrets

When I got to my office, I found Natasha. She was nude, her slender body splayed out on my couch.

She reached for me, kissed me passionately, and then pushed my head between her legs. I could see the semen oozing from her vagina, pooling on my couch. I hesitated. I could feel my cock stir in my pants. She pleaded with me to kiss her there. I didn't want to, but I did. I thrust my tongue between her legs, and she groaned at first, and then she began to softly chuckle. My penis throbbed in my pants. I didn't taste anything at first, and then it was salty. Incredibly, overwhelmingly, salty. I made my mind go blank and cleaned the worst of it, especially the small puddle on the cushion, under her bottom.

As I lapped her, she told me she had decided to share with all her lovers about the nature of her relationship with me. She said that she felt this would help her more quickly regain control of her life, that being honest with oneself and with others is always the first step.

Stroking my head, she said she hoped I didn't mind.

I replayed the meeting I'd just had in the hall with the older student, the person who'd left this little gift for me. With reflection, his smile seemed more like a smirk. Natasha must have told him the task that lay ahead of me, this mess that I would feel compelled to clean.

I felt so humiliated.

I begged Natasha to stop sleeping with my students, her classmates. She surprised me by agreeing almost immediately, but then she started to sleep with my colleagues. She took every man in my department. These were good, intelligent men, with families. I wish I could tell you that I put a stop to my relationship with Natasha. Things had certainly gotten out of hand. Unfortunately I can't tell you that. Self-control has never been my strong suit.

We continued on until Natasha found the courage and strength of character to call it quits.

I have since stopped dating. I will occasionally pay a prostitute to lay on the couch in my office—raise her dress high, pull her panties down—and allow me to lick her rectum. I masturbate by rubbing my penis on the cushions of the leather couch. I ejaculate into my hand, then I wash it all down the sink and pay.

I know the prostitutes consider me loathsome, a freak.

That's a most unkind assessment of me, but I suppose I find it difficult to say that I disagree with it in part, or even entirely. You see, I raped my good friend. I fucked poor Michelle. And I enjoyed it. That's my confession.

Brad W. Amherst