tagMatureMating Behavior

Mating Behavior

bydreamyrr©

I was three years into an interminable doctoral program in entomology when my department hosted a guest lecturer. Professor Sinclair's specialty was the use of pheromones to reduce insect infestations, but we soon learned that his real achievement was his possession of some of the best footage of insect mating in the world. My department chair was ecstatic and invited Sinclair to host a special presentation to showcase highlights from his collection. And he asked me, doctoral student lackey, to be in charge of the AV equipment.

Sinclair wasn't like any of the entomologists I'd met at school; he was tan and buff from all of his time digging through the undergrowth, and he had a faint Scottish accent that made all of his Latin sound vaguely provocative. In other respects, he was exactly as cold and removed as the rest of the faculty and I didn't try to engage him in friendly banter. I was depressed and lonely and wasn't up for making friends with anyone, really. Graduate school does that to a person.

The night of the lecture was especially dreary, and the room had a certain electric buzz. It was as if we were all hoping for something to wake us up from a mid-semester melancholia. Even I was in high spirits, excited to learn how certain insect species procreated, to watch bugs having sex. And, to our great satisfaction, Professor Sinclair delivered. More than delivered. For every pairing he narrated the intricacies of the insect behavior and his voice took on a soft, almost intimate, lilt. I watched images of male insects posturing for a female and then, inevitably, mounting her to thrust to completion. Sinclair described everything in a quiet, reverential way, and I found myself getting wet listening to him and watching the show. There was something so primitive and raw about watching insects fucking and his hushed narration in the dark room seemed naughty and voyeuristic.

When the show ended, I was all kinds of riled up. The audience filed out in a daze. Unlike most lectures, no one approached Sinclair at the end. If they were feeling like me, they were all dying to go home and masturbate; that was certainly what I had planned as soon as I put away the projection equipment. Professor Sinclair was in the front of the room tapping the end of the slide pointer in his opposite hand. My mind immediately jumped to an image of him, half-naked, tapping a whip and I blushed. Although I can't be sure if he was already looking at me, as the color crept over my face his eyes met mine and he gave me a thoughtful look. I was acutely aware of how wet I was and that I had just enjoyed a dirty fantasy of him. His gaze made me feel as though he was well aware of both of those facts. Most likely with his pheromone research he could smell how hot I was after his lecture. I couldn't decide if I wanted to just skip cleaning up the AV equipment and dash or if I would stay and act like everything was fine.

He made the choice for me by turning away to open his laptop case. I slunk over to the table with the projector, feeling grateful to turn my back to him and have something to do with my hands. My underwear felt damp between my skirt and I was embarrassed at my reaction to the images - hadn't I been studying bugs for years? Why should this have been so provocative? Sinclair interrupted my ponderings with a question.

"Did you enjoy the lecture?"

His voice was pitched so low he growled. The velvety way he said "enjoy" was nearly predatory and I realized we were quite alone in the semi-dark room. I swallowed nervously and, keeping my back to him, answered in the affirmative.

I heard him slowly and deliberately approach me. He stopped several feet away and didn't say anything. I was frozen, keenly aware of my wetness and the vast quiet of the room and my own audible breath. Suddenly, I felt the cold metal tip of the slide pointer rest against the inside of my right ankle. It was like a jolt of lava surged through me and I held still, waiting to see what he would do. Very, very slowly, he raised the pointer. I could hear his shallow breathing behind me over my own inhalations. I became aware of my hands gripping the projector bag and I had a moment of realization. I could swat the pointer away and leave. I didn't have to take this. On the other hand, I was horny as hell and didn't have anything better to do. Fucking Professor Sinclair might be the highlight of my graduate student experience.

The pointer inched up. When it grazed the edge of my underwear, I jerked. Sinclair surged forward, dropping the pointer, and pressed me against the table. His hands were possessive as he bent me forward and raised my skirt to grope my ass. I could feel his erection against my backside and smell his tangy aftershave. I gave a little moan. He worked his hand into my underwear and pulled them down around my ankles, stretching them wide so he could open my legs and finger me. His fingers were rough from his fieldwork and they created a tantalizing friction against my skin. He dipped into my wetness and spread it around, slowly working his fingers inside me then slipping out to rub my clit. I moaned louder and tried to spread my legs wider, but my underwear had me trapped.

He removed his hands and I held my breath, not sure what he would do next. I heard the sound of his zipper and the crinkling of a condom wrapper. I didn't want to turn around and break the spell, so I waited, head down, glad he'd used protection without me having to bring it up. I felt his dick brush against my ass and I sucked in a whoosh of air. Was I really doing this? Would I seriously let some guy fuck me from behind without touching him or even laying eyes on his dick? The whole thing was thrilling and hell yeah I was going through with it! His dick brushed my ass again, briefly rubbing against me before angling down between my legs. I moved my feet to kick off my underwear, and he used the opportunity to move me down the table from the projector bag where he could bend me straight over. I could feel the head of his dick pressing into me. He rubbed himself against my clit and I felt myself getting even wetter, clenching against nothing and eager to have him inside me. I made a little noise of desire and pushed back and he repositioned to enter me.

In one strong push he was all the way in. He gripped my hips and thrust and I immediately thought of all the images of the bugs fucking each other in this same steady sort of rhythm. The hand that had been holding my chest flat against the table snaked between my legs from the front and pressed against my clit. His thrusts were slow and deep and unwavering and with his hand carefully kneading my clit I felt myself spiraling tight. I made a keening noise and came hard against his hand. Even with my bucking orgasm, he didn't change his rhythm, and didn't stop and I had a moment of panic. Didn't he realize I'd come? His hand continued to press against me and his dick slid in and out and I realized I maybe wasn't done and then I felt him shudder and lean forward to clench me in his arms. He held me still and fucked me hard, his rhythm utterly lost, and I came again, screaming this time, as he rammed into me. When his orgasm ended, he continued to weakly thrust while he gently let go of my body. I collapsed forward and he pulled out slowly, tenderly rubbing my back as he did so. I felt like a pile of bones and didn't move as he carefully rearranged my skirt over my ass and went to throw away the condom.

I was too exhausted to move but when I recovered myself, I realized I wasn't quite sure how to behave. Do I face him? Have a conversation? I coughed awkwardly and stood up. When I turned around I discovered that he'd taken his laptop bag and was no longer in the room. In a fog, I resumed packing up the projector and gathered up my own belongings to head home. Outside, the fresh air woke me up enough to realize two things - Professor Sinclair had taken my underwear, and I was changing my doctoral concentration to insect pheromone research.

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