Hot For the Teacher

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He turned me on to Shakespeare. He turned me on to Oscar Wilde. More than anything, he just turned me on. Hot buns clad in tight Levi’s, loose, open-neck sweaters with artsy patterns in the weave, a shiny shock of curly black hair, and piercing blue eyes offset by his tanned, smooth complexion only heightened his sexiness. Always smiling with perfect teeth, his voice filled with passion, his mind always making you understand and grapple with ideas you’d never conceived, he was sexy, hypnotic, and mesmerizing.Collegiate studies have revealed that more than fifty percent of female students have fantasized about their professors. I was doing everything I could to fit in, be normal, so I happily lumped myself into that statistic. If Chris Sarandon, in the original Fright Night movie, had been a literature professor, he’d have been Professor Jake. His lecture was the last one of my day, the only class I looked forward to attending. I sat up front, close enough that I could stare into those sky-colored eyes, close enough that I could see the outline of his cock in his tight blue jeans.I’d attend his class religiously, then run home to my shitty little run-down, vermin-infested student housing apartment.“Jake, yes, fuck me,” I’d moan as my fingers tore at my aching cunt. “Lick me, just like that. Stick your tongue in my hole,” would escape my heated lips as my fingers found my swollen clit and flicked it into a lusty inferno. Finger-fucking myself until the sloshing sounds of my wetness echoed off the barren walls, pumping myself furiously in my heat, I’d scream his name, tell him that I was cumming, and explode into a sticky, wet mess of pleasure, only to start, anew, before the quakes and spasms of my orgasm had subsided.I’d memorize his lectures and read the assigned literature while Fright Night played on my pathetic, tiny television. Academic interests would be forgotten as soon as the dance-club, vampire seduction scene began. It was not the sexy vampire seducing his quarry; it was Professor Jake seducing me, fingering me on the dance floor, fucking me in front all the club patrons, giving me orgasms beyond my wildest dreams.For eight hours a week, I was his willing, captive slave. I knew that I wouldn’t be returning to school after the next semester; that justified me doing what I did. When you want something bad enough, you’ll find a way to combine tenuous strings of thought and quasi-logic to justify your desires. More than fifty percent of coeds fantasize about their professors. Less than one-quarter of them would act upon those impulses if they could get away with it. I was determined to join that minority. I just had to fuck Professor Jake.My absolutely boring physics class was over at noon, which gave me two hours before I got to see the Prof. I would primp myself for him, hoping to catch his eye. But eye-fucking him didn’t seem to work; heavy makeup had no effect. Shorts bahis siteleri went unnoticed even though I got plenty of spanking offers from the frat boys. Tight shirts? No go. He at least knew me by name; most of the other students were nameless bricks in the wall. I sought engagement with him, debate, general conversation. Still, you always know when somebody is looking at you as a peer or student and when they’re looking at you in lust. I had the former, sought the latter. It was quite by accident that I discovered his Achilles heel.I had had a long night of studying, arguing with my “boyfriend” over something stupid, and hadn’t slept well. With my late-morning classes not in session, I had only my Literature 102 class that day. Unfortunately, I fell asleep, not setting my alarm, and was awakened by a loud peal of thunder, roughly fifteen minutes before class. Seeing the time caused a moment of sheer panic. Jumping out of bed, grabbing only a gauzy, cotton, gypsy skirt and a black t-shirt, feet shoved into ratty tennis shoes, I engaged in a desperate sprint across campus while being pummeled by a deluge of a cloudburst. It was with stringy hair, soaked clothing plastered to my body, and a skirt drenched to translucency that I arrived, dripping wet, and took my normal seat.Professor Jake offered me a handful of paper towels. I wrung myself out as best as I could, but the water permeated me, soaking me to the bone. What’s more, despite it being fall and the weather turning cooler, the drafty room still had the air conditioning running. As my skin dried I grew chilled, nipples poking out beneath the black, cotton shirt that was plastered to my flesh. Rolling up my skirt to keep the cold dampness off my flesh was the only thing staving off hypothermia.It wasn’t my legs, though; it was my nipples protruding from my soaked shirt that did the trick. Professor Jake’s usual eloquent, verbose lecture was interposed with pauses, him tripping over words, and constant lingering stares at my chest. I engaged in the discussion, getting into a mildly heated debate about the sexuality interwoven in the works of Shakespeare, feeling victorious when he no longer looked me in the eyes. I have nice breasts, I’ll admit that. Today they sit high, firm, and round. Twenty years ago, my tits were fucking spectacular. He took note, not only of my supple, young, eighteen-year-old body, but also of how I vehemently defended the sexuality of Shakespeare.I was only thrilled that he noticed me. Being an awkward, timid coed in a sea of brazen, slutty coeds was not an advantage. His eyes roamed over me, heating me to the point of chasing away my chills. His body responded to me, delighting me with a prominent trouser-snake in his tight jeans. The class was over much sooner than I had wanted. The other students, all thirty or so of them, shuffled out hastily. Then he spoke to me in a stern voice.“Miss Greene, may canlı bahis siteleri I see you in my office, please?” His tone was even, level, and almost accusatory. I only nodded, wondering what I had done to incur his wrath.He waited, silently, as the students piled out. Commanding me with an authoritative glance, he turned towards a side exit. I followed, like a dripping little girl; that is called poetic justice. His office, in the sub-basement, down three flights of clanging metal stairs, was little more than a large closet with cinder block walls, painted a lovely shade of industrial yellow. An ancient metal desk, the paint scraped and worn off the corners, dominated the room. There was an old, dark wood office chair behind the desk, mostly masked by piles of papers, folders, and various books, including some Star Trek books. Taking the chair he gestured towards, I waited, feeling like a little girl about to be sentenced to detention, as he cleared a valley between piles of paperwork so we could see each other across the desk.“I don’t usually get involved with my students,” he began. “But I noticed that you…” He paused. “…You haven’t declared a major. Have you considered majoring in literature of some kind? Your insights, for one so young, are inspirational.”I was at a loss for words. Even if I had conceived of some witty retort or anything other than, “Fuck me, now, over your desk,” which was exactly what was screaming in my head, I wouldn’t have been able to speak. He stood up, stripping off his loose sweater, revealing a finely chiseled body molding to his plain white shirt.“Please, take this,” he said, offering it to me. “You seem chilled to the bone.”I nodded and smiled, words still refusing to form. Standing up, turning my back towards him, my soaked shirt was discarded, landing with a wet splosh on the floor that reminded me of the sounds my pussy makes when I’m thrusting my fingers inside me. The sweater was dry, warm, and smelled of fine, manly cologne. It was a good thing my skirt was still slightly wet, because my pussy gushed. Professor Jake stared at me, blushing slightly but not averting his eyes.Finally, words came to me. “I hadn’t thought about a major yet. But I’d like some long, deep, lasting talk about it.” Did I really just say that aloud? “Perhaps if somebody could tell me about it, I might get really into it. You know, throw myself into it with wild abandon.”He paused, looking me over with an openly-pleased appraisal. “Your term final paper was excellent. Your grammar is atrocious, but your prose is quite excellent, engaging.”“Thank you,” I blurted out, my rebellious hands reaching out to touch his arm. “So lay it on me.”“I, ah, cannot right now. Classes. I’m free most evenings, what works for you?”Anytime! “I have no social life, how about tonight?” I completely failed at not sounding giddy.“That works,” he said after looking pensive. “Meet canlı bahis at The Seafarer at say, seven, seven-thirty?”I knew of the restaurant. It was an appropriately-named seafood restaurant that catered to grad students and the faculty. Most of the younger crowd didn’t go there, as it was mellow, laid back, and pricey. “I can’t afford that place, my budget doesn’t even allow McDonald’s.”“My treat,” he said with that smile of his. Ever since that moment, I’ve had a weakness for confident men with pussy-drenching smiles.“Yes, sir,” I nodded. “Seven O’clock.”“Call me Jake.”He opened the door for me in a very gentlemanly way, making my knees grow weak, and drenching my thighs. I ran home from there; luckily the rain had stopped.My back against the door, I was so turned on that I ripped my skirt off my body. That ignited a fantasy of him so enthralled with me that he couldn’t restrain himself. “His” hands forced me down, pulling up the sweater. He forced my thighs apart, telling me how I was so much of a tease, such a fucking slut, that he knew I was teasing him intentionally. My fingers were his huge cock, hard and shiny, forcing itself into me with one thrust. My moans were my own. Hard, fast, deep, and making sure to abuse my swollen nipples, he told me that this was punishment for flashing him.Bending me over, taking me hard from behind, “his” hand slapped my ass, reddening my pale skin with every delicious slap. I was lectured that if I ever flashed him my flesh once more that he’d put his tongue in my tail. I begged him to do it now. My finger, a surrogate for his, plunged into my ass, causing me to moan and gyrate, thrusting my hips. My orgasm possessed me. Had I not already been on my knees, my legs would have buckled.The rest of my day was spent fussing over what to wear. Professor Jake’s eyes were riveted to my nipples, so I needed something to show them off. My “who needs tits with an ass like this?” shirt was considered, discarded. I ended up choosing a subdued green, scoop-neck top that showed off just enough cleavage to be enticing without making it obvious that I wanted him to look. To draw attention to the valley of delight between my breasts, I wore a pentagram pendant on a black leather cord, a gift from my mother. My wispy, gypsy skirt covered my lower half nicely.Every passing minute counted, I walked across campus, off campus, to the Seafarer. I was all jitters, inside and out. Arriving early in my eager haste, I forced myself to not enter until I saw him arrive and walk inside. Dressed in pleated dress pants and a sexy, light button-down, he looked amazing; I felt frumpy. Seeing him seated, I vowed to wait a few more minutes. The second-hand ticked slowly, each gradient an eternity apart.Reminding myself that he was a grown man, used to coeds offering themselves to him, not an inexperienced, horny boy, I was determined to act demure and mature, and to play hard-to-get. Those plans lasted all of ten seconds. As soon as he smiled at me, my body alerted me that I was in a primal state. Pussy gushing, nipples standing up proudly, tripping over my seat, I made an absolute fool of myself.

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