My Naughty Student

You wrote your thesis with me. It deserved the "A" you got.

After grades are handed in, you come to my office to say goodbye. There has been sexual tension between us over the year, and you caught me looking at your body once or twice, but we have both been very professional overall. However, this last time you're going to see me, you decide to wear a low-cut blouse and short skirt to tease me a little. "I'll give the old guy a nice view to remember me by," you laugh to yourself.

It is after the end of the semester, so no one else is in the building.

I stare at your body a lot; I'm not trying to be discreet this time. I obviously realize that you're teasing me, and it seems to piss me off, but that just makes you want to do it more. You pull at your blouse to expose more of your breasts, and squirm to make your skirt ride up.

Out of the blue, I cup your breast in my hand. "What the Hell are you doing?!" you shout, and try to get away.

I grab your tit harder and say, "Shut up! I've been waiting for this all year, and now I'm gonna get it."

You push me away. I slap you across the face: HARD. You're shocked, speechless. My hand starts to go up your skirt. When I discover you're not wearing panties, I growl, "Slut!"

You wrestle with me to defend yourself. My hands are everywhere: on your tits, up your skirt, pushing down your blouse and into your bra, fingering your exposed slit, pinching your nipples, ripping off buttons.

You think of screaming, but you doubt anyone is in the building to hear you. You think that if you can break from my grip, you can probably get to the door and run away. But ...

Your body is betraying you. Your nipples are hard. You realize that they are aching with desire for my next pinch. Your yelps of panic are quickly transforming into moans of pleasure. Your pussy is wet. Very wet. And you find that your legs are opening when my hand is not there, and then closing only to hold my hand in place while my fingers are violating your cunt-hole. Your hands continue to push against my hands and chest, but it becomes less and less like a genuine attempt to escape, and more and more like fuck-wrestling. The abuse coming from my lips starts to sound like the voice of an enraged lover: "Cunt! Teasing slut! You thought you could flash your tits at me all year and not give me any? Wet bitch!"

"Oh, shit," you groan, and your hips are now bucking with pleasure against the onslaught of my hands. You look into my angry eyes, and your own eyes are wide with both shock and longing. And then you lean forward and kiss me, passionately, our tongues now wrestling as our bodies have been. The kiss is broken only when my hand, slick with your pussy juice, reaches up to grab your lovely hair, and jerks your head down, pulling you to the floor between my legs. You're on your knees now, on the hard floor of my office, panting and looking up at me pathetically, while I unzip my pants.

I take my cock out, and you expertly take it in your hand and start to stroke it, then lean in to suck. Suddenly you feel your head being jerked back, and you wince with the pain of how tight I'm holding your hair.

"Did I say you could suck my cock?" I growl.

"No," you whimper.

"Tell me you want to suck it."

You pause, but only for a second, before gasping, "I want to suck it. Please. I want to suck your cock."

"Am I raping you?"

You pause for a longer moment, feeling confused: confused about how you're feeling, about what is happening, and about what you should say. Finally, saying what you think I want to hear, you whisper, "No."

The crack of my hand slapping you across the face echoes through my small office. "Liar!" I shout.

"Yes," you blubber, starting to cry, "you're raping me."

"That's right. And you came here because you wanted me to rape you."

You start to cry more, because you realize it's the truth: "Yes. I wanted you to rape me. I wanted you to rape me HARD."

I move forward on the couch so my cock is easy to reach, and then shove your face on to it. You skillfully suck and stroke my dick while I face-fuck you. "Good slut," I moan. "Good cocksucking slut. You've obviously had a lot of experience at this." Images of all the times you've sucked guys off flash through your head -- in the back seats of cars, in your dorm room, in the woods near campus, one time in a stairwell, another time alternating sucking two guys at a drunken party -- and you feel both ashamed and aroused.

As your head and hands work rhythmically to suck me off, my hands wander down to your blouse, tugging it open, and then opening your bra, so that your ample tits are hanging out. I knead them, pinch them, tug at the nipples, caress them. For a while, the only sounds in the office are the wet squishing of your mouth and soft hands against my hard cock, your heavy breathing, and my quiet moaning. These sounds seem positively pornographic in this environment, surrounded by my books, near the desk where I have advised and corrected the papers of hundreds of students.

The silence is broken by my words, whispered into your ear: "Daddy was so horny. You're doing such a good job sucking Daddy's cock, princess. You won't tell anyone about this, will you darling? It will be your and Daddy's special secret."

Your pussy gushes cream as you think, "How does he know?! How does he know I want this? Am I that sick? Can people see just by looking at me how perverted I am?" But all you say out loud is, "I won't tell anyone, Daddy. I'll do whatever makes Daddy happy."

You feel the familiar and now welcome sensation of my hand jerking your head back by your hair. It has come to feel like a lover's kiss to you, despite -- no, because of the sharp pain. You pant and look up at me with longing eyes. "Play with your pussy," I say evenly.

You look around the office. There's no one there of course, but ... but somehow this places seem so public, so exposed. You look back at me and whimper, "I can't." You wince instinctively, waiting for my hand across your cheek, but it doesn't come. Instead, without a word, I lift you up, so you're straddling my lap. You hike your skirt up, and groan with anticipation at the thought of finally fucking me. You'd fantasized about this so many times: getting teacher's cock. And now it is going to happen.

I pull your face to mine, and we kiss passionately. You think about how your mouth had been on my cock, and now it is sucking my tongue, and somehow that seems so sexy. Then my hand is gently circling your clit. You shudder and realize I haven't even touched it before. My finger is gentle, sliding across it with ease because of how wet you are. The feeling is exquisite, and your hips buck impatiently, your cunt-hole begging for cock. "Please," you sigh. "Please fuck me."

I look at you and smile evilly. "Stand up and masturbate while I watch, you fucking whore." You shake your head weakly, but I keep massaging your clit. "Do you want cock?" You nod. "Then do it."

Tears well up in your eyes as you got off my lap and stand in front of me. Your hands reach under your skirt, but I say, "Take off your skirt. I want you completely exposed. And look me in the eyes while you do it." Your humiliation is so complete that you are beyond resistance now.

There you are: bottomless in front of your professor, in his office, one hand working your clit, the other finger-fucking yourself, tears of humiliation running down your face.

And your only worry is that you'll cum before I fuck you with my cock.

You can't believe how turned on you feel, and you want desperately to orgasm. I read you mind: "Don't cum. If you cum, I'll walk out, and you won't get any cock." You whimper but nod, because you need cock ... so badly. Your hand is soaked with your pussy-cum. "Wipe your cum all over your face now." You obey, spreading the thick, white cream all over your cheeks and lips, enjoying the sweet, musky taste, before returning your hand to your cunt.

I am jerking myself off while I watch you. Your eyes move from my face to my cock and back again. You feel like a whore in a sex show, performing on stage in a seedy club, while the customers watch and play with themselves.

Just when you think you can't hold off cumming any more, I stand up and say, "Bend over the couch and stick your ass in the air."

"Please fuck me," you say.

"You're a whore for begging to be fucked," I reply, and then slip my belt off. You know what is coming. The crack of the belt on your ass is frightening as it echoes off the walls of my office. With each smack, you feel a jolt of electricity surge from the welt on your ass to your pussy and nipples, charging them with lust. Soon your ass is even higher in the air, as you arch your back to meet my belt. You actually feel disappointed when the beating stops.

I reach underneath you and insert my fingers into your pussy lips. "You're so wet," I growl. "What a fucking slut." But just the touch of my hand makes you shiver with anticipation. Finally, I line myself up behind you, and shove my cock into your pussy from behind. I start to pound you: hard, fast, merciless fucking. I am taking what I want, like one animal mounting another. You are ashamed of the guttural animal noises you make as I fuck you. "This is just what you want, isn't it?" I taunt you. "Hard, loveless fucking. I've been waiting to give this to you for so damn long."

You feel the orgasm building up inside you. You try to hold it back. You want this to last. But I reach underneath you and start to pinch your nipples with one hand, and rub your clit with the other. You know there is no holding back at this point.

You start to scream, "Fuck me, Daddy! Fuck your little princess! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" And your pussy tightens on my cock as you orgasm. As the waves of orgasm subside, you can barely move, but you rock your hips slightly, eager to take my cum in your pussy. But I pull out and give you one last order, "Turn around and kneel in front of me." My voice is still authoritative, but you detect the tremble in it of a man close to cumming. As soon as you are on your knees, I start to frantically jerk the shaft of my cock, and almost immediately long streams of cum shoot onto your face. You open your mouth to take in as much as you cam, but I grab your hair, and make sure that some gets on your face.

We stay in those positions for a few moments after I cum, both breathing heavily, with sweat running down our bodies. Finally, I say, "Thank you," and start to put my cock away and zip up. I go over to my desk and get out a roll of paper towels from a drawer and hand them to you. "Here," I say, "these might help you clean up." You look at me for a second, unsure of what to do. What had happened? How should you react? But you decide to just wipe up and get your clothes on.

When you are dressed, I lead you out the door, saying, "Let's go get something cool to drink." We have made it only as far as the stairway, when the Dean of the Faculty appears, looking alarmed. He looks at both of us, then looks at you, then looks at me suspiciously, then looks back at you with concern, before finally asking, "Are you all right? A janitor heard some strange sounds, and he called me."

He looks like he is about to say something else when you say, "No. I'm NOT all right at all, Dean."

You can't see my face, because you are staring right at the Dean. But I have a fairly calm expression. I am thinking, "Well, I did what I did, and now I'm going to pay for it. My career, my family, my reputation -- they're all gone. But there's no sense crying about it now."

You continue, "I came to tell Professor Z. how much I appreciated his being my thesis advisor this year, and do you know what happened? It was so hot in this damn building that I fainted. Fortunately, the professor had the good sense to put a cold, wet cloth on my head to revive me, but I have a mind to bring a lawsuit against this school for the completely irresponsible lack of adequate ventilation in this building!"

The Dean blanches and starts to blubber, "Lawsuit?! Oh, there's no need for that! No need at all! I mean, how do you feel? Can I get you anything? Are you sure you should be walking at all?"

"Well," you continue, "I think the least the school could do is pay for me to have a nice lunch somewhere -- with the professor, of course, since he was so helpful. Then I might forget about the whole thing."

"Of course!" the Dean replies. "We'd be happy to pay for a meal at the cafet --"

You glare at him.

"At the finest bistro in town!" he corrects himself. "Allow me to drive."

"That won't be necessary," you say. "The professor can take me, I'm sure."

"Naturally! Just send us the bill!"

You and I walk silently down a couple of flights of stairs, until we are well out of the earshot of the Dean. "Thank you," I say.

"You're welcome," you reply, then continue, "Do you think the college will pay for a hotel room?"

I stare at you. "Uh, no, that would be suspicious."

"Okay. Then you'll have to pay for our hotel room after we eat.... Bastard." And you smile as we walk to my car.