The Prof and Me

This story is fiction, but it was inspired by @noirindigo, with gratitude from @RaunchYwriteR.

***

Generally, I like to stick to my own kind. Thin girls with dark-chocolate skin. Girls with cafe-au-lait curves I can get a good handful of. Every hue seems to complement my blue-black colouring. And girls know where to touch, knead, caress, kiss, lick — and yes, scratch — my lady bits and sensitive zones.

I'm petite but proportioned, and make the most of what I've got.

I like to look over my shoulder at my reflection in the full-length mirror. In a hip-hugging stretched black miniskirt my ass is a pair of tight, round globes. Reminds me of that infinity symbol we learned in algebra class. My legs are long, sometimes shiny in black thigh-high stockings that lead the eye up to the promised land, usually — but not always — almost hidden by a tiny thong.

Once in a while, of course, I'll be attracted to one of those no-good nothings and get carried away as he leans back against a doorway, an alley wall, a streetlamp on a foggy night as he lifts me by the thighs and pumps me up and down on his hard, slick man-pole, my miniskirt around my waist, until the screaming contractions of my tiny tightness suck the sperm out of him and he groans and roars and I slide slowly down him, soaking the front of his baggy low-rider jeans with my juices and savouring the friction of my pebbled nipples against the rough cloth of his shirt.

I laugh as I stride away, my heels clicking on the pavement and my ass waggling in syncopated time, thanking the Earth Mother for the Pill: I ain't never gonna be no worthless man's baby mama.

By day I'm a business student, dressed a bit more demurely but I still get stares. The jocks on the rugby team always mutter to themselves when I go past the athletic center on my way to class, but the numbers I'm thinking of then aren't the ones on their jerseys.

I'm focused. On being the first person — let alone girl — in my family to get a post-secondary education. That lucky I am.

Though maybe it's not just dumb luck. Maybe a cosmic ray changed my DNA by whamming into my mom's ovary just at the right second, or hit my dad's balls just before nutted in my mom after telling her he'd pull out for sure. She never saw him again.

Whatever. I'm determined to be a new sprout on the family tree, to change the trajectory of my life — and I pray I can help my mom, too. I want a career, not just a good job.

None of that seemed possible after I was raped at fourteen — an uncle; one of those ugly stories. But I had a high school math teacher who saw something in me; she coached me between periods and after school and showed me that hard work and studying can pay off. While my peers were trying to fuck the guy on the team with the best chance at a sports scholarship, I had my nose in books instead of the quarterback's pubic hair.

I graduated with a decent average — I sure as hell wasn't valedictorian, but ... it was enough to get me into a university business school. No mean feat, if you don't mind me boasting.

That math teacher taught me a lot about life — about getting ahead instead of giving head — how to study, dress, talk to profs, succeed. I love my mom but she had no clue about any of that. Disadvantaged, the sociologists would say. But she gave me life, a sacrifice she didn't have to make, and Ill love her forever.

At business school first semester was difficult. I was almost the token dark face; there were a few like me but all men. We didn't hang together. All too focused on coursework.

After Christmas — second semester — I had a prof I sort of liked. Not in that way, though. Piers was really old. I mean he had white hair, old skin on his forearms and a funny goatee. Told endless dad jokes. That type of stuff — you can tell. I knew he liked me, really liked me. But not just that way — he was kind, took an interest in me and seemed to want me to succeed.

To tease him, I'd dress provocatively, wearing tight, short skirts and satin blouses that didn't reach the skirts and exposed my belly button. He responded with extra help as we walked the hallway after class, debriefing the day's learning points and making sure I understood what was expected on assignments.

Then I stopped wearing bras to his class, and as the weather got warmer, the air conditioning got colder. Poor guy, the sight of my stiff nipples derailed some of his lectures. Even when I sat in the back row he'd stammer and lose his train of thought. He was a great prof, though, and would recover by making self-deprecating old-fart jokes.

Then he'd come over to me after class to apologize but his jeans bulged at my eye level when he stood beside my desk.

At first it was creepy, but he was so tender and helpful, I really liked his attention. A couple of weeks later, I dreamt about him. And woke up so wet I had to rub my nub till I creamed myself.

This was getting complicated.

I didn't have a boyfriend — didn't want one. I had a couple of girl pals. We'd get together, lament the worthlessness of men, drink too much hard liquor and — sometimes, when we were stinking drunk and horndog randy — the three of us would crawl together on the carpet and daisy-chain tongue to cunt till we'd get off in simultaneous, sloppy, glorious yelling climaxes.

We never talked about it when we were sober, just how hard it was to find a halfway decent guy. But I think we were all, at least back then, omnisexual. Or omnivorously sexual.

Now I looked forward to Piers' class, and took extra care about what I wore — or didn't wear. We were nearing the end of the semester and I was worried about my grades. I needed a B+ average to maintain the scholarships that let me continue in school.

I was confident about the grade I'd get in his class, but in a couple of others I worried I might get a B- or a C. It kept me awake at night.

In our second-last week, defying all logic (in a business school, eh?) I wondered if Piers would bump up my grade. I asked if I could have office hours after class. He agreed.

Later, on the way to his office, I stopped in the ladies' room and dropped my thong in the trash can.

Piers was kind as always, and the perfect gentleman, welcoming me to his tiny cubicle and leaving the door half open. That was a rule when students visited, he said. I was a bit crestfallen, but determined to carry out my plan.

I told him my grade problem, and as he explained that I had an A average in his class but that an A+ would mean the dean scrutinizing every assignment and exam paper, I sat uninvited on his desk. He was leaning back in a swivel chair and his gorgeous pale blue eyes were pretty well at the same level as the desktop.

I could see the bulge in his jeans already.

I was wearing the shortest skirt I owned, and it barely came down my thighs. As he was talking, I uncrossed my legs and slowly opened my knees. Give him credit: His voice never changed and he never stammered. But his sexy blue eyes widened, and the crotch of his jeans swelled like I'd never seen them.

He quickly ended the interview, reassuring me that he was sure I'd get the necessary GPA to keep my scholarships. As I left, I heard the office lock click.

That night I bought a bottle of rye and drank a third of it straight, over ice. Then a couple of rye-and-gingers. I was horny as hell, and so drunk that after half an hour uselessly rubbing my nub I lubed up my dildo and fucked myself until I passed out. Without cumming.

There was one more class in the semester, and "my" prof seemed aloof, though he was attentive and solicitous as always. He complimented those who'd done particularly well — without mentioning names or looking at me — and expressed his confidence that we'd complete the whole three-year program successfully. He invited any class members who wanted to, to meet him on Friday night in a pub a couple of blocks off campus.

I didn't know if I should attend, considering my blunder in his office. But Friday morning I woke, with an oozing pussy, from another dream about him. I decided.

It had been the first day of my summer job, and I was whacked. But I showered, dried off, stood in front of the mirror trying to decide which of the slinky tops and come-hither skirts I should wear. For feedback, I snapped a few selfies and posted them on Twitter. Some of them showed a lot of flesh, and the "likes" kept rolling in. Along with about 500 photos of guys' erect dicks. Ugh. (Well, okay, some of them were pretty fucking awesome.)

Finally I chose a simple dark-green silk skirt, mid-thigh length, with a flat bow of the same fabric across my lower belly — just in case his focus wandered. The top, shiny royal purple satin, came far enough below my unrestrained boobs to be almost decent. At the last minute I tugged on my only pair of crotchless panties, flaming red. In case of emergency, you know.

All that flaunting for the guys (and girls) on Twitter had slowed me down, so I arrived to find a long table littered with pitchers of beer and a scattering of margaritas. Instead of sitting at the end of the table and holding court (like some other arrogant profs were doing), Piers was sitting in the centre of one side. Across from him were mostly girls, and a few boys had found seats, too.

I slid into an empty chair near one end, where I could watch him. He was flirting coyly with some of the girls, while carrying on a meaningful conversation with everyone about his course, and life in general. He was a good moderator, making sure everyone got to air their views and no one got left out. A good lesson — for my generation — in how egalitarian face-to-face can be, compared to the howling trolls you find on the internet.

He acknowledged my late arrival with a raised eyebrow — and a warm smile. I chatted with my neighbours and put my oar into the conversation a couple of times, while downing a few margaritas. They warmed my belly in a way I hadn't counted on, but I managed to keep it together.

By the time 11 rolled around, the table was thinning. Good thing, since I'd had more than enough margaritas. Finally, Piers said it was time to wrap things up, and threw down his credit card. Several of the better-off students tossed in bills; he handed them to the waitress as a tip and paid the tab.

"Can I get you a cab?" he said as a few diehards and I stumbled out of the bar with him. Two or three accepted and he made sure they were chaperoned by a reliable person more sober than they were.

Which left him and me on the sidewalk.

"Lift home?" he asked.

"Please..." He hailed a cab and poured me into the back seat and sat beside me.

My basement apartment was nothing to write home about, but it was close to the campus, in a house rented to students. He walked me to the door — I only tripped twice — and made sure I unlocked it.

I invited him in, but he shook his head. "I shouldn't."

"C'mon," I slurred.

"No. I'd be taking advantage of you."

I pouted. "A g'night kiss, then," I blurted.

He bent, lifted my face to his. He tasted me, his tongue hungry.

I seized his hand, slid it down the silk of my skirt and guided his finger to my sopping crotchless panties.

"Can't shtay here under the damn light," I muttered. "Darn bugs." And pulled him indoors.

We stumbled through the detrius of my apartment, guided only by the glimmer of the street light outside and the wan glow of a couple of nightlights.

He stopped. "Totally inappropriate!" he said.

"Fuck you!" I responded, "I won't have you for any other course but I'm goddam well going to have you tonight."

He sighed.

And let me unbuckle his belt. I hadn't stopped kissing him and he still had his finger in my drenched cunt.

After a couple of bruised shins we found my bed. He sat down heavily and slid his hands up my back and liberated my breasts. Hungrily sucking my nipples he let me slide his pants and drawers down and free his outstanding (in both senses of the word) cock.

My god — had I only known! It wasn't porn-star huge, like two or three of the BBCs I'd seen on Twitter that afternoon, but I reckon it was more than seven inches long and five inches in circumference. I tried to swallow it whole.

My head was bobbing up and down as I gasped trying to deep-throat him, and my legs were clamped around him with my swollen cunt slipping up and down his muscular calf.

"Stop! Stop!! I'm going to cum too soon!"

I disengaged one of my hands which had been gripping his ass cheeks, circled his ball sack and squeezed.

"Ahhhhh!" He couldn't cum but I could feel his balls dancing and took mercy on him. Hungrily I swallowed the hot spurts of jism that he'd been saving for me for most of the semester.

I lifted my arms and he slid the slinky silk top off me just before my mouthful of sticky cum leaked all over it. Always the nice guy: saved me an expensive and embarrassing dry-cleaning bill.

I sat him in my desk chair while I whipped clean sheets onto the bed, then lay back and unzipped my skirt and beckoned. He came over. I raised my ass and he gently slid the silk over my knees and folded it neatly on the back of the chair, with my blouse.

There was just enough light for him to see my panties, scarlet against my ebony flesh. His eyes grew wider as ever so slowly I opened my knees. My nipples were already hard, but I tweaked them with my hands to make sure, and welcomed him.

He joined me on the bed, kneeling between my spread legs. His bald spot shone in the glimmer as I felt his tongue slowly circle round and round my nub. He started licking from my hungry cunt upwards. Gently, surely, winding me up. I could feel him inhaling my musk with his nose in my carefully manicured landing strip.

Suddenly ...

Oh! Oh! Oh! Lord of mercy! Oh! Yessssssss!

Piers gave me a screaming climax even better than my besties' daisy-chain ever did. And they were pretty damn good. Let me say this: None of the worthless, forgettable guys I'd fucked in alleys or under streetlights ever — ever — took the time to give me such pleasure.

He surfaced, his goatee soaked with my juices, grinning and breathing deeply.

"Would you care to go again?" Ever the gentleman.

"Please. Please, sir, I want some more!" I cooed in my best Oliver Twist whine.

He gripped his magnificent penis and rubbed its head against my nub, slowly, ever so slowly lighting my fires again. He entered me slowly, admiring my panties in the dim light as he pushed into my slick, pink hole framed in scarlet lace.

"Oh. My. God." he whispered.

It took him almost a minute to get in to the hilt. I could feel every beat of his heart, and as he pulled out inch by inch, plunged in again, pulled out ... I melted as our heartbeats melded into one synchronous throb.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he sped up, thrusting harder and faster. When his balls started slapping wetly against my asshole he began caressing my nub with his thumb. My legs locked together around his waist and suddenly I bucked with the most intense orgasm I'd ever felt — an order of magnitude stronger than the one twenty minutes before.

My cunt embraced his cock and I could feel it milking his load out of him until he was spent and collapsed on top of me as we both laughed hysterically.

What a night! We fell asleep then, but woke up to go at it like bunny rabbits, again and again. The old man had stamina! Again, I silently thanked the Earth Mother for the Pill — I felt I'd have had triplets from the load of semen my cervix was drenched with.

In the morning we showered together — and had a quickie when I leaned against the back of the stall and spread my legs to accommodate his hard rod. The warm water sluiced away his jizz as I caressed myself facing him, and his cock jumped.

By then, though, our aim was coffee and we found a little breakfast bar where no one knew either of us, and we could flirt shamelessly.

Afterwards we had a reluctant kiss, holding hands as we parted slowly till we could no longer touch. It had been quite the memorable night.

For the next two years, we slept together every Friday night, while I completed my business degree. Piers retired then, and I moved to a bigger city to work. I had a few affairs — so did he; we called each other every couple of weeks.

We missed each other terribly, though, and he finally decided to be with me and moved into my place in the city. My work colleagues accepted our May-September romance, and my gal pals from school visited from time to time and even included him in our daisy-chain a couple of times, to his — and their — gratification and satisfaction.