The Professor Ch. 01

THE PROFESSOR

They say all nerds suck in bed. I am proof that this is not true. I'm a senior professor of mathematics, and I still have a libido that doesn't shame a young guy. In fact, it might even make some young guys ashamed of themselves. My favorite thing is math and probabilistic processes, and the second thing is sex. Strange as it may sound, it was my sexual need, and not that I'm a nerd, that caused my wife to leave me about ten years ago. When we were younger, we would intercourse at every opportunity, but by the time she turned 40, she couldn't handle the load anymore. "It's too much for me," she said. "Control yourself!"

Imagine what those around me thought of me -- a man whose wife was leaving him from one day to the next? Come on. And so I found myself at the age of 53, with a constant erection as hard as a stone, the ability to have sex twice a day, the stamina to hold myself for almost an hour before I cum; And without a wife.

A female colleague of mine once told me that even when I speak math, I convey sexual promise. Maybe that's why female students always try to flirt with me, only the strict laws in place today in the United States prevent me from implementing this sexual promise with female students. That's why I limit myself to colleagues, neighbors, and women I meet at the mall, and unfortunately, it's really not enough for me.

I live in a pretty big house in Livingstone, with a nice front yard and a not very big backyard. The house in my back belongs to a colleague of mine, Professor Vincent Miller, an associate professor of mathematics at the same university as me, a close friend and avid admirer. He was my son's supervisor in a dissertation he wrote in operations research, and once told him I was the greatest mathematician he knows. Between the two houses there is a fence, which is more a wooden railing with no difficulty to move over. About 15 years ago, the carpenter who built our fence convinced us to build a wooden Gazebo in our backyard. Ours was in one corner of the fence/railing and the Millers' at the other. In retrospect, it turned out to be a great decision. I love the Gazebo and prefer to work in it rather than in my study, so I put a small, simple wooden table, with Formica coating, in it, which serves me to write. The Millers rarely use their Gazebo.

By the way, my name is Prof. Willie Wyatt. I have three kids: the eldest, Bill (27), is a lawyer and lives in Washington, DC; a daughter named Becky (25) who is a CPA and lives in New York; and the youngest son, Ben (23), a genius mathematician who is doing a postdoc at North-Western University in Chicago. Years after Wendy left me, she told the children the reason, which caused serious disagreement between the children. Bill, who was already a lawyer, thought she had breached her duty as a wife, and if she thought life with me wasn't right for her, she should have filed for divorce and not just leave. On the other hand, Ben thought I was a pervert. "Every day? At that age? Does he have anything else in his head besides sex?" he claimed. "Math?" replied Becky sarcastically. "And I heard he is very good at it." In short, she thought that if their mother couldn't handle the load, she should have allowed me to lay down with other women...

Despite my close relationship with Vincent, there is not much connection between the families. The reason for this is Vincent's wife, Carla, who for some reason was hostile to me. The Millers always seemed to be a happy family, until one day, Vincent committed suicide. No one understood why. Some assumed it was something to do with family, others claimed he had a malignant disease, possibly cancer, some thought he might have gotten into trouble with questionable loans, and some thought something had exploded in his brain. I didn't know what to think. I knew he wasn't sick and hadn't taken any loans on the grey market. On the other hand, I knew that in recent weeks he had been working on a very complex probabilistic process and I saw him go crazy before my eyes. But do people really commit suicide because of it?

*****

People tend to look for the guilty in any unpleasant situation, especially in a tragic story like suicide. You probably know this, "If you knew, why didn't you tell?" So, I decided not to say a word about the mathematical problem Vincent was dealing with before his death. At the same time, I decided to finish what he started and dedicate the article to his memory.

I put on my black suit, grabbed a tray of pastries I'd bought at a deli in Newark, and walked to Vincent's house to offer my condolences. I could, of course, have jumped over the back fence, but imagine someone sees me, the rumors that would spread would place all the blame for his suicide on me and his wife... So, I did the whole round on foot.

Vincent's front was crowded with cars, parking on every possible spot, and even in the front yards of the nearby houses. As soon as I entered, I was greeted by his eldest daughter, Nellie, who took the tray of pastries from me and marked her mother's general location. The house was packed, and by the time I managed to reach Carla, I had rubbed against no less than four women's asses, and my erection was already visible. I found Carla talking to a neighbor across the street. She greeted me with a serious face, and her eyes immediately wandered toward the bulge on the front of my pants. An expression of displeasure and disgust appeared on her face.

To my best knowledge, Carla was born in Guatemala. She had skin in a shade between caramel and so-called 'dark vanilla', though when it comes to shades, you can't trust me. She had the look of a 'soft woman' and, as is often the case with overweight women, a face that looked much younger than her age. I tried to control my erection, but Carla was very delicately made up and looked so soft and young, that I didn't quite succeed in. I pecked on her cheek, said some nice things about Vincent, and escaped towards one of the tables around the walls.

"She's a very pretty woman," I heard a voice beside me. I turned around and saw Dr. Sarah Burke, a young researcher in our department who had done her dissertation under my guidance and loved to talk about math problems during intercourse.

"Who? Carla?" I made a stupid play. "Yes, she looks very young."

"Stop making plays," she whispered, "your pants give you away."

"It's not because of her," I said, "it's because of the crowdedness here. Someone should have told all these women that this is a mourning, not a wedding."

Unlike "all these women," and as usual it should be said, Sarah was dressed in jeans and a knit shirt. She rubbed her breasts against my arm and said, "It is really very dense here. I don't think anyone will notice if we'll gone for half an hour."

Sarah was married. Her husband was some high-tech geek, whom she met when they were students. I've only met him once, at their wedding, and that's a good thing, because Sarah and I have a long sexual history that started right back when she returned to university after finishing her postdoc at Coronel. Back then, she just walked into my office and announced that she is no longer my student, and I no longer have a wife, so there's no reason why we shouldn't move our math discussions to bed. I didn't see any reason not to do so either.

At that moment, Vincent's youngest daughter, Nicole, came up to us, smiled and said, "Thank you for coming. Dad really appreciated you."

Unlike her sisters who took on Carla's Latino look, Nicole had white skin, so smooth and perfect that it looked like the surface of a bowl of milk. Also, unlike her sisters, whom I barely saw, Nicole spent a lot of time in the backyard, playing with their amazing Siberian Husky dog.

"I really appreciated your father too," I said. "In fact, just a few weeks ago, at a meeting of the department's senior faculty, I recommended making him a senior professor."

"I know. He talked a lot about you being his best friend at university."

I introduced her to Sarah, and we continued talking for a few more minutes, until Wendy, my wife, accompanied by Becky, our daughter, joined us. As always, before she even looked into my eyes, Wendy glanced at my pants. Luckily, I no longer had an erection.

"Hey, Daddy," Becky said, kissing me on the cheek.

"I'm glad you've calmed down," my wife whispered instead of "hello."

Unlike Carla, Wendy is truly beautiful. She is fair with straight blonde hair that spills like a waterfall over her shoulders, big blue eyes, a narrow figure, and full chest. When she dressed elegantly, there was no man who could resist her.

"I think Mom wants to come back home," Becky laughed. Becky was tall, almost my height, and long-legged. She had light brown hair, like me, and thus ending all the resemblance between us. From her mother she got her blue eyes, abundant chest and athletic body. I was just a nerd -- did I already say that? -- that my only favorite sport took place between the sheets. Wendy was very pretty, but Becky was much more attractive.

"Oh, please, give me a break. Let's see you deal with that sex maniac," Wendy said.

"Mmm..." Becky said, sending me a wink. Luckily, Sarah immediately grasped the situation and pulled Nicole away.

"Yes, yes, great heroine," Wendy said. "After a week with him, you'll talk differently."

"I'm willing to try," Becky said. "Dad, do you know Mom lives now with someone ten years her junior?"

"So, I probably wasn't enough for her," I said. "Why didn't you ever say something, Wendy? We could have added another man."

"Mmm..." Becky said again.

"You... You both..." Wendy said and walked away.

Becky burst out laughing softly, kissed me on the cheek again, and said, "I have to look after her. I think there are some men here who would love to devour her." And with that she followed her mother.

*****

True to my decision, two weeks later I knocked on the Millers' door. Carla opened the door and looked at me as if some serial rapist was in the doorway.

"Hello, Mrs. Miller," I said. "I would love to review Vincent's professional materials. I thought about maybe finishing the works he didn't manage to finish and publishing them in his memory."

Like many of us, since COVID-19, Vincent and I have worked more from home, reducing our attendance at the university to the bare minimum. So, I assumed that all of Vincent's drafts would be in his study at home.

She didn't say a word, not even a 'hello'. She turned on her heels and called Nicole. "Show Professor Wyatt Daddy's study," she said and left.

Nicole gave me an encouraging smile and walked toward the interior of the house. I followed her, my gaze fixed on her wide backside and butt that skipped with every step she took. Nellie and Talia, Carla's eldest daughters, did get their mother's Latino look, but not her broad figure. They were narrow-shouldered and slim. Nicole, on the other hand, accepted her father's Caucasian look, but her figure was as broad as her mother's. Only she was really thin and had a relatively small chest, compared to Carla's very full bust.

As we entered the study, Nicole whispered, "I think Mom is a little in love with you."

"What? With me?" I was shocked. "She keeps looking at me like I'm some street cat that sneaked into the house."

"It's because she's embarrassed," Nicole said. "Still, you were Daddy's best friend."

She went and left me sitting stunned in Vincent's executive chair. For the first few minutes I didn't do anything. I just sat and thought about Carla -- what would she look like without clothes? How would it feel to crush her huge, soft breasts? I imagined her smooth face contorting with desire, and her body writhing under mine. Finally, I got myself together and started working.

I found at least four unfinished works, one of which looked like the one that led to my friend's demise. It turned out that Vincent, like me, preferred to develop handwritten formulas on paper. It's faster than typing formulas on a computer, and allowing thoughts to flow out more freely. The amount of draft pages and the amount of deletions in this work indicated, like a thousand witnesses, that this was the work that drove him insane.

I gathered all the material I found, thanked Carla and smiled at Nicole, who returned me a bright smile, and left.

*****

Vincent seems to have attacked the problem in a very orderly manner, at first. There were at least five directions of thought written neatly and cleanly. Apparently, however, at some point he was locked into one solution that seemed very intuitive, but he had trouble expressing his intuition using mathematical tools. I put this path aside -- if Vincent couldn't get anywhere with it, I probably wouldn't either.

Contrary to my habit, I did not work on Vincent's material at Gazebo nor in my study, but in the living room, on the wide table. Vincent left a lot of material, and I needed space to lay out all his drafts neatly. After Wendy and the kids left the house, the whole of it was left just for me and I could spread out on the table without interruption. From the living room, I looked out over the backyard and my gaze wandered from the clear sky to the Husky dog, sunbathing in the yard, and back to the Gazebo, ours and the Miller family's. At some point, it dawned on me that Carla had been spending a lot of time at their Gazebo lately. Probably a loner in her grief.

After a while, I began to feel uncomfortable with Carla's seclusion in the backyard. Despair? Depression? A grave fear that Carla was deteriorating following the loss crept into my heart. I went up to the second floor and peered out the nursery window at the Millers' Gazebo. What I saw made me stop breathing -- Carla was sitting there with her back to my house, her skirt rolled up to her waist and her hand moving frantically between her legs.

What? Doesn't she have a bedroom? Why do it in the yard? I wondered to myself. But then I remembered that Vincent had often claimed that they had no privacy in a bedroom. On the one hand, their children were careful not to disturb them in the bedroom in the evening and at night, but on the other hand, during the day, they burst into the room without bothering to knock on the door. A matter of education.

I looked at her, her head lying back, her legs spread, and her hand, sometimes both hands, busy with self-satisfaction. My erection roused powerfully, and the imaginary images of Carla's naked body took over my mind. I decided it was time to do something about it.

I started working in the living room with the door to the yard open. It wasn't comfortable, it's also quite cold, but if Carla can sit in this cold with bare thighs, I can work with an open door too. For a few days nothing happened, until one day I saw Carla sneak into Gazebo, pull on her skirt and start masturbating. I waited for her to get into it hard enough, and then quietly went out into the yard and snuck up to her.

I leaned against the railing behind her and said in the most empathetic voice I could muster, "It's very hard when you're left alone. I know."

Carla jumped up and pulled her skirt to her feet. "What are you doing here?" she blurted out without thinking.

"Carla, enough with that," I said. "Let me help you."

Her lips trembled soundlessly, as if she wanted to say one thing, but her heart wouldn't let her do it. I held out my hand to her and said, "Come, I'll help you cross the fence. At my home, no one will bother us."

She hesitated for a few more moments and finally held out her hand. I helped her cross the fence and we went inside. Their house was a replica of ours, so she knew the way to the bedroom. She walked in front of me with unsteady legs. On the stairs, her wide, full butt was almost in front of my face, and I reached out and stroked it. Almost immediately she lost her balance. I supported her in her butt and helped her stabilize.

The supportive touch on her butt was unbelievably arousing. She had a full butt, soft and so hot that even through her skirt you could feel the warmth coming from it. She didn't respond, and I continued stroking her soft butt all the way to the bedroom. She's going to be a great fuck.

We got to the bedroom, and she rolled up the hem of her skirt and lay on her back with her legs spread. No foreplay. I assumed she was excited and didn't want to annoy her, so I rolled up my pants and got on top of her. She was very wet, and I penetrated her without any difficulty. A long sigh escaped her mouth. I kissed her on the lips, and she didn't comply, and then I started fucking her in slow movements. She sighed again in a subdued voice.

I kept the pace slow, and she kept moaning quietly. Her eyes were closed, and I was sure she was imagining Vincent fucking her, so I stopped. She opened her eyes in surprise. I leaned over and kissed her again, and again she didn't comply. I crushed her full breast through her T-shirt, and she moaned again and shook her loins at me as if to say, "Keep fucking."

I continued to fuck her slowly, crushing a soft, full breast in my palm. I sneaked my hand under her loose shirt and crushed her breast again, this time with only her bra separating us. She didn't object, so I slipped my palm into her bra. Her warm tit filled it. I played with her nipple and crushed the fleshy areolae that surrounded it, while continuing to fuck her. Her moans became a little louder and she gasped hard. I leaned over again, this time while fucking her, and kissed her softly. This time her lips parted slightly, allowing my tongue to penetrate her mouth, but she still didn't respond.

Suddenly her legs began to tremble, her loins rose against me with each penetration and her moans turned into deep guttural moans. She pulled her mouth from mine, her lips trembling, and truncated clarifications rose from her throat. She opened her eyes and stared at me pleadingly. I realized she wanted to cum.

I increased the pace and intensity, and she began to squirm beneath me. Her body arched back, and her moans became more interrupted. A moment later she cummed, her whole body twitching and strong waves washing over it. I could feel the powerful waves, even through the clothes we were wearing.

She lay back trying to catch her breath. In a moment she'll push me away, looking at me with her look of disgust. I wasn't going to wait for that to happen. I continued to fuck her with small movements. She opened her eyes in surprise, and I smiled at her and kissed her softly again. Her lips parted again, but she didn't cooperate. I kissed her hard, and continued to play with her warm breast and fucked her with gentle movements.

Suddenly, she shook herself off, as if waking up from a dream, and tried to push me away. "Well done, you got what you wanted." She said in a cold voice. "You fucked your best friend's wife. Now leave me alone."

"Is that what you think I wanted?" I asked as I continued to fuck her. "Have you thought about the possibility that I might have been trying to take care of my best friend's wife?"

"Is that what you're telling yourself?" she asked, pushing me away.

It was two days before I saw her masturbating at Gazebo again. I went out to the yard and held out my hand to her. "Come, I'll help you cross the fence," I said.

She held out her hand in silence and crossed the fence. Once again, she stepped in front of me, and I took the opportunity to caress her soft butt. We went up to the bedroom and like the last time she just rolled up the hem of her skirt and lay on her back with her legs spread. I got on top of her and fucked her with slow movements. I decided that this time I wouldn't let her dictate the pace, even if she begged.

I tried to kiss her, and she turned her head sharply to the side. I didn't insist. She was soft and warm, and her breasts were so pleasant to the touch I couldn't stop squishing them. At least that's she let me do. I looked at the concentrated expression that rested on her face, which looked so young and smooth. It was clear that she wanted to cum so she concentrated on the sensations that washed over her crotch. Her loins came up to me again with every thrust, and she sighed quietly. Her lips moved soundlessly, trying to express something she didn't dare say out loud, and her soft thighs pressed against mine. I reached back, grabbed her warm, soft thigh and crushed it gently, her loins responding with quick, jerky movements.