Lessons from my Professor

"This..." he proclaimed, curling those fingers deep inside me, "This pussy belongs to me. How do you ask nicely?"

"Please, Dr. Michaels, please fuck your wet pussy!" I panted out, grinding against his fingers, still unsure how the dirty words felt on my lips, but willing to say anything. "I need your big cock, please."

"That's my good girl! But you're not going to cum until I say."

I looked back over my shoulder in time to see him gripping his engorged cock, lining up. I felt him slide back and forth through my wetness, once, twice. He notched himself and pressed in an inch, pausing before he drove home, filling me completely.

He fucked me roughly, loudly, alternately raining more hard swats on my already tender ass, then reaching underneath me to pinch and rub my clit.

"You need this cock fucking you," he stated.

"Y-yes... ooooh fuck, you feel so good... I'm so close," I rambled.

"Ask me, baby, and I'll let you cum" he said, slowing down, stroking shallowly.

"I need to, please!"

"Need what?"

"Fuck, fuck... please make my pussy cum!"

At that he picked up the pace, stroking harder, deeper. As he plunged in, his hand made contact with first one cheek then another.

"Who"... thrust/swat... "does"...thrust/swat..."this"... thrust/swat... "pussy"...thrust/swat..."belong to?"

The final swat hit as his cock bottomed out in me. My orgasm exploded and tore through my body. I cried out, unable to even answer him. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me, drowning me. I couldn't breathe, the orgasm so exquisite that I was inadvertently holding my breath.

He felt it. He knew. He understood exactly what and who made me cum but he insisted, asking again.

"Who?" He continued stroking me deeply and evenly, pulling my hair, forcing me to look back at him. "Who, baby?"

"Y-you sir," I stuttered, my body still twitching and jerking uncontrollably. "It's your pussy."

He continued fucking me, picking up speed, powering into my now sloppily wet, puffy and swollen pussy, the wet sounds echoing around his office. My hair was still around his fist, pulled harder while he told me I was a brat. My nipples were twisted and pinched and pulled, while he claimed my tits belonged to him. One hand snaked under me, zeroing in on my clit, stroking the engorged bud hard, making me cry "too much!" before his hand withdrew to swat my ass again.

His fingertip, slick with my wetness, pushed an inch into my ass as he grunted about how he was going to punish me again and again, how he owned all my holes.

His hand released my hair, shifting to grip my ass cheek, his steel shaft thrusting deeper and deeper in my pussy. His finger was pushing all the way into my ass, fucking me in a place no one had ever touched. At that glorious invasion, I came hard a second time, quivering and crying out, twitching and moaning though the aftershocks, driving myself back, even deeper onto his cock and the finger in my ass.

He buried himself in me one last time, groaning like a man possessed. Jets of his hot cum sprayed deep in my pussy before he collapsed over me, his head on my shoulder, holding his weight with his arms.

I couldn't hold myself up, or stop my limbs from trembling. I'd never even had an orgasm from sex, and to say I'd never had orgasms like this was an understatement.

He slid out, rubbing my back tenderly, peppering little kisses down my spine. He smoothed his hands gently over my warm, pink ass, kissing each cheek before he pulled me into his arms and sank us both back into his chair.

I curled into him, my head pressed against his rising and falling chest, listening to his loud heart beat. When I felt his cum leaking down my leg to pool on his thigh, I felt a rush of horror and moved to get up. His strong arms locked around me. "Leave it."

After long minutes of letting our breathing return to normal, he smoothed my hair and asked if I was ok. I could only nod. He tipped my chin, searching my face until he found the silent confirmation he was after. His hand gently pressed between my legs, parting my lips to probe my messy center.

I tensed but the hand stroking my hair pressed in harder and he whispered "Sshh" before he commenced to rubbing his cum into me. I relaxed into him and let him play... cum being massaged onto my pussy lips, my ass... his fingers pushing it back inside me. Once he was done with his gentle playing and after a few soft kisses to my temple, he softly informed me we needed to clean up.

He helped me to my feet, holding me until I was steady. We collected our clothing in silence. I was pulling my shorts up as he ducked across the hall to the men's bathroom, looking younger than his years, in just his pants and bare feet. I reverently plucked his shirt off floor, feeling a strange desire to keep it, to wrap myself in his smell, his warmth.

He came back into his office with damp paper towels, exchanging them for his shirt in my outstretched hand. His apology was muffled by the fabric being pulled over his head, but the message was clear and succinct: that shouldn't have happened, I'm sorry.

I immediately felt wooden.

Used, hurt, confused, guilty. Shame washed over me like the tide of a storm as I felt his cum running down my leg. I was frozen in place.

In the most clinical fashion, he took the towels from my hand, dropped to a crouch and lowered my shorts.

"Spread."

I awkwardly spread my legs, not wanting to touch him, but needing to grab his shoulder for balance as he cleaned my thighs and pussy. When he was finished, he righted my shorts, stood, and dropped the wet towels into the trash can. He grabbed my bag, casually holding it out to me like nothing had happened.

"I'll walk you to your dorm."

"That's-that's not necessary, I'm good." My voice came out more shaky than I intended. I needed to run and hide from the hollow coldness creeping into my gut. I needed to not cry. I quickly brushed past him, wanting only to disappear into the night. How could something so good and beautiful now feel so dirty and shameful?

"I wasn't asking," he stated, halting me in the hallway with his fingers curled around my arm.

I stopped, unable or unwilling to look at him, waiting for him to lock his office. He dropped my arm, walking me outside in silence, where I again told him it was unnecessary. He hushed me with his stern "Do not argue with me" before pressing his hand to the small of my back, propelling me forward. His hand remained.

It was late and drizzling softly. The evening was warm but damp enough that no one was around. A hazy glow was cast into the mist around us from the pathway lights as we walked in silence, the air thick and tense.

I was caught off guard when his hand at my back curled around my hip, jerking me under the massive oak trees just outside the far entrance to my dorm. He pulled me deep into the shadows, using a hand on my chest to push me against a heavy trunk.

He immediately caged me with his body, pressing me into the bark, his left hand curving behind my neck. His lips crashed down on mine, his tongue violently invading my mouth, his right hand sliding straight into the waistband of my shorts.

His fingers honed in on my wet pussy, and I momentarily cringed at how sloppy and messy I was: both of my inner thighs were coated from the short walk across campus.

Conflicted emotions rose up my throat, but my body disagreed, swaying into his his. My treasonous hips ground against his hand. "Do not make a sound!" he ordered, as he pinched and pulled my swollen clit.

His skilled fingers swiftly brought me to the precipice. In no time, he pushed me over the edge, swallowing my whimpers and moans with his kiss before burying his fingers inside me, rubbing my contracting walls.

When I stopped trembling, he withdrew his hand and whispered "Open." I didn't understand until he pressed his fingers to my lips and my immediate thought was 'no, gross!'

The way he urged "Do it baby, clean me" on a low growl had my lips parting. After I licked and sucked his fingers clean, he grabbed my face and thrust his tongue in my mouth, our tongues dancing with one another.

"I can taste us both on your tongue," he whispered after kissing me breathless, pinning me tighter to the tree trunk.

"I thought earlier would be enough," he continued. "It's not."

I looked at him, confused. Secretly happy, but scared.

"I didn't handle that well, back there. I'm sorry..." he paused, kissing my lips hard. "You're so far under my skin and I want more. I want you in my bed."

I could only stare.

"Give me your notebook, baby, I'll give you my address. Come to my house... tomorrow night. It's an easy bike ride".

Somehow he knew I biked everywhere, but I couldn't fully process that thought with how fast my mind was racing.

I registered that he was taking my bag off my shoulder and pulling my notebook out, but I was still thinking about him wanting more, all the dirty, delicious things he said and did, and how he totally shut down. My emotions and brain were in overdrive, but I still clocked him freezing as he opened the book.

He turned a page, then a second, and a third. In my haze, I was trying to interpret the coy smirk dancing across his shadowed face when I belatedly realized he had my SKETCHBOOK. My heart dropped.

It was filled with page after page, sketch after sketch... of him. Him lecturing. Him leaning against his desk, his long legs stretched out. His profile, from the way he always looked out the window when someone was asking a complex question, as if the answers were in the rain. Him behind the lectern. Sitting on his stool, legs spread with one knee cocked, his foot on the rung. Him eating a sandwich on the grass during a rare, sunny afternoon.

"Baby...."

I didn't know if it was a statement or a question. I didn't answer. Dr. Michaels paused, closing the sketchbook. He hesitated again before raking a hand through his hair, a habit I'd come to secretly adore.

He turned his back to me, took a few steps away and stood for a minute, absently slapping my sketchbook against his thigh. He slowly turned back around, fixing me with his stare, stalking to me, pulling me against him.

"Fuck," he whispered, brushing my hair back and gazing into my eyes. I closed mine because his were too intense and they'd swallow me in their depths. He squeezed my arms and gently kissed my lips, asking "What time is your first class tomorrow?"

I didn't have class until two: his class. I told him as much.

"Come home with me. Now. Grab what you need, but don't clean up. I'll get my truck...meet me at the back door. You'll get this back at my place," he indicated, tipping his head down to the sketchbook still in his hand, the corners of his lips turned up.

I should've said no. I should've showered Dr. Michaels off my skin and out of my pussy and gone to bed and forgotten about that night... but I couldn't.

I let out a breathy "'Kay" and he grinned the grin of a cat that just caught sight of a baby bird, left unaware. Before I chickened out, I turned to run inside. Once again, he stopped me, yanking me tight against him.

"Kiss me," he requested. I hesitated, giving him a soft, chaste kiss on the lips. "Good girl, now go," he commanded, swatting me gently on the ass.

I ran into the dorm, sprinting up the three flights of stairs to my single, feeling light as air. I packed my bag, sneaking out the back door to wait in the rain by the soccer field until I saw his truck.

He held my hand while he drove, not letting go even when he needed to shift. He stopped for a 6-pack of beer then we went to his house, where we shared cold pizza -- a necessity after my betraying stomach rumbled obnoxiously in his 4runner.

He sat in the corner of the couch, pulling me onto his lap. I held the plate of pizza, he held me and a beer. He stole bites off my slice. We shared a few beers, but doing it drinking from the same bottle. It felt oddly intimate and comforting, like something we'd been doing for ages.

After we cleaned the food up, we snuggled in silence for a bit until I yawned. Attuned to me, he was immediately on his feet and pulling me up. He grabbed my bag, leading me to his room. We brushed our teeth and I extracted my jammies, grateful I picked cotton shorts that would minimize the mess I'd leave on his sheets, given how sloppy I still felt.

"You won't need those, baby" he informed me, gently pulling them out of my hands.

"Can I shower then, please? I'm still, um... "

He pulled me into his arms, kissing me with a minty kiss. Still wrapped in his embrace, I tipped my head back as he explained what was happening.

"No shower. We're going to go nice and slow, and after you beg me to fill your pussy again, I'm going to make you scream my name. After that, I'll keep my promise and fill you when I cum buried inside you. I want to fall asleep with you on my chest, our legs tangled together, feeling your pussy leaking. In the morning, I'll fill you again, then we'll shower together, and THEN I'll clean you. Ok?"

I nodded. And it was beyond OK. He showed me how a man can both push and please a woman... slowly, confidently, roughly, tenderly, thoroughly.

My world was forever changed.

I was attentive in class from that day forward, but still a brat. I'd sit in the back of the lecture hall wearing only a long baggy tee and spreading my legs...just enough to give him a teasing peek of my pussy. I'd purposefully miss easy problems on exams. I'd show up late, sliding into one of the always-available seats in the front row, in just a tight tank top and no bra, smirking when I caught him staring at my hard nipples. On occasion I'd be summoned to a pre-class meeting, where I'd be quickly fucked and filled, but denied an orgasm. Those classes, where he'd catch me squirming and knew I was leaking his cum, were his favorites. Mine, too.

Later, I'd be over his knee for walking around with a creamy pussy, like the little slut I was. I'd often end up bent over his campus desk at night, my ass getting pink and rosy... or slowly fingered and fucked. Some nights I was across his lap on his couch, begging my professor to cum.

Dr. Michaels was an addiction.

I transferred to Washington after my sophomore year, a hard decision, but one for the better. I was switching from pre-med, my tuition bills were suffocating me, and we were being way too careless. We'd brazenly gone out on dates in Portland, where most of the teaching staff resided, almost getting caught on multiple occasions. I was sleeping at his house more than at the dorms. He was sneaking into my dorm room at night. I was under his desk sucking him dry during the day with his door unlocked.

We were a verboten drug that the other couldn't get enough of, but I could never forgive myself if I jeopardized his career. I was already impeding his ability to socialize with his peers and friends his age. It wounded me when he had an event that required an escort, but it couldn't be me on his arm. Likewise, he was beside himself when I went out with guys my own age, even platonically. We always knew deep down that what was "us" had an expiration date.

I never saw him or spoke to him after I left, but I've thought of him often and still do. Social media didn't exist back then. Heck, e-mail barely did. Keeping in touch didn't make sense and my heart needed a clean break to be able to move on. I've considered googling him, but I don't.

I want to remember Dr. Michaels forever as the tall, powerful, brilliant, handsome, young professor who used to tell me I was naughty. The man who made me beg for release...beg for his cum. The man who made me feel good and pure and dirty and sexy and perfect and loved and cherished.