The Exception

This is a story about a professor and his adult student, with some very minor dd/lg roleplay thrown in, no major D/s vibe. In case you aren't into that kind of thing I thought I would mention it here.

Nick was one of those professors who sometimes invited his students to his house. He didn't do it with ulterior motives, nor out of the goodness of his heart, a chance to connect with the younger generation. His objective was simple: turn as many bright kids away from the soul-sucking field of academia, before their bright eyes turned dim, their healthy complexions sallow and their figurative bushy tails rough and bristly. Before they gave up everything they ever hoped to have in order to gain the thing he didn't even want now, the dreaded t-word. Tenure.

So far he had been quite successful. The smart young man who looked to him for mentorship five years ago was now running a fortune 500 company, actually earning a living and not moving around for random postdoc positions. The woman who had wanted him to help her with her master's thesis didn't end up completing it and instead moved to South America to run a charitable organization. The girl who had wanted to study the peace building community like an Amazonian tribe was actually doing the work of peace building in Africa. Every couple of months he got a Google alert about the work she had accomplished. Instead of writing about it, she was doing it.

So all told, he was doing great.

But then there was Maura Anderson.

She had been just an anxious looking freshman on one of those dreadful Cultural Anthropology 101 courses he had been forced to teach once in a while. Her dark brown hair was always in a tight bun, like an uptight librarian in a 1990's children's film. Her blue eyes fixed to him on her heart shaped face. She barely took notes, but stayed behind after class. Her smile was slow to arrive, but when it did, a dimple would show up in tandem with it, on her right cheek.

When he asked her what she was interested in, she said the thing they had just been studying. Ritual, she would say. Purity, after another class. Pre-capital and gift based economic systems, she would say and he would smile, in on their little joke now.

She was beautiful, of course. Like most girls in his class - women, he corrected himself -- women in his class, her body was shaped by yoga and a faster metabolism. Round curves but within impossibly taut bodies. She wore jeans and t-shirts at first, but then one day she started showing up in skirts and dresses, exclusively. She stood out in a sea of hoodies, like a sunflower in a field of hay. How could he not notice her?

She came to his office hours, monopolizing his time. But she wasn't a temptress, she was asking earnest questions and he was drawn in by her personality and keen interest. Of course, he was the cynic. He told her not to even think about a second degree if she wanted anything out of life. A house she could buy and actually live in, a family, a marriage.

"But weren't you married, Dr Harris?" Her eyes wide, her lip half-tucked between teeth.

"Two and a half decades with a wonderful woman, whose life I wasted," Nick said, leaning back in his chair. "Wouldn't recommend you being either one of those. The one whose life gets wasted or the one who does the wasting."

"But weren't you happy?" she asked, leaning in closer.

Her dress hid everything but the shape. His eyes would not dip down but she was always tired at 10 am, and stretched arms over her head. The fabric curved around her tits.

Okay, so he did look.

"I was happy, but that doesn't make it right toward her," he admitted, shrugging. "Oh well. Call me Nick, by the way."

"Nick," she said immediately, like it had been a command.

His dick twitched, the treacherous thing. That thing was always eager to make him everything he wouldn't be. The lecher, the dirty old man.

Twenty years of teaching and every couple of years there would be a girl who got that usual crush on a professor. Sometimes she was flirty, aware of her own appeal. Daring. Other times she was timid, awkward, inexperienced. But her eyes would betray her, darkening and intense when she asked him a question in class.

It always tore at him and he never, ever gave in, because of his wife, but because of his ethics, too. It wasn't right that some young pretty thing wasted her youth corrupted by an old man. Even at 30 he had felt too old for the 20 year olds. Whoever she was, she ought to find her own path. Whether that meant fucking some useless frat guy or a doe-eyed poet in her English class or her best girl friend in the name of college experimentation, it would not be Nick Harris, just because the option was there for him.

He was an average older guy. Wheat colored hair with silvers here and there, contact lenses in his brown eyes. Lanky body with a stomach that had rounded slightly from beer. He worked out but didn't obsess over it. He wasn't a fox or whatever dignity some older men got to be actually considered sexy. Yet every couple of years a girl -- a young woman reminded him that in her eyes he might be. But he would never follow through in anything but fantasy.

And then there was Maura Anderson.

Her hair was no longer on a tight bun. She opened it in front of him, like an unveiling of an artwork. It fell, soft and voluminous on her shoulders, down her back.

"Anyway," she said, her hand working through it, shaking it from the roots. "You said you liked brownies in class, is that true?"

"Sure, what's it to you?" He laced the fingers of his hands over his stomach. Was it flirtation? So hard to tell with Maura.

Maybe she just liked cultural anthropology. She had already passed his class, but she kept showing up. She took classes by other professors, and never mentioned them. Her eyes focused on him. His focused on her. Wide pink stripes rose onto her cheeks the longer they would talk, and he would tell himself it was wishful thinking to consider it arousal.

"I'll make you some," she said, her eyes cast down and then rising to his own. "If you'd like."

"I might like," he told her. "Hard to say without a bite."

"Then you need to take a bite, Nick."

She wasn't the flirtatious girl, she was the innocent, he had always surmised. Maybe she was both, eager for the learning. The thought excited him and the wave of disappointment in himself followed. Settle down, he told that monster within himself. She is just a student.

"You can bring them round sometime," he told her, glancing at the clock. "I should get back to work."

"Bye, Nick," she said, getting up.

To prove a point, to himself mostly, he didn't watch her leave but then at the last minute he looked, captivated. He was wrong for it. So wrong.

His dick did not care. After the door clicked shut, he got up to lock it. Hand on himself within a minute. Just to relieve that tiniest of pressure building, he told himself, but he was so hard and the fantasy took over. Her on her knees in front of him, a hesitant mouth over his cock.

"I've never done this before," she says to him in the fantasy.

"You'll do fine, just taste it in your mouth," he guides her and her mouth wraps around the head, hot and wet.

She smiles against it. "It's so soft and hard at the same time."

"Do you like it?" he asks.

"I love it," she tells him and the tongue presses against the rim of the head, the bunching of all those nerve endings.

He came over his own fist, guilt washing over immediately. How could he be like this. A walking Title IX violation. Jesus Christ, get a grip man, he told himself.

She wasn't the hottest girl who walked into his class. She wasn't the most brilliant. She wasn't the one who seemed the most virginal or the one who dressed the sluttiest -- and he sure as hell shouldn't notice these things, but he did. She was just the one he wanted the most.

He shouldn't and he wouldn't do anything about it, just like he hadn't for twenty years.

Yet he emailed her his home address from his personal email and told her he'd be in from 6.30pm every weekday night. He didn't date, he only had solitary hobbies. A gym in the basement and his library of books. The internet to provide everything else. He had nowhere to be but home, and maybe that was the problem.

The night she showed up, it was a snow storm. The worst in years, the news said.

He stared at her, stunned. "How the hell did you drive here?"

"I took an Uber," she said, shrugging. The tin of brownies in one hand, fluffy boots on her feet. The down jacket opened at the door, revealing a dark red dress.

"Did the driver have a death wish?" He shook his head. "Fine, come on in."

"I tipped plenty," she said lightly.

She admired his house, big and empty after the ex-wife had moved and left him the grace of some furniture. He drank red wine, offered her some. She was 22 and took the glass, her pink lips kissing the rim. They ate a brownie each, the dark cocoa bitter, and the walnuts providing texture. Fudgey, just like he preferred. The best brownie he had had in years.

He admired her body, the dress tight around her form. It wasn't the type of dress she normally wore, A-line with patterns. It was as if she was going on a date.

"You know they rate a professor with a chili emoji if he is hot on that one website?" Her tone was still light.

"I'll be rated as mashed potatoes, then," he said drily, and didn't look at her.

All his years of practice shutting down the flirtation, directing the conversation onto safer waters, and yet her clumsy attempt endeared him. He didn't want to stop. He wanted to see where the path would take them.

"I think you're plenty spicy," she said.

"How do you plan on getting home safely?" He looked at the window. "It's still snowing. I've drunk so I can't drive you. Maybe another Uber driver can risk their life."

"Maybe," she said, and left it there.

Meaning, she wasn't leaving.

"Maura," he said.

"Nick," she said, matching his admonishing tone.

"You need to leave. I can't have a student stay over."

"Even if I want to stay over? Even if it's safer?"

"I don't want you to stay over."

A lie. His cock was already semi-hard in his slacks, saved only by the kitchen island he was standing behind.

"Can I make you want me to stay over?" Maura asked him, and her tongue darted out of her mouth, wetting her lips. "Nick. You're not my professor anymore."

"Doesn't work like that," he said, and tipped the rest of the wine into his mouth. "Especially not in this day and age. Go find someone else, Maura. I've heard there are some older men on the internet looking to date younger women. Shocking but they do exist."

Maura sighed. "I doubt they'd want me."

A bait he wasn't going to take.

"I'll show you the guest room," he said, willing his cock to go down, just a little. It obeyed.

"May I have a t-shirt to sleep in?"

Such an innocent question. He gave her one of the old ones he got from the college, the charming old logo of it. Washed, ironed by a woman no longer his. As it left his hand he tried so hard not to think about the fabric sliding across her skin. It wouldn't be long enough to cover her ass, probably. That little view of cheek if she leaned over the bathroom sink.

Jesus fucking Christ, he berated himself. You absolutely pervert.

"Goodnight," he said and went to his own bedroom, his own bathroom. Hand in his boxer briefs, hasty, pulling.

But he couldn't, not with her here, a possible listener.

He waits until he is in bed to fall into the fantasy. Like a porno, they always fuck in his office after hours. The naughty girl and the teacher who ought to lose his job. The good girl who wants to earn that A plus. His subconscious wanted those cliches, craved them. His brain just wanted to come, as fast as possible, not linger in the fantasy that left him feeling awful about himself.

His hand stilled around his hard length at the sound of footsteps. The floorboards were older upstairs, creakier.

"Nick, I can't sleep," she said from the door.

"I'm not your daddy, go to bed little girl," he replied drily, his jaw clenched, sitting up and raising one knee so the erection wouldn't show.

"I've never made a move on a guy before," Maura said, stepping into his room. The t-shirt reached her mid-thigh. That incredible ass, hiding beneath. Her breasts untethered by a bra beneath the fabric.

This would be torture.

"Was I that bad?" she asked, innocently. She looked at him, sat on the foot of the bed.

"Not bad at all," he said, trying to be gracious.

Young women, despite their beauty and youth and grace, tended to be the most self-doubting people walking the earth. He knew this.

"Just picked the wrong guy," he said softly.

"I don't have daddy issues, like my friends say," she said. "You're just the only guy who actually listens to what I have to say before saying something back."

"That's nice," he said. "But you need to go to bed, Maura."

"Did you not like the brownies?" Her hand vanished into her own hair, fluffing it up.

"Go to bed, Maura."

"I'll never take your class again, Nick, I promise."

"Go to bed, Maura." His voice was now more stern, yet less sure of his own conviction.

He was worried now the rejection might shatter something in her, the fragility of her. Kids were so sensitive these days. But he couldn't just give in.

"It's normal to get a crush," he said finally, softening his tone. "And it's important to learn how to get over it, too. Now go to bed."

"I am in bed," Maura said, and climbed onto his bed fully, on her hands and knees.

Like a wild cat and he was prey.

"Maura," but his hands accept her onto his lap, finding the soft cotton over her hips. "You know this is so dangerous."

"One kiss, Nick?" she asked, pleading. "Show me what I need to get over."

His hands already ran up and down her sides, making her shiver. Their eyes locked together. One finger of his, tilting her chin down to him.

He knew he would never, not in a million years, stop at one kiss. His mouth met hers and she was soft, perfect, her mouth as hot as his fantasies of her. His tongue invaded, staked claim.

She moaned and leaned into him, her breasts beneath the t-shirt pressing against his chest. Her hands crossed behind his neck. Her moans as his mouth dips to her throat, the space right below her ear. His cock against her stomach. He couldn't turn back now, not with her like this, so eager on his lap.

"Dr Harris, you're so hard," she whispered and it shot all of his blood to his dick. His fantasy meeting hers, all too much and not enough at the same time.

His hands held that round, beautiful ass of hers and then discovered her secret.

"Maura, where is your underwear?" His mouth smiled against her shoulder. "You are killing me."

"Please fuck me, professor," she breathed, more than fantasy, better than fantasy, so fucking hot and ready for him.

His fingers found her wet and wanting. Her clit swollen. She was perfect for him. If he could he would fuck her all night and into the next day.

"Do you like a man to taste you first, make you scream?"

"No one has ever.." her voice trailed off.

Oh, hell, he thought. He flipped her against the pillows and nudged her thighs open. He lowered his mouth on her vulva, kissing through a strip of hair, then the hairless lips as she quivered beneath him.

He kissed the soft inner parts of her thighs, hearing her moan his name, Nick and professor in equal measure. His tongue ran along her slit, then settled into her depth, his fingers rubbing the nub as she arched against the touch and rolled her hips. His lips kissed her clitoris, his finger pressing into the soft walls within.

He sucked at the pearl, hearing her hiss softly at the sensation. He settled into a rhythm, his tongue flicking against the reddened nub. Her hand found his hair.

"I'm-- I'm--" she gasped and his hands cradled her ass, pushing her harder against his tongue and she came undone against him, onto his palate, her cries echoing down the hall. He moved up her body as she dwelled in the afterglow, kissing her tits, sucking the nipples, eliciting delirious laughter out of her. She was sensitive. All his.

"Can I fuck you now, princess?" He was already there, positioned. His cock rubbed against her lips, teasing, so hard for her.

"Nick," she spoke, breathlessly.

"Don't tell me this is a first, too?"

A brief panic in his chest, the mix of arousal-- to be her first-- with the pressure of it, the significance of it. It would be too much. He would have to pull away.

"God no," she said. "You're my third. Already my best."

He was already at her entrance, and he slid the head of his cock against her inner lips. "Maura, we don't have to--"

"Fuck me, Nick, I need you so bad," she said. A sound he loved hearing unlike any other, the keen desperation in her.

His good girl.

He slid in, deep, to the hilt. Her warmth swallowed him, her muscles tightened around him and it had been so long since the last time it was this good.

She cried out, but not from pain, he wasn't that big. She took him in, so wet and hot. "Is it good?" she breathed.

All these insecurities, where do they come from, he wondered.

"You feel amazing," he told her, and his hips began to thrust. Steady rhythm, not too fast, not too slow. She moaned, hooked her own ankles with her hands, spreading herself for him. Her sounds matched his rhythm, every slap of his balls against her bringing something out of her.

He wanted to take her with such force, but she was still this slight thing, this delicate human, in his eyes. With time she might learn to like it rough, beg some man to fuck her so hard she couldn't walk the next day, but he couldn't rush the process.

"Is it good for you?" He thrust into her and she moaned against his ear, his fingers grasping his shoulders. "I can go slower if you'd like, baby girl."

"It's so good, daddy," she gasped and then, mortified, "sorry, I didn't mean to say that."

He laughed, deep and low, his hips rolling to meet hers, and God he truly felt depraved. The simple word from her nearly made him climax.

"Call me whatever you'd like," he told her and continued fucking her, the pressure building. He was getting so close.

"Are you on the pill?"

The second of hesitation. "Yes."

He wasn't going to ruin her life in two ways in one night, and pulled out. "Just to be sure, princess."

"Come for me, Nick," she begged. "In my mouth, please."

Porn truly had a devastating effect on the current generation but he wasn't in the mood to argue. Her mouth opened and a tongue extended out, pressed against her lower lip. He positioned himself against the soft heat, hand holding himself at the base, fingers pressing, gliding over the length all the way down to the head.

It didn't take long for him to come, draining himself with his hand into her willing mouth, and as bad as it felt, as dirty as it felt, she drank him with such joy. The dimple showed, her fingers catching the stray drops back into her mouth. He truly was the luckiest bastard on this planet earth.

"Jesus, Maura," he exhaled, back against the bed moments later. "My life is over."

"Don't be so dramatic," she told him, settling to sleep against him. "You'll teach me some more in the morning."

He woke with his arm around her, his cock nuzzling against her ass. He got up, walked to the bathroom and eventually managed to actually piss. When he walked back to the bedroom, she was awake, a sheet wrapped around her. He searched her eyes for signs of regret.

He found none.

"Nick," she said.

"Maura," he replied.

"I think I need a cuddle, Nick."

"Do you, now?"

He slid beside her, the big spoon. But his hands couldn't stop wandering around her silken skin, her beautiful body. She lit him up entirely.