1 comments/ 35056 views/ 2 favorites The Undergraduate By: bunny bondage He's been staying over here a lot lately. Sleeping in his arms, lounging at his feet, writhing under his hand, I've been so happy and I feel a sense of fulfillment that I never thought was truly possible. He's a teacher at the university, and keeps early hours. My classes start early as well, but being a student, I have considerably fewer obligations. This leads to an early bedtime for him, but I usually stay up for an hour or so reading. For the most part, my reading consists of a good novel or perhaps a story on Literotica, but tonight, I got my hands on something far more interesting. It was poking out of his bag, and I knew instantly what it was. "Field Sketch Pad" it says on the cover, but he keeps a journal in it. I know I'm not supposed to read it, I'm under strict rules to respect his privacy, but honestly, I just couldn't help myself. The journal was in my grip within seconds, and my will-power was nothing more than a dim whisper in a far off distance. I caressed the cover like I was shaking a present. Flipping through the pages, promising myself I'd only skim through it, I happened upon his entry from a few months ago. I suppose the thing that really caught my eye was my name. So, I settled down with an orange soda and a clove cigarette and decided to read it through. January 13, 2003 It's ten twenty pm. I should be sleeping. But erotic desire grows like the shadows that accompany the setting sun. I slept with Sara again this afternoon. Her bed of poppies makes me forget. I easily loose myself in indulgent sensual gratification with her. She stood bent over in front of the mirror. I pulled her panties down. They looked like wilted petals at her feet. She spread and extended her arms to brace herself. I suddenly grabbed my leather belt administering several blows to her tender young thighs and ass. I swung like my mother, in a maenad rage: indiscriminately. Red welts blossomed over her fertile pale flesh. Not exactly the flowers of spring. Somehow I thought that flora endemic only to Bard. She was moist like morning dew. She liked it. The crack of leather against leather and the feel of leather against flesh excited her more than I'd ever experienced. She always says, "To love is to serve" More likely an appropriate epitaph than a paean to sexual liberty. If she weren't getting it from me, she'd be getting it from someone else. After all, everybody's got to get their kink. But maybe I don't want the burden of that kind of confidence, so I unjustly disparage her lifestyle. However, she's safe with me. I know when to stop. It didn't take me long to locate my own journal entry from the same day: January 13, 2003 The handprints on my bedroom mirror catch the lamp-light like low hanging clouds in a blue sky. I can still hardly believe it. My afternoon started out as any other, in the regular way. Japanese class came to an uneventful end and Amber didn't even bother to ask me what I was doing for lunch. She knows me all to well. I caught her disapproving glare as I said goodbye and headed to his office. She of all people should understand what it's like to have a secret wish, someone you fantasize about, long for, but lack the courage to confess. She can understand the intensity of imagined lovers, those who we cherish from a distance, nearly bursting with the desire to share ourselves intimately with them. But she just glares. I vividly remember the fantasy which spawned this unhealthy fascination with my english professor. It was my first day at the university, and I was already feeling miserably lost and small. I didn't know anyone, and the campus was an overwhelming maze. Everybody seemed to know what they were doing except me. So, map in hand, I found my way to my nine o'clock english class. A small group of students were standing outside the doorway. "Is this Mr. Johnson's first semester english?" I asked one of them. "Yeah," replied a girl with short dark hair, "But he's still holding class." Pleased that I was actually early, I was content to wait and passed the time by matching up my schedule with buildings on the cryptic campus map. After about ten minutes, it slowly became clear to us that the class were standing outside of was, in fact, our own. One of the girls tried the door handle, but it stubbornly refused to turn. Our entry barred, she did the only reasonable thing - she knocked. This was my first sight of him. Irritated at the disruption, he opened the door to admit the late-comers, and told us that this was no way to behave in college. "I expect you to be on time from now on" he coldly shot at us. I shivered. Part of me was enraged at being treated with such contempt, but it excited me undeniably. I slunk along the back wall and felt ridiculous as I hopped onto a stack of chairs. He continued explaining the rules of the classroom, emphasizing punctuality, and I was quickly enchanted by his voice. His words moved through my body, pulsed over my skin, and made me imagine what he might sound like in the grips of lust. My imagination took hold of me and ran. "Ms. Connelly," he would say, "I would like you to stay after class so we can discuss your tardiness." I would demurely agree, unable to combat his cool confidence. His large hands would grasp my waist and bend me over his desk, secure in the knowledge that I would offer no resistance. Then this cruel disciplinarian would lift up my skirt, slide down my panties, and administer his punishment. Large palm-prints would appear in red on my now bare skin. My flesh sufficiently warmed, I would hear the distinct sound of unzipping. Lost in this fantasy, I almost failed to notice dismissal. I tried to catch his eye before I left, but he was all business. This is how our relationship had remained for the last two years. He had indulged me in idle conversation, even forming something of a friendship with me. So I dutifully run to his office every day after class, eager to drink in whatever companionship he offers, and today was no different. My boots squished softly in the grass as I tread across the courtyard to the library. The glass doors which claimed to be automatic always kept me waiting too long before allowing access. My hurried footsteps echoed off the tall silent ceiling before bouncing around the sterile walls and coming back to me, promising me that I was almost there. The dull square pattern in the tile floor glinted reluctantly in the fluorescent light. The elevator button clicked pleasantly at me in recognition and a ding introduced a waiting car. The still quiet air was broken only by the comforting hum of an elevator working properly on the long ride up. Another ding announced my arrival at the third floor. Other students were busy at the computer terminals and took no notice of me. They couldn't sense my bubbling excitement, or detect the nervousness in my walk thinly concealed behind a casual composure. The continuous carpeted corridor was lined with shelves of books. "Fun With Whittling" said one cover in an attempt to be enticing, but it had no chance of distracting me. "Engineering Mathematics" said another in small block text, making no attempt to hide its arid nature. "120 days by Marquis de Sade" leered up at me from the desk on which it had been tossed. I rounded the corner and my landmark sleeping student lounged gracelessly in a chair. The zipper on my backpack seemed to make a jingling discordant song as I approached his office door. I could see him through the window, his back turned to me. He was on the phone. I side-stepped the glass to avoid possible discovery, and waited for him to finish. I wanted to listen to his voice, allow it to wash over me and excite me, fill my mind with endless improbable possibilities. I quickly imagined him telling me to undress, to kneel, whispering my name before each command. The click of the receiver being replaced on the hook woke me from daydream, and, calming my breath, I knocked on his door. His face disclosed no emotion as he turned to let me in. We had our usual chit-chat about nothing in particular. He complained about his job and I was glad to listen. His desire to leave the school meant we could rush right to my condo to hang out as we did most afternoons. My feet shuffled foolishly on the carpet as we made our way back out of the library and down to my car. I tried to maintain conversation on the short drive back to my condo, but I always find it so difficult to talk to him. What could I have to say that wouldn't sound completely childish and unimportant? What could he find intriguing about someone ten years his junior? So I tried to make jokes, be witty, talk like a daytime tv show host, speaking without saying anything. I stole glances at him as he sat beside me, so unbearably close to me. But this intense proximity ended as it always does when we pulled into my parking lot and made our way into my little home. I made the usual offers of pasta and snacks. Completely absorbed in verbalizing the inventory of my kitchen, I didn't see him walk up behind me. My heart stopped, my lungs forgot their purpose, and my legs threatened to put me on the floor when he touched me. Large hands on my shoulders gently urged me toward the bedroom. Grasping for my self control through the gnawing confusion of emotion, I relaxed my body and allowed myself to be led. I focused on his movements, became intent on his grip and indicated directions. He stood me before a full length mirror hanging on my bedroom wall above a troop of stuffed penguins who stoically watched guard over my sleep. I couldn't look up, fearful to admit the reality of the situation to myself. Meeting his eyes would surely give him access to all my desires which I kept so carefully hidden. So I gazed numbly at the floor, lost in abashment, awaiting further instruction. His large hand pressed gently on my back, bending me forward. This daydream manifested around me sent me swimming in sensation, unable to think. Instinctively, I reached out to the wall for support and spread my legs, willingly vulnerable. His soft touch on my skin felt like warm milk and I trembled in famishment for him as he slid my panties to the floor. Metal clinking against metal was the unmistakable noise of the thick leather belt being undone. The room was suddenly full with the sharp crack of leather against leather. I waited tentatively, wondering if he somehow knew that pain was the thirst I longed for him to quench. He was quick to answer my suspicions. I jumped at the sudden strike upon my skin, crying out in surprise. Blows continued to fall, each expertly aimed to form a symmetry of welts along my body. Small screams leapt from me each time he introduced the punishment to my flesh, but my body betrayed to him my pleasure, flooding my thighs with evidence of enjoyment. The incessant bite of his belt found me again and again, and I became weak with the elixir of healing hurt. Each spark of searing agony was a point of connection with him. I was lost, no longer aware of my surroundings, my senses used only to feel him and the parts of me he kissed with pain. The soft carpet-muffled clatter alerted me that he had satisfied his hunger for my screams and cast his implement down, but I was too dazed to register what this might mean. It wasn't until I felt his hands on my hips, the sleek, creamy head of his cock, that I realized my pleasure was to be heightened. Slowly he pushed into me, allowing me to savor every second of our joining. I bent over further, my hands clutching at the pile of penguins I had lovingly stacked there, sending them toppling to the floor at our feet, breaking their ranks. Seeking stability, I placed the flats of my palms against the mirror in which he had viewed the effects of his craftsmanship wrought upon my face. I eagerly pushed myself toward him, my body driven by its gratification. I gasped and moaned in rhythm with his movements, giving him my voice, and he educed it from my chest with every thrust. Absolute freedom washed over me as I relinquished all control of myself to him, cumming at his unspoken command. Life flared within me, the flame licking at my body, and I was acutely aware of every part he touched. My knees shook and I fought to keep them under me. My hands clawed smudges into the cold glass and my weakened thighs wanted to fall. My senses abandoned to pleasure, I was only dimly aware of the effort to keep myself in position. I tossed my head and bucked my hips, like a mare battling her trainer. His body finally succumbed to his desire, and with a final powerful drive, he embedded himself deeply within me, filling me with the warm liquor of his felicity. Slowly he withdrew, and I stood, turning shyly, to meet his warm embrace. I collapsed against his chest, panting, sweating, reeling, gladly wrapped in his strong comforting arms. He softly stroked my hair and held me close in reward, and I felt as though I might cry from the sense of release. Content filled me, and I felt wholly satisfied. The Undergraduate When I was 20 years old, I went with my parents to a dinner at the home of my father's college roommate. They hadn't seen each other in close to 10 years and over dinner both my mom and dad, who met as freshmen at Penn State, engaged the old boy in a steady round of college stories. As a sophomore at Penn State myself, all of their antics seemed rather tame to me but it was fun to see my folks having so much fun. The roommate was on his second wife. Just about the same age—well, maybe a few years younger—but markedly different from the other three adults at the table. Her perfume swirled around my nose and from where I sat I had a good angle on her firm, surgically enhanced tits as they strained against the silk fabric of her blouse. Was it my imagination or was she leaning my way on purpose? I'd only lost my virginity a year earlier with a girl in my geology lab who, as I later found out, selected me as the one to lose her virginity with because I seemed the least threatening boy she could imagine going to bed with. Frankly, I was a little offended. But I was also horny and not one to turn down such an opportunity. So we dutifully had safe sex, two strips of condoms at the ready, and went our separate ways. As for my sex life since then, I quickly made up for lost time and liked to think that maybe I was a little more threatening than I had been. One girl, a drunken sorority type I ran into at my frat's end-of-semester bash, told me I had the biggest cock she'd ever seen (and by all accounts she'd seen quite a few). "It turns me on but kinda freaks me out, too, tell the truth. But it turns me on more." She wrapped her delicate and neatly manicured fingers around my shaft. "Freaky. Fuck." She opened her pretty mouth wide and took me in. "Me like," she said happily before taking me deeper. To make sure she felt every inch, I fucked her mouth for a good long time, shot a load into her hairy cunt and, an hour later, fucked her again, this time up the ass, a new experience for both of us. An hour after that she asked for it again—but harder. I now make sure she gets on the fraternity guest list for every party. For some reason the wife who now sat to my immediate right at the round dinner table reminded me of this girl. I couldn't figure it out at first but after about a half an hour, as my parents and the roommate got lost in their memories, I realized it was the way she looked at me. Hungry, like the sorority girl. And like the sorority girl, she was getting drunk. "What are you studying at Penn State?" she asked me out of the blue as the other three launched into another rowdy memory from years ago. "Not sure yet," I answered truthfully. "Business probably. Well, that's what Dad wants but I kind of like history. Maybe I'll minor." "I studied Art," she offered and I immediately thought of Mrs. Robinson from "The Graduate." Remember the scene where Benjamin wants to talk for once, rather than launching right into the sex? Mrs. Robinson reveals that she was studying art when she met her husband and might have continued doing so had she not gotten pregnant. The parallel between Dustin Hoffman's predicament in that movie and the situation I found myself in at present only fueled my fantasy. I wanted this woman and, somehow, I knew she felt the same. "We have dessert. Tiramisu. I made it myself and I don't want to hear anybody saying they're dieting. You are all going to try it," she announced somewhat sloppily, the scotch having clearly made its impact. "Great!" said my dad. His attention immediately went back to his roommate and within seconds they were reliving a water-fight against the Tri-Delts that ended in a boisterous slip and slide party on the lawn in front of Old Main. The wife started to clear the table and, doing my best to hide my erection, I helped. "Hey, honey," said the roommate. "Get it ready but give us a few minutes. I want them to see the pool." "It's November. The pool is empty and covered." "We'll just take a quick look, honey. Get the dessert ready, we'll be back in a flash." And off they went. "A flash, my ass," said the wife. One hand filled with salad bowls, she reached for her scotch but she knocked it over by mistake. "Shit." I started to clean it up but she barked at me, "Leave it. It's good for the wood," a comment that made her squeal with drunken laughter. "Follow me." So, balancing a stack of dinner dishes and silverware, I followed her into the kitchen. Carefully placing everything on the counter by the sink, I saw that she was not exercising similar caution. She literally dumped the bowls into the sink and one of them shattered. "Here, let me get that," I offered but she had other plans. I still had a few dishes in my hand when she made her move. "I gotta see that cock," she said, sinking to her knees and grabbing my crotch. As she unzipped my pants, I played the polite guest and began protesting. "But what if—" "I just gotta see it." She had it out now and was stroking it vigorously. "What if they come back?" "What if they do?" she shrieked. I tried to protest again. "Look, I really think if they—" but that's all I could get out before she took me deep into her mouth. That shut me up. She took spit on my dick then lashed the head with her tongue a few times. She went back to work, taking it so deep that she gagged. But she didn't stop and as turned on as I was, I was also getting panicky. How far away could the pool be? And since it was November in central Pennsylvania, what were they going to do? Go for a swim? "My tits are new. Wanna see them?" She didn't wait for an answer and a second later one of them was in my left hand. The dishes were still in the other. Suddenly, a peal of laughter, sounding perilously close, came from behind the house. "Jesus Christ, they're coming back!" "He loves that fucking pool. They'll be out there for another 20 minutes at least. They have to see the pool house." She put my cock between those luscious lips and sucked like there was no tomorrow. "Hey, kids, let me show you the pool house!" It was her husband's voice coming from the same spot as the laughter had come moments earlier. Conversation continued but was getting farther away from us and I relaxed a bit. "See what I mean?" she said. "There's plenty of time for you to fuck me." She lifted her skirt and pulled a particularly skimpy pair of panties down her legs. She flicked her leg and the panties went flying across the kitchen and dangled on a cabinet knob above the sink. She sat up on the kitchen counter, spread her legs and said, "Show me what you can do, college boy." She was quite a sight, I must say. Her blouse hung open revealing her luscious, man-made cleavage--one of her breasts was visible, draped over the sheer fabric of her skimpy bra. Her hair, so neatly pinned back only moments ago was now a mass of loose strands hanging around the edge of her face, her skirt was jammed up underneath and her wet pussy, the sweet scent of which filled the air, hung out like a flag on the fourth of July. It was shaved clean except for a well-trimmed V tapering off as if to provide directions—insert here. I stared at her for a moment. "You do want to fuck me, don't you?" "Um...yes." "Then come on," she urged, spreading her well-toned legs just a little wider. "Fuck me." I pushed my Dockers to my ankles, reached around her to grab her ass and pulled her towards me hard. "Atta boy!" she said quietly before letting out a low moan of pleasure as I thrust into her. "What a nice big cock," she said as she yanked at my tie. She sunk her head into my shoulder and, before I knew it, was biting my arm hard enough to pierce my shirt. I felt her teeth ripping into my skin. I thrust harder and she moaned again. Lifting her mouth to my ear she whispered, "My cunt is full of cock. My cunt is full of your big hard cock." She suddenly pushed me away violently and knocked a few dishes into the sink. To the sound of breaking glass, she stood up, spun around and leaned over the counter, her ass facing me. She spread her legs again and I slid my cock back in and rammed as hard as I could. I heard some voices outside coming closer but I didn't care now. I fucked that crazy bitch with all I had and with each thrust she whispered, "Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me." They increased in speed and intensity and she pushed back against me, speeding up her mantra—"Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me."—until she reached her peak at which point she stood still and quiet while I continued my assault. All I could hear from her was a slow intake of breath. It felt like it was about to explode into a scream so I instinctively covered her mouth. She bit on my hand hard, again drawing blood. As she did so I felt that delicious tingle in my cock and within seconds I was shooting a load into her juicy and fragrant cunt. "Fill me up, college boy!" And then it was over. Another peal of laughter from outside, much closer now and I heard the sound of a door opening in the next room. I quickly reached down and pulled up my pants as she smoothed out her skirt. She retrieved her panties, took my by the hand, clasped her blouse closed with the other hand and led me into a hallway on the other side of the kitchen. We stepped inside a powder room and both quickly reassembled our clothing. Calmly, she reached into the medicine cabinet and pulled out a tube of ointment and started applying it to my bloody hand. Steps were coming down the hallway and I almost spoke until she gave me a quiet "Shhhhh." A second later, her husband was standing in the doorway of the powder room. "What's up?" "Oh, the college boy cut his hand. I stupidly dropped a few dishes into the sink and they shattered. He started to clean up, got a mean cut on his hand here." She calmly applied the ointment. Suddenly, I could see my mother's face behind the husband in the doorway. "Honey, are you—what happened to your shirt!?" "Uh...I cut my hand in the sink, must have rubbed off on my shirt." "Oh, and that's your very best shirt," lamented my mother. "How about that dessert?" came my father's blustery voice from the hallway. "Smells awfully good in here!" In a happy sing-songy voice, Wifey said, "Coming right up! Why don't you all go in and sit down. College boy and I will bring it in momentarily." My parents promptly followed her instructions. "OK, sweetie pie," said the husband. He slapped her lightly on the ass and walked away. Alone now, she looked up at me with a sly smile and mouthed, "Good boy." I smiled back. She leaned to whisper in my ear, or so I thought. Instead, she swirled her tongue around in my ear slowly and I could feel my cock getting hard again. She reached down with her hand and tickled it lightly. She kissed me on the mouth for the first time, her tongue probing mine for just a second. "Ready for dessert?" she asked. "I'm always ready," I answered. "Good boy."