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 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 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 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.
If this were fiction, I’d mention how seductive I was, how he fell victim to my feminine charms, and how he was putty in my hands. The night would culminate in him becoming hypnotized by me, growing hard at my constant innuendo and thinly-veiled flirting. But he was all business. The night, while enjoyable, did not end with his cock thrusting deep inside of me. It ended with me lying on the floor, my fingers thrusting deep inside of me as I pretended, once more, that it was him.
However, Professor Jake did single me out for “special” studies. Three nights per week, I went to his magnificent little bungalow, just off campus, to talk about a future in the literary field. Two weeks into our sessions and I was half-convinced that I should stay in school. The one thing I was totally convinced of was that I wanted him.
Eschewing demure garb, my clothing became more risque and sexual. Plunging necklines, no bra, ever, shorter skirts, and cat-call-inducing makeup became my daily wear. He noticed but ignored it. The boys on campus noticed and did not ignore. In the second week, Jake let drop that his long-time girlfriend and he had split, for good this time. Rather than talk and study, we drank whiskey and cola and I comforted him. Almost nothing happened that night, either, unless you count me going home and finger-fucking myself so hard, deep, and often that my pussy was sore the next morning.
The one thing that did happen is that he changed his attitude towards me after that night. The next day, in class, his eyes roamed all over me, making me drip. The following day, due, in part, to my distressed, thin t-shirt and pointy nipples, he stuttered multiple times as I shifted my body. Somehow, Professor Jake began seeing me as a flesh and blood woman, not merely a student with potential. I had potential though, a sexual potential that I craved to unleash on him.
Dressed to thrill in a short skirt with a slit high enough to let me show my bare pussy, and a tight shirt in black (because he seemed to like it) that molded itself to the contours of my high, pert breasts and hard nipples, and wearing a devilish smile, I sat front and center, ready to take notes as always. We were reading some otherwise-boring treatise on the Greek gods, and Aphrodite kept coming up in the lectures.
Pretending to be lost deep in thought, knee rocking back and forth, I’d spread my legs wide every so often. When he noticed, he had a coughing fit. After that, I looked up, meeting his eye, smiling brazenly. The game had finally begun. Whatever he said after that moment didn’t matter; I saw the bulge. Professor Jake was so shocked at my nudity that he dropped his chalk in front of me and had to bend down to retrieve it. You can guess where he was looking. After that, he retreated behind his podium, staying there, red-faced, throughout the remaining portion of his lecture.
I just sat there at my desk, legs spread wide for his eyes only, a huge smile playing on my lips. I forgot all about taking notes and fellated my pencil for the rest of the lesson. Class was, surprisingly, dismissed early. The students charged for the exits, it being a Friday. I sat in place, staring lust-daggers at him.
“Krystal,” he said to me in a sheepish voice. He had disposed of calling me “Miss Greene” some time ago. “Are you aware that you’re not wearing any panties?”
“Of course I am,” I stated. It was true, after all. “Laundry day. You know how it goes. See you tonight.”
Oops! As I stood up my backpack fell to the floor, spilling the loose contents everywhere. My clumsy self just had to bend over at the waist, sticking one leg way forward to make the skirt ride up and the slit part wide, to retrieve everything. I’m such a klutz.
“Oh,” I cooed to him, noting the impressive bulge in his tight Levi’s. “You don’t mind me wearing this to your place tonight, do you? I have nothing else.” I didn’t wait for an answer. I shook my ass wildly as I left. I had finally penetrated his outer shell; I knew that soon he’d penetrate me.
It took forever for the time to arrive. I did and redid my makeup at least a dozen times, finally settling on trashy-whore-adjacent as my preferred look. What can I say? I was young. For the first time, I didn’t bother knocking; I just opened the door, locked it behind me, and strode on in, calling his name. Professor Jake had been drinking, half-empty glass in hand, looking like bourbon on the rocks.
“Krystal,” he began. “We can’t... We just can’t go on like this. I know what you’re doing…”
“And you like it. At least he does.” I patted his crotch, dropping to my knees.
“Don’t, stop,” he pleaded.
“Okay, I won’t,” I laughed as I unzipped his pants and fished out his hardening member.
“No, you’re a student. Oh God, that feels so good.” His hands grabbed at the back of my head, holding my hair in his fists. His first effort had been to pull my eager mouth off his manhood, followed quickly by surrender, pushing my mouth hard and deep onto his cock.
What I lacked in technique I made up for with my unbridled lust and enthusiasm. Grabbing his backside, noting how his buttocks felt like hard muscle in my hands, I pulled him into my mouth until I gagged. Plunging my mouth up and down his shaft until it was slick with my saliva, I thrust as deeply as I could, my tongue swirling around the base of his hard flesh, my tongue flicking the length as my mouth withdrew.
His initial protests abated, Jake moaned, his hips matching my cadence as he forced his pulsing cock deeper and deeper.
“You dirty little cocksucker. I knew you were a fucking slut. I’ve wanted you all semester.”
News to me! I sucked my way all the way up to the swollen head of his cock, my tongue lancing, dancing, and gyrating over the glans. “Tell me more,” was all I could say before the need to stuff my mouth with his meat washed over me once more.
“You’re just a fucking prick tease, aren’t you?” he continued. His voice was coming in broken sections, interspersed with grunts and moans. “You teased me on purpose, you fucking whore. I’m going to cum. Take it all like a good little girl.”
He fucked my mouth savagely, gagging me to the point of nausea. Still, I kept attacking his pipe with my mouth, lips, and tongue. My reward was shot after shot of steaming-hot cum. His seed was salty, and slightly bitter, and his release sent my body into burning desire.
“Is that what you want you slut? Swallow it, show me why you’re my favorite student.”
I sucked and bobbed on his cock until I had milked every last drop out of it, feeling it grow smaller and limp on my mouth. I tried to suck him back into hardness but Professor Jake grabbed me by the shoulders and violently forced me onto my back. His hands grabbed my knees, shoving my legs open. His mouth bit into the hem of my skirt, and pulled it up, exposing my dripping snatch. His eyes looked at me in savage hunger.
“Your turn, cum for me,” were his lust-riddled words as his hands grabbed my thighs, keeping them spread, his head disappearing between them.
Hard, pointy tongue lashing my clit, punishing it for its passions, and rough, manly fingers parting my velvet curtains, thrusting deeply into me, another finger lightly circling my sphincter, my gushing pussy providing all the lube needed, sent my body into orbit. Pulling up my shirt, tugging on my nipples, my self-abuse matching his lust-filled fury, I arched my back, moaning.
“Yes, Professor Jake, just like that. Fuck my dripping cunt with your fingers. I’m going to cum; please make me cum. Stick that finger in my ass; make me cum harder.”
My orgasm ripped through me like a nuclear explosion. My body flailed about uncontrollably, my mouth screamed out every curse word I knew before it devolved into guttural growls. My thighs locked around his head, pulling him in so hard and deep that I wondered if I was suffocating him. My hips thrust themselves into his mouth as hard as they could, grinding against his jaw, teeth, and mashed lips.
“You love it,” I moaned. “You get off on all the young girls lusting over you, don’t you? That’s why you wear those tight Levi’s. You know as soon as we leave class we’re fucking ourselves, thinking about you. You’re the slut, aren’t you?”
My accusations were answered by seeing his cock immediately thicken and grow. So Professor Jake likes a little verbal abuse, does he?
“Just look at that nice, big cock of yours growing hard. Stroke it for me, make yourself hard so you can fuck me.”
Turning over, getting up on all fours, I shoved my ass into him, my fingers spreading my lips, soaking themselves in a combination of my orgasmic fluids and his saliva. He soon got it hard enough to shove deep inside my dripping cunt. My fingers had brought me close to Nirvana. I didn’t stop fingering my clit as he took me hard and fast from behind.
“You love this, don’t you, you little slut? Tell me you love my cock.”
I played along. “Yes, I love your cock driving hard inside me. Don’t fuck me like a boy, take me like you’re a man. Harder, deeper, faster. Fuck me, you bastard.”
Slamming back into him with every thrust, my hips pumping up and down so that his cock hit every part of my canal, I ground myself on him, fucked him back as hard as he did me. Unable to hold myself up any longer, my arm gave way leaving me ass-up, moaning into the floor.
“Fuck me you beast, make me cum.” My fingers attacked my clit in a blur as the pre-orgasmic waves crashed against my body, growing larger and more powerful with each thrust.
“I’m going to cum; you feel so good,” he announced.
Spinning around, removing myself from his impaling phallus, I positioned myself beneath his cock. My head below his balls, both hands furiously pumping his slick cock, my mouth reached up and sucked on his testicles. Professor Jake moaned obscenities as he unleashed his seed all over my swollen tits and stomach. His ejaculation was so violent that some of it splashed on my thighs. Releasing his sack from my lips, I spun around once more.
“I said ‘make me cum’; now be a good boy and lick me clean.”
Jake hesitated in his post-orgasmic serenity. Since he liked it rough and dirty, I grabbed his shining black hair with one fist and pulled his face into my oozing hole.
“Lick it clean and make me cum, you fucker.” Both of my hands forcibly pulled his face into my crotch. He got the idea.
Professor Jake seemed to get off on dirty, verbal abuse. I called him everything I could think of as he licked me. Although it took much longer this time around, I got him hard once more. A slow, leisurely missionary-position sex session followed.
I left Professor Jake a wet, sticky, drained mess.
Nothing was ever mentioned about our night of nasty, dirty sex. The few remaining classes became a game. I’d flash him and give him lewd gestures and expressions, he’d get all flustered and retreat behind his podium. My Literature 102 class was my only A-grade that semester, not because I fucked my teacher, but because I loved the class and excelled.
Two weeks went by before the semester ended. Although we never got together again, not for discussing my possible academic future or for sex, it is my most fond college memory. Before my second semester ended, I had gotten engaged to my “boyfriend”, Dave, and dropped out of school. Do I miss college? Not really. Do I miss Professor Jake? Sometimes. Even to this day I still have the hots for teachers.
