2 comments/ 11504 views/ 3 favorites Lecturer By: oggbashan Copyright Oggbashan January 2015. The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons. Thank you to naokosmith for academic advice. ************************************************* I read the letter again. How many times had I read it? It still didn't make sense. The main paragraph says: 'The Vice-Chancellor and the President of the Students' Union request your attendance in the Senate Hall at 11 am on 1 April. Your attendance is considered essential.' I could understand either The Vice-Chancellor or the President of the Students' Union wanting to speak to me. This term I had been trying to cover lectures for my senior colleague who had suffered a heart attack over Christmas. My students have been sympathetic but I think I have failed to be as effective in both roles as I ought to have been. My excuse? Two broken legs. Against my better judgement my husband Ian had persuaded me to go on a skiing holiday to Aviemore, with beginners' tuition included in the package. On my second day, while lining up with the other complete novices, an out-of-control advanced student had crashed into me, breaking both my legs below the knee. Even he hadn't been wholly to blame. He had been knocked off-course by an incompetent snowboarder who shouldn't have been anywhere near the novices. The snowboarder had lost control higher up the slope when he had hit an errant ball of ice. All the costs, including loss of earnings, were covered by insurance but nothing compensated for the pain in my legs as they healed slowly. Since the accident I had been living in a wheelchair loaned by the local Red Cross branch. They told me I was lucky. It was the only serviceable wheelchair they had, and had just been returned the previous day. They originally had three wheelchairs but two had been declared unsafe and beyond repair. I had decided to try to raise money for replacement wheelchairs, with the help of my students. They had been great but were getting me into trouble with the university authorities. Even before their fundraising I was embarrassed by my students. The campus is hilly in places and I couldn't propel my wheelchair on my own. The Rugby and Lacrosse Clubs had decided to help me. Everywhere I went I had an escort -- at least one rugby player for brawn, and one or two lacrosse players to assist me if I needed the toilet. Of course I kissed them to say 'thank you' whenever the shift changed. But the Vice-Chancellor's Secretary quietly warned me that I was engaging in 'inappropriate sexual behaviour with students' even though I'm old enough to be their mother. They tended to kiss me anyway. Their fundraising idea? The Student Union had decided on sponsored kissing. They had made small lapel badges marked 'Kiss'. Any student wearing one on campus would kiss another student for a donation of one pound to the wheelchair fund. The badge wearer could decline but every refusal when wearing the badge cost a pound. The students accepted the idea so quickly and so enthusiastically that the badges were everywhere. It hadn't been my idea but I was getting the blame for indiscriminate kissing all over the campus. Ian had bought a cheap wheelchair-accessible adapted van. It was a wreck but had a current road worthiness certificate of dubious origin. At the start of my day he would drive me to the campus, unload me and wheelchair down the folding ramp, and collect me again at the end of the day. The engineering students hadn't been impressed with that van. The environmental and political students hated it. It spewed oil smoke and struggled on the hills. It was neither green nor efficient. They got together as a group, had borrowed the keys from Ian every day for a week and worked on it, returning it at the end of each day. It would have been much easier for them to have it for several uninterrupted days but they managed. When they had finished with it the engine purred contentedly with no oil smoke, the brakes worked properly and the rust holes had disappeared. It almost looked respectable and it did have a new, genuine, road-worthiness certificate. Of course I had to kiss them too. How else could I thank them? Now I had been summoned to appear before the Vice-Chancellor and the President of the Students' Union. Would I receive a reprimand for inappropriate sexual behaviour? If it had just been the Vice-Chancellor, I would be sure that was what would happen. I hoped that my many years' service to the University would be considered in mitigation. But the Vice-Chancellor AND the President? That didn't make sense. If it had been the President of the Students' Union, on April 1st, I would expect an April Fool set up. But not with the Vice-Chancellor present as well. He would be unlikely to approve of or participate in an April Fool against one of the University's Senior Lecturers. I folded the letter up and put it back in its envelope. I had replied, confirming that I would attend, the day I had received it. Today is 1st April and I will know the worst. I reached for my crutches. I could move around the house on them but I couldn't get around the hills of the campus on crutches. Carefully I swung myself to the front door. Ian was waiting with the wheelchair. He held me as I lowered myself. "Ready, Angela?" he asked. "Yes, Ian, but..." Ian kissed me. "I know. Your hospital appointment isn't until next week. Then you'll know when the plaster can come off." "I itch so much inside and I think I've got very hairy legs. But my 'but' wasn't for that. It's for the summons to the Senate House. I'm worried, Ian." "You shouldn't be, Angela. The University values you. Your students do well and your high Student Feedback scores are what really matter. Even if they think you have kissed or been kissed by too many students, they shouldn't worry. It's a sign of your popularity. If I had been kissing so many students -- I would be in deep shit. But not you." "I wish I was as sure as you are." "You have a more immediate problem. Your escorts this morning. What are you going to do with them?" "Julian and Evelyn? I'd like to bash their heads together. No. I wouldn't. They're nice kids, just confused and mixed up. The Rugby and Lacrosse clubs keep scheduling them together. Julian and Evelyn don't know why but it is obvious to anyone else. They love each other but think they might be gay, so behave like opposing magnets. Silly kids! Even the student LGBT community has tried to sort them out. They're not gay. They're just shy." I stopped talking as Ian unfolded the ramp and pushed me up into the back of the van. He clamped the wheelchair in place, shut the rear doors, and climbed into the driver's seat. "Ready, Angela? Your usual chauffeur will drive you carefully to your appointment with destiny, or rather with the Vice-Chancellor and President." "I don't feel that it's a joking matter, Ian. I am really worried." Ian turned his head. "I shouldn't tell you, because the whole thing is supposed to be a deep secret, Angela. What I can say is -- you have no reason to be worried." "You're sure?" "Yes." A statement like that from Ian was definite. He knows me too well. As he drove slowly towards the University campus I started to relax. I was still concerned but less worried. What should I do about Julian and Evelyn? I had an idea. I searched in my handbag. Yes. I had what I needed. I would be ready for them. Ian parked in my reserved parking space. It was only temporarily mine because of my current disability. Only those staff with appropriate senior status had a named parking space. Julian and Evelyn were waiting for me, standing a couple of yards apart, not looking at each other. Julian helped Ian to unload me and the wheelchair. Julian and Evelyn moved behind me. Ian walked away towards his office. "Julian? Please put the brake on." I asked. He did. "Can you two come round so I can see you, please?" They did, looking puzzled. "You know that today is the First of April?" Evelyn nodded. Julian was still puzzled. I reached into my handbag and pulled out three items. "Evelyn? Please pin this on Julian." I gave her a 'Kiss' badge. Awkwardly, trying not to look at him, she pinned it to Julian's jacket lapel. "Julian? Please pin this on Evelyn." I gave him the other 'Kiss' badge. "I couldn't, Angela. Honestly, I couldn't." Julian protested. Evelyn had realised what I was up to. She didn't like it but she played along. "You can, Julian." She said. "It won't hurt if you are careful." Julian was embarrassed. He pinned the badge to the University scarf Evelyn was wearing. "Now..." I held up a two-pound coin. "This is payment for two kisses, one from each of you. Not for me, but for you two. It is April Fools' Day so you are going to show me you are NOT fools. Get on with it. Kiss each other." They were embarrassed. Evelyn moved first. She stood in front of Julian and lifted her face towards him. He paled visibly. She placed her hands either side of his head. "We ARE fools, Julian. This fool is going to obey Angela's order. So are you." Evelyn pulled Julian's head downwards until their lips met. I could see that Julian was resisting but actually kissing Evelyn seemed to have worked. His arms flapped at his sides before slowly they wrapped around Evelyn's waist. They were kissing properly. Evelyn's hands let go Julian's head. Her arms held his shoulders. They held that position for several minutes as I watched approvingly. When they broke from the kiss they were still holding each other. "That's one," I hinted. Julian initiated the next one and Evelyn responded enthusiastically this time. They were short of breath when they finished. I gave the two-pound coin to Evelyn. "To go in the Red Cross tin," I said. Evelyn put it in the tin hanging at the back of my wheelchair. "I didn't bring any money," Julian said sadly. "Then take the badges off," I suggested, "and kiss each other for free." "Could I?" Julian asked. He was looking at Evelyn, not me. "Yes, Julian, we can." Evelyn answered. They did. I had to interrupt them or I would have been late at the Senate House. They took each other's badge off. My pushers were using one hand each, with the other arm wrapped around a waist. Ian was waiting for me at the Senate House. He looked at the entwined couple behind me and winked at me. "OK, Angela. Show time." Ian said. Julian and Evelyn wheeled me through the doors held open by Ian. I gasped. There was a crowd of students seated facing the dais. They stood and clapped as I entered. I was embarrassed. I know I was blushing. I hadn't expected that. Ian helped the others to push me up the temporary ramp. They positioned me in the centre between chairs for the Vice-Chancellor and President who were standing to greet me. There was a lectern to one side with some papers on it. Both of them kissed me, then each handed a one pound coin to Ian. He dropped them in the Red Cross tin. Julian and Evelyn walked down the ramp to sit in reserved seats in the front row. Ian followed them, leaving me alone. I felt isolated. The President of Students' Union went to the lectern. She picked up the radio microphone and held up her hand for silence. Then she turned to look at me. "Doctor Angela Thomas," she started, "thank you for coming this morning. The Students' Union has asked me to express our thanks for covering lectures during the absence of Professor Jenkins, despite your accident. If that were all I had to say, this assembly wouldn't have been necessary. But..." She paused. "...you have also encouraged us to support the local Red Cross Branch in their attempt to replace wheelchairs. Although I know that the idea of students kissing each other wasn't yours, you have been blamed for it. As far as the Students' Union is concerned, you deserve thanks, not blame. Apart from raising money, the campaign has met with enthusiastic support because it encouraged friendly relations between students studying different disciplines..." There were several cries of 'Hear, Hear' from the floor and about thirty seconds of clapping. The President waited until the audience were quiet again. "That interaction has helped not just socially but also academically, widening the cross-discipline interaction to the benefit of the University as a whole. You probably don't know, but last week we were told that three recent funding proposals for research have been approved because they were inter-disciplinary. That would not have happened without the one pound kissing. The amounts generated?" She turned to the Vice-Chancellor who nodded. "Are already more than one million pounds. There are several more inter-disciplinary projects being devised now and we expect most to be approved." She had to stop. The clapping had started again. "Yet the idea was to raise money for the local Red Cross. That has happened too. As of today, the University's Red Cross fund for wheelchairs stands at three thousand and twelve pounds." This time there were cheers as well as the clapping. "The Red Cross chairs have to stand hard use so are not cheap. The normal price for one like yours would be about four hundred pounds each. One of our committee, a business student, working with the Red Cross committee, has managed to source the appropriate chairs at a discount and with matched sponsorship. From the money this Student body has raised, only one hundred and fifty pounds was needed for each wheelchair." More applause. "Even our Arts Students ought to be able to calculate that as twenty wheelchairs. That is more than the county's need for patient or carer propelled chairs, so we agreed that the bulk of the money would be used for two electric powered chairs at eight hundred pounds each, one for this Red Cross branch, and the other for the next branch. The normal wheelchairs will be provided as well, together with two bath hoists. Yet we haven't finished raising money yet. We are going on, and on -- to the end of this University year. There will be much more indiscriminate kissing on campus." Cheers stopped her speech. "We are raising money now for specialist disability equipment to be loaned by the Red Cross branches. If we haven't met the Red Cross's needs by the end of this academic year, I'm sure next year's students will carry on kissing." This time there was laughter with the cheers. "I've nearly finished. Thank you, Doctor Angela Thomas. As a tribute to you, and as thanks to our dedicated fund-raising students, at the end of this meeting kisses will be free until we leave the Senate House." The students stood up, clapped, stamped their feet, and many took advantage of the free kissing offer. The President walked back to her seat, passing the microphone to the Vice-Chancellor. The Vice-Chancellor stood up, waited for some order, waved his hands several times to suggest that the students sat down, before he moved to the lectern and picked up the papers. "Thank you, Madam President," he started. "and thank you, Angela, and the Student Body for your fund-raising which are in the best traditions of this University even if..." The Vice-Chancellor took off his glasses and mock-glared at the students. "...some people take advantage and get more than their one-pound's worth." There were more cheers and laughter. "As your President said, the financial benefits of cross-disciplinary interaction..." He pursued his lips in mock disapproval. "...even if some of that interaction has been, shall we say, indiscriminate... the financial benefits are already substantial and look as if they will continue into next financial year as well. That helps the students, the academic body and delights the Bursar poring over his spreadsheet. But I have to share some sad news with you, and some very good news." The Vice-Chancellor looked serious. "As you are aware, Professor Jenkins has been on sick leave since the start of this calendar year. Despite her temporary disability, Doctor Thomas has been covering his lectures so that his students are not disadvantaged. Unfortunately Professor Jenkins has been advised to reduce his activities. He is expected to recover to be able to lead a normal life, but not quickly enough to resume his duties at the University before the end of this Academic year. I know you will wish him well for an early recovery. Professor Jenkins has reluctantly decided to give up his major teaching roles. Now that we have more research funding he has accepted the role of Professor Emeritus from the start of next term. He will spend much of his time on research but expects to be able to deliver several lectures a term next year. Apart from expressing his thanks to the University Senate, Professor Jenkins had a final request to make. The Senate was delighted to comply with that request. What was it?" He paused. The students waited. I waited. The Vice-Chancellor winked at the audience before turning directly towards me. "Professor Jenkins asked that Doctor Angela Thomas should be put forward for promotion to Reader and take up his teaching duties from now. The hall erupted. They clapped, cheered, came to their feet and gave me a standing ovation. Tears were running down my cheeks, not from the promotion, but from their reaction. I hadn't known I was that popular. The President of the Student Union produced a tissue and helped dry my tears. She kissed my cheek. "You deserve it, Angela. They love you -- and your lectures." The Vice-Chancellor was still standing, waiting for the noise to settle. He had to wait several minutes before he could motion for the audience to sit down again. "Today is the 1st of April. It would have been cruel to put Angela through all this for an April Fools' Day joke, but in deference to the day, even the Vice-Chancellor had to do something." He held up an envelope. "This is the application paperwork, completed and already approved, for Doctor Thomas's promotion to Reader. That is what Professor Jenkins asked the Senate to approve." He paused. Then he quoted 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire'. "But we don't want to give her that." The audience held its breath. So did I. The Vice-Chancellor held up another envelope. "This letter, also dated today, appoints her as Professor, replacing Professor Jenkins. That she now is. Please welcome Professor Angela Thomas." The Vice-Chancellor walked across to me and placed the envelope in my shaking hands. The audience reaction was incredible. They were jumping up and down, cheering and clapping. The Vice-Chancellor handed me the microphone. I don't know what I said. Much later Ian told me I said all the right things, thanked everyone including all the right people, and paid tribute to Professor Jenkins, even though I was crying all the way through. The Vice-Chancellor wound up by inviting everyone to tea and buns in the canteen. The students were reluctant to let me leave. Despite the 'free kissing' ordered by the Student Union's President, my Red Cross tin was full by the time Julian and Evelyn proudly wheeled the new Professor into the canteen. At lunchtime Julian and Evelyn were relieved by my next escorts. Julian had his arm around Evelyn as they walked away. Whether they will develop into boyfriend and girlfriend only time will tell. My April Fools' prank on them had broken the ice at least. Should I forgive the Vice-Chancellor? Or Ian, who must have known something? I should. My April Fools' Day was perfect, not just for the unexpected promotion, but for the support from the students and the Senate. Lecturing I sat at the very back of the sparsely peopled lecture theatre, high up, my long legs forced apart by the narrow gap between one row of seats and the next. The lecturer started, his low mellifluous tones warmly bathing the room. I closed my eyes and leaned back enjoying that slow, sexy voice and ignoring the content it was delivering. I was drifting into a daze when there was a thump on the desk next to mine. A young man - a very young man - sat down on the seat next to mine. The noise had been his bag landing on the desk. He was handsome, in a boyish kind of way. His skin was unbelievably smooth - it looked like he had never needed to shave - and long, dark eyelashes protected his puppyish eyes. His nose and mouth were delicate, with the last a delicate rose shade. He looked at me apologetically and gave a brisk, nervous smile that revealed teeth that looked brand new. His body was willowy, and if it hadn't been for the small bulge on the front of his jeans, he might have been mistaken for a flat-chested girl. He began following the lecture, amending the printed handouts the lecturer had left sitting at the front of the room with quick dashes of ink in a clear, child-like hand. Every so often he would glance over at me though, his eyes straying to my rather large breasts, which I had that afternoon squeezed into a very tight, extremely low cut top. Sometimes he glanced down at my feet then followed my shapely legs up until they disappeared into my scandalously short skirt. I let him look, pretending to listen to the lecturer or scribbling nonsense on my own notes when I felt his eyes surveying me. Following one of his inspections I looked at him and saw that the small bulge had swelled a little. I decided to have a little fun with him and the next time he looked at me I leaned forward, letting my breasts fall onto the desk, nearly spilling them out of my top and wrote in block capitals on my notes "I'm not wearing any panties". He didn't notice, so I caught his eye - his flawless cheeks, which were already slightly flushed, blazed red when he realised I had caught him - and slid the notes over the desk to him. He looked at it, did a double take and goggled at me. I nodded at him and he gulped. I laughed to myself, thinking that this kid was a virgin. "How old are you?" I asked him. In a melodic voice, he whispered back, "Nineteen." His mouth stayed open, as if he had something more to say, but nothing came out. "Nineteen, huh? What's your name?" He nodded to the first and replied "David" to the second. He looked again at the notes in front of him, his eyes slowly following the thick dark traces of the statement I had written. "Are you really not wearing any panties?" he asked. I smiled - another one hooked. I parted my legs slightly, pointed at the gap in my skirt and said, "Why don't you check." He licked his lips and tentatively moved one hand towards me. It hesitated and I took hold of it, pulling it to the hem of my skirt then releasing it, telling him to go on. With a gasp he plunged his hand under my skirt and brushed it roughly over the soft, bald flesh of my cunt. His clammy fingers dove quickly into my smooth pussy, probing it clumsily, without skill. Thankfully, for me anyway, the exhibitionism of this sexual encounter in a lecture theatre had me wet enough that he didn't hurt me, though his fumbling brought me no pleasure. He removed his hand and, not sure what to do, said "Wow." The little bump in his jeans had grown still further. I glanced around - we were at the top of the room and no one could see us. I reached out and unzipped his fly, then pushed my hand inside his trousers and boxer shorts and took hold of his cock. I freed it from his trousers so that it jutted out of his clothes pointing towards the ceiling of the lecture theatre, only concealed by the desk. I looked at David's cock - about three-and-a-half inches long, very thin. "Is that it?" I asked. "What?" "Is that as big as it gets?" "Uh...yeah. Is that...um...okay?" Fucking David would be like pleasuring yourself with a tic-tac and from the way he had touched my cunt he wouldn't make up for his shortcomings with any skill. But then, I had other intentions than taking a first year's cherry today. "Sure," I replied. What can I say, I'm a horny little minx. I took his cock in one hand - it was almost swallowed by my palm - and began stroking him gently. He moaned a little. I told him to shut up and kept jerking him off. He came in about a minute, shooting a thin stream of sticky fluid onto the underside of the desk. His face flushed and his breath had become fast and deep. Pure sweat glazed his unlined brow. "Thank you", he said to me. My index finger was lined with a short blob of his come, which I licked off. "No problem," I said. I sat back, resting on the seat. "Do you want to... go somewhere after the lecture?" he asked. "No." I smiled thinly at him, "I like a little more meat on my bones, if you get me." In case he didn't I pointed at the flaccid roll of flesh barely projecting from his trousers. His turned shocked, then embarrassed, finally angry. At last he tucked his tiny cock away. "Fuck you, you cunt," he said, his voice quiet and angry, his cheeks hot. I grinned - my predator's grin. "I already told you, you're cock's too small for me to let you." David quickly left the lecture theatre and the lecturer stared at him in a pantomime of surprise before continuing. I sat back, the moist heat in my cunt undiminished, as the lecture trudged towards a finale as unimpressive as David's had been. As the other students quickly packed away their notes and pens and shrieked laughter at poor flights of wit by their contemporaries on their way to wherever they were going, I dawdled, taking as long as I could to put my paper into my leather satchel. Still, when I went towards the lecturer at the front of the room I had to wait as a mousy boy with a pocked face asked interminable questions on today's lesson. Finally he left, and I moved in on the lecturer. "Hi," he said. "Ah...I'm usually good with students' names but yours...um..." I looked around - just the two of us. I pushed him against the desk, my hand rushing to the fly of his jeans and yanking it down in a metallic tear. My hand was stroking his cock before he had even realised what I was doing. The hand that wasn't cupping his dick I quickly placed against his mouth, open in surprise. "Not a word, doc." He obeyed, and as a reward I gave his cock one long, slow stroke. It wasn't hard yet - the lecturer had the patience of a man - but its smooth, massy warmth felt as good as always in my hand. The lecturer, whose name was Bob Richards, gave a low moan. "Look, Dr. Richards, I need some... tuition. Do you think we could... study together at your house tonight." Whether it was my hand on his cock, or the strangeness of the situation, all that came out of his mouth was "Huh... huh...huh." His cock was fully hard now, six inches long and fairly thick. A pretty good size, but I guess today wasn't my day for enormous cocks. I stroked more roughly, being careful not to let Bobby come - if he came, he might not take me home. "So Dr. Richards," I asked in my most innocent child-like tone, "would you help me?" As I spoke, I moved back against the first row of desks and lifted my tiny skirt up over my glistening pussy. As it came into his view, first the dark lips of my labia, then my pale pink inner flesh, the revelation of my smooth tan skin, completely hairless and without blemish, he gasped and wiped sweat of his brow. His hand - unconsciously - went to his cock and began to stroke it. I went back forward, tugging my skirt down and slapping his hand away. There's no better tease than I. I ran one finger up the underside of his cock, hinting at what - later, perhaps - my tongue would do to it. "What's your answer, Doctor?" He had to struggle to speak, and when he did, the easy, low tones of his lecture had been replaced by a fast, hoarse growl. "Yes." As if he could answer anything else. "Good!" Now that I had him I dropped his cock, which bobbed rigidly towards me, and backed away from him. "Tuck yourself in and take me to your car." We pushed through the swing doors of the lecture theatre - him leading - and headed for the parking lot in front of the English building. As we walked, we both attracted attention. Guys, and a fair number of girls, were hypnotised by my big tits, bouncing in my tight top in counterpoint to our quick march. Some people also noticed the cylinder bulge at the front of Bob's jeans. Somehow we reached his car without incident. Bob drove a Saab approaching - in modern terms - middle age. It was no longer cool - its lines weren't trim and sleek, its shape no longer fitted modern style - but it still had a good amount of power and the insecurity of youth had been supplanted by a quiet confidence that resounded in the controlled growl of the engine. In short it was a car. We got in and drove off, neither of us speaking until Bob let me know we were about twenty minutes from his house. I moved my hand over and rested it on his crotch, the slowly fading cock immediately regaining vivid brilliance. It pressed on my hand like diamond. I gently stimulated him this way until he nearly hit a cyclist. After that I decided to wait until we reached his home. Once we were inside, having put on a transparent display of propriety in case his neighbours were watching, I took charge again. I asked him to get me a glass of water then stood looking around the living room. Faded furniture and old taste - the poor pay of a lecturer and the evidence of a man who entertains out more than in. When I finished my slow spin he was watching me. I can imagine the sight I made. Stylishly restrained shoes with a low heel just high enough to accentuate the curve of my calves. My bronzed legs curving into my short skirt and the smooth swell of my firm ass. My big breasts under a tight white top that concealed only the colour of my flesh there, and not one contour of my body. I took the water and drank, then told him: "Take off your clothes." He obeyed instantly, already subdued by the mere promise of young flesh. His shirt first - he was not well built, but not slender, either. His flesh was milky and taut. He dropped his jeans, awkwardly negotiating them around his cock, which protruded incongruously from his snow-white boxers. Then, to avoid the ignominy of having to remove his socks last, he sat on the couch and stripped them off, hurling them into a corner of the room. Before they could land, his boxers were around his ankles and Bob stood naked before me. He was not Adonis, but a man grown and experienced. He wore his body with the comfortable grace of someone who had used it for over thirty-five years and, while it lacked the finely chiselled perfection of sculpture, it was well honed. It was a body for work rather than art. I grabbed his cock - but gently - and tugged him towards me. "Where's your bedroom?" He told me, and I led him there by his cock. He followed more docilely than any animal on a leash. Once there, on the second floor of his house, I forced him onto the bed and did my own slow strip. There was no music, but I still sensuously moved my body, miming the sexual act. I ran my hands slowly through my hair, then down my neck and over my breasts. My nipples prickled against the fabric and I bit my moist, red lower lip with one white tooth. I moved my hands still further down, one pressing against my pussy, the other circling round to cup my ass. The show had once again set Bob to touching himself, and once again I stopped him with a sharp word. "Do you want to see the rest?" He quickly answered in the affirmative. "Do you want the best fuck of your life?" Again he moaned his yes. "Then, Dr. Richards, you have to agree to do whatever I tell you. Do you agree?" He nodded, not trusting his voice. "Okay," I said. I resumed my strip, kicking the shoes off and laying the rucksack on the floor at my feet. I wasn't wearing socks, so all that now covered my young body were a flimsy skirt and top. I stretched for him and pulled the top over my head and through my thick rough-blond hair. When I dropped my arms, casting aside my top, my big breasts bounced, up then down and back to their firm position on my chest. When I get older, they may start to sag and my body may no longer support their heavy flesh. But at the moment, they stand proud and I love to show them off. They thrust with ruler perfection off my chest at, as a mathematically minded fuck-buddy of mine once said, a 45-degree angle to the plane of my body. My small brown nipples are surrounded by lushly curved flesh, the undersides of each of my breasts forming almost a perfect half-sphere. They are full and sensitive, extravagant and wild. As a less scientific lover once told me, I've got "fucking great tits". Bob was preparing to come and feel them, but again I stopped him. "Lie back and don't touch yourself." I faced the window in the room, opening the curtains and framing my breasts there for any of Bob's inquisitive neighbours. I shimmied out of the skirt, letting Bob watch my ass jiggle. I'm evenly tanned all over - there's no part of me I don't like to expose to the world. I cupped my breasts the way I like - last three fingers of each hand kneading the flesh of my tits, the first finger and the thumb sharply pinching my nipples. I turned around for him without ceremony - after all, he'd already seen my cunt. I knelt in front of the bed; my eyes locked on his, with his cock like a crosshair between them. I crawled onto the bed, my huge breasts brushing the sheets; my ass rolling like a lioness's as she stalks her prey. I took the base of his cock in one hand, my pinkie pushing against his balls and scrotum and gave him one slow sexy look before taking his whole length inside my mouth in an instant. I quickly withdrew his cock from my mouth and repeated the manoeuvre. I started to suck him properly, my tongue running the length of his cock, my lips palpating his shaft. In the steamy moisture of my mouth, the lipstick tracery I had left on his cock while deep throating him was washed off and the sour/sweet taste of his flesh was mixed with that of my sticky lipstick. As his excitement built I added little grace notes: stopping the sucking to flick his cock head and his balls with my tongue; planting kisses from my full red lips all over his shaft; letting him see my fingers working in my pussy as I blew him. All the time I was careful never to let him come. Finally I stopped slurping his cock and stood up. He murmured a protest, but I pressed my index finger against the lips that had only moments ago been tightly wrapped around his dick and he fell quiet. Indicating his cock, I said, "I think you're ready now." I reached between my legs and collected my boiling juices on my hand. Holding it up to the window so the light made it sparkle, I told him, "And I'm definitely ready. But first." I faced away from him and, spreading my legs, bent over, giving him a look at my spread pussy lips. He groaned and I hoped he wasn't about to spatter his load on the ceiling. He didn't though and I finished getting the camcorder out of my bag. I sat it on his bedside cabinet and arranged it so we would both in view, taking the remote control in my hand. "Get up," I said. He did and I replaced him on his bed, my hands grasping the headboard, one cheek pressed against it as I turned my face to the camera. I wiggled my ass in the air at him and told him to take me from behind. He hesitated, looking at the camera. "If I don't feel that cock in my cunt in ten seconds, I'm leaving." I think it took him about five. When I felt his weight on the mattress I pressed the record button and checked to see that the little red light - how appropriate - was on. It was. Almost immediately I felt his cock pushing into my pussy and I moaned. I'm usually pretty loud during sex - I like to give whoever's fucking me some encouragement, and moaning gets me off anyway - but today I was louder than ever. Each of my moans carried a desperate edge; pure pleasure mixed with the sharp pain of an innocent pussy being stretched by an experienced cock. I came really quickly, gritting my teeth and shrieking, "Oh Bob...Oh Bob! Your cock is so big!" He kept fucking me, not varying his rhythm or force and I worried that he might come before I did again. His hands circled my body, finding my breasts, which he stroked and grabbed as he fucked me. I began to thrust back, slamming my ass against him, harder and harder. The pleasure grew in me until every exhalation was a loud, throaty moan and every inhalation a pleasure pain gasp. Bob was chanting "Fuck" over and over like a spell. Finally his cock spurted in me and his come sprayed into my cunt. This set off my second orgasm and pleasure spread like electric fire through my body, flushing my breasts and tingling my nipples, making every part of me as sensitive as new skin. I rammed my pussy against Bob's rapidly softening cock with desperate force until the last echoes of pleasure had faded. I hit stop on the camcorder remote and, after Bob had slipped out of me, lay on the bed. Breath came back into my body as Bob's semen trickled out of it. He lay beside me and with a too-practised air said, "Well, you're getting an A". He'd wanted to say that since I'd grabbed his cock in the lecture theatre. "Sorry to say Bob, but I'm not one of your students." "Um. What?" "I don't take your class Bob." "Then why did you...?" I interrupted. "There's a girl who takes your class was sick today. Quite tall, quite slim, no tits or ass, long brown hair." "You mean Miranda. One of my best students." His hand was playing with my left nipple and I stopped him, wanting his whole concentration. "From now on, she's scraping passes." "No...I couldn't do that I mean..." I cut him off, grabbing the camcorder and flipping open the view window on the side. I switched it to play mode, rewound the film I'd made and set it running. There I was, pressed against his headboard as he approached me from behind and began fucking me. In the frame he was clearly identifiable, his face well lit by the window. It was brutally obvious that good old Bob Richards was fucking one of his students. "Alright," he said. "But I get the tape." I just laughed: we both knew he wouldn't ever get the tape. "Look Bob, this is the only thing I want from you, so no-one else is going to see this tape and, if it's any consolation, you made me come. Twice. When Miranda told me she was ill today, I thought I'd have to fake it." His face was blank now. I quickly dressed, pulling on my skirt and top and grabbing my shoes and bag. As I went down the stairs I took out my mobile and hit speed-dial. "Paul. Come pick me up. I'm at uh 16 Valedy Lane." I was outside now and had checked the number on Bob's door. "I can't," he said. The curtain in Bob's room moved. Fuck - after everything, he still wanted another look at me. "Look Paul, if you come and pick me up and if you're here within fifteen minutes I'll suck your cock while you drive me home." He began to explain. There's someone else. I don't think we should... "Paul, I know you're fucking Miranda. I've forgiven you, okay? Now come pick me up." He hung up. Fine. I dialled a taxi firm and gave them the address. "What's the name?" asked the disinterested voice at the exchange. "Kim." A Post-script:On Valedy Lane The cool brunette stepped back from the window and pulled the curtains shut, her delicate lips quirked in a slight smile that lingered in her eyes. Shortly after Kim had tramped down the stairs she had slipped into the bedroom. She was nude, with small, perfect breasts capped with pale rose nipples and a delicately trimmed thatch of hair dusting her small pussy. Her ass was pale and round. Lecturing with Mistress Ceri I have, what people commonly term, a fucking horrible job. Certainly explaining my profession to other people, or even insurance companies, always garners giggles and confused mutterings. It's silly and immature from them, but something I have to live with. The wages are good, it pays my bills; at least I am not a moral vacuum and work in banking. Or politics. Instead I work in education. My job is at a private University; situated in the secluded countryside near a Northern British city. Few outside the niche community know we exist, but there is a steady stream of students desperate to join the courses and further themselves. I work, not in an academic university but at BDSM College: we teach dominants and submissives everything they need to know to have a fulfilling sex life: in couples, groups or singles. There are courses in everything from RACK/SSC to Shibari rope bondage, from safe knife play to exploiting the mind. As I said, everything! I am a submissive; I got the job after my wife made me apply for it, and have been teaching courses for four years. Often I work with other lecturers, sometimes alone. But it is Physical Punishment 101 that evokes dread: the students love it, and it is a highly popular course. It's held in the "Miss Whiplash Memorial Lecture Theatre," underneath the giant statue of two people – a knife-wielding dominant, and a bullwhip-cracking dominatrix – that dominated the plaza at the centre of the University. The room holds over fifty people, and it's not unusual for it to be mostly full for the course. It's an early start at 09:30, and all the young students file into the room looking bright, enthusiastic and full of energy: that's never a good sign. The lead lecturer, a Mistress Ceri, always has her two naked assistants (in this case myself and Paula) facing the wall as the students arrive, and encourages everyone to warm our buttocks with a smack. "You should never attempt a spanking without a warm-up exercise," she'd bark as student after student signalled their arrival to the lecture theatre with a couple of firm spanks on bare asses. It hurt; saying "thank you," as they did it hurt just as much. Holding onto the brickwork as my buttocks glowed with their combined pelts. Paula had it just as bad, her dainty rear caused her to squeal in pain as a brutish man slapped her ruddled behind, and I shot her a sympathetic look. I knew what would happen; we both did. Encouraging sadists was a dangerous game and one squeal was all it took. Suddenly there was an unspoken competition between them: who could make her squeak the loudest. Every spank got firmer, louder, more painful. I would see her fighting back the tears, and screwing up her face as trainee dominant after trainee dominant sized up her gorgeous arse with battering hits. I had it too, if they were smacking Paula hard they had to apply the same force to me; my skin could take it: I had more fat to absorb the energy behind their palms, but the evil giggling of the ladies, many of them ten or fifteen years young than me, as they stepped into their smack stung my pride and my abused arse. But it was just the start; in fact, it was the start of the course. Many of the trainee dominants still had an unhealthy lack of respect towards the submissive role and understanding towards smacking in general. As the courses progressed that arrogance would be honed and they would appreciate that spanking subs was not always about how hard they could pelt me, or Paula, but inflicting control and punishment. But these were early days, and Mistress Ceri knew that over-exuberance, ignorance and a mistaken understanding of BDSM would lead to some painful bums, and that was a small price to pay. Well a price for Paula and I to pay; we called it the 50 Shades Effect! After everyone was present, and sat in the lecture theatre, Paula and I would be summoned to the front of the room; it was an imposing venue with Tudor wooden struts lining the ceiling. They called it atmospheric, but it a delightful place to naked in the summer with the cool breezes squeezing through the historic building and being at the front of the grand, noble room. Mistress Ceri started the lecture, as Paula and I massaged our bottoms; it caused some murmuring, but our lecturer was a disciplinarian and chattering students were warned about their conduct with a swish of a cane and a glare of the eyes; that stopped most of the talking. And then, after fifteen minutes it came to the practical. There is little point in talking about a spanking without getting the young men and ladies to try their newly acquired skills on a couple of subject submissives. Obviously, as the course progressed, we would merge the practicals between the subs and the doms, but for the first few weeks, they didn't trust the group in front of me with the delicate bottoms of paying students. Of course, we knew that the Halls of Residence was a haven for BDSM experimentation and several subs would turn up to my lectures with bloodied posteriors and broad smiles, but the University wanted lecture theatre discipline to be carried out on "professional" submissives. Which was how Paula and I were leaning over futons, staring at each other as the students formed an orderly queue and took a cane from our teacher. I heard the swishing behind me as they practised swinging the wooden rod in the air. My loins always tingled at the prospect, waiting for the first strike of a student on my pink backside. It was warmed nicely from the spanking and just as Mistress Ceri had shown them, the first students stepped forward and brought a firm strike across our rears. I couldn't help it: I cried in pain, just as Paula screeched. I swore loudly, glancing behind me as the eighteen year old stood proudly, holding the cane as if she was ready to strike again. It was too hard for a first hit, and Mistress Ceri told her so. "Work up dear," she simpered. "We have all morning here so work up to that strike." The denim-clad student lined up her cane again and I closed my eyes: not able to watch the petite beauty pelt my arse. I tensed my buttocks, waiting, squeezing the cushion on the futon as she grunted and lashed the wooden rod against my skin, slashing my patchy skin with devastating power. I yelled, only this time Mistress Ceri was satisfied. "Good, you're punishing him, make him feel your rod." Paula was having a harder time: the boys wanted to work her bottom, and the firm swipes on her bruised bum was having tears rolling down her cheeks. I knew from personal experience, her pussy would be sodden, and if any of the dominants had promised her a rough fucking after the lecture, then they would be having all their Christmases at once. She was dynamite in the sack, but the naivety of inexperience meant that the men were merely happy to pelt her peachy rear without realising that we were submissives because we liked it. We got off on it; there was nothing bad about a queue of girls lining up to discipline me. There was nothing bad about my body singing in pain and endorphins as sexy dominatrixes practised on my skin, on my body and my arousal. There was nothing bad about it at all, and if any of the girls had bothered to look, they would have seen a rampant erection from the first strike. I may have yelled, cried and squealed, but inside my heart was somersaulting with glee; every cane, every smack, every touch was soaked with pain and yet caused an avalanche of excitement. And sure, I was never going to enter subspace by being relentlessly beaten for two hours, but I was floating on heaven as the last girl finished her final strike on my bum. They'd broken three of the wooden rods on us, a new record, and blood was splattered on the floor, but I had a smile a mile wide on my face. So did I say I had a horrible job? My mistake. I just had twenty-odd young ladies cane my bottom, I am going to be tortured by wax at midday, bound at half-past-two by a scorchingly hot Mistress Olivia and then I'm taking a bunch of subs for their Bukkake exam. To some people, I have a horrible job. To me, my job is fucking fantastic! Who wants an application form?