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Give the Student What He Wants

By: dr_bitch



I teach math at a Midwestern state college. It doesn't matter which one. It looks like most of the others, with some school buildings, dorms, bars, gas stations, and a grocery store, surrounded by acres and acres of open farmland. Most kids come here because it's far from home and it's a party school. It's not so bad to teach here, really, once you get over your disappointment that you're not going to have a fabulous career at M.I.T. One good thing about teaching at a party school – the students don't expect very much. Half the time they're hung over anyway.

I'm male, 42, divorced (no kids) and haven't had a significant other for a couple of years. Being a 40-something divorce isn't easy in a town like this. The women here are either under 21 or married. I don't have any scruples against a fling with either one, but the college girls aren't nearly as easy as legend would tell you, and come to think of it neither are the faculty wives. Besides, it's not so easy to find another job – a fella has to think of the risks.

So, I make do with Internet porn and my imagination. I keep myself reasonably fit – you never know when you'll run into Ms. Right Now – and anyway there's not much else to do. I think I'm good-looking, although no one would call me gorgeous.

I teach several sections of calculus-for-boneheads (excuse me, for business majors) class. No matter how good a teacher you think you are, this class will prove you wrong. The students just don't get it. Calculus and business majors mix like oil and water. The ones who do understand it are engineering majors. Poor me, poor me. I give a lot of quizzes instead of one or two exams. Take it from me, the exams are even worse.

So, let me try to describe what happened a couple of hours ago. I'm not sure I believe it myself, and I can't be sure how it will all come out, but I sure hope I'm right. 

It's still January, and the new semester is just getting started. Yesterday, I gave the first quiz of the term. Today, I was marking them (no T.A.s at this college) and muttering to myself, as usual. My posted office hours began at 2:00, but I didn't notice because no one ever comes. Then they complain because I'm not available to help them.

Imagine, then, my shock when right at 2:00 somebody rapped on the door. I shouted, "Come in!" which hardly ever works, then got up to see who it was. A student! I recognized him from my late-morning class, but of course I didn't know his name. Good-looking kid, a little taller than me (5'10"), shoulders broad but not too broad. He probably outweighs me by 30 pounds. Curly, off- blond hair, dressed in the sloppy clothes that were practically the school uniform, students and faculty alike.

I didn't pretend to know his name. I know it now. I know a lot about him now, but this was two hours ago. Anyway, let's call him Jason, because that sounds like a good alias for this tale.

I stood at the door, doorknob still in my hand. "Can I help you?" I asked.

He looked kind of nervous, glancing up, down, everywhere but my face. "Can I come in?" he asked. "I need to ask you about something." 

"Sure. You're in my 11:00 class, right? You sit in the middle row, over near the windows. Sorry, but I don't know your name."

"Yes, Professor, that's me. My name is Jason ___." 

"You shouldn't look so worried, Jason," I said. The semester's just begun, we've taken only one quiz, so even if you blew the quiz, you've got plenty of time to recover."

"This isn't about the quiz," he mumbled. I'd sat down in my chair, and pointed to the extra chair. He came all the way in and sat down. I heard the click of the doorknob, which was set on automatic lock. That surprised me. There's no rule against shutting the door, but it's hardly ever done. Nobody wants to be accused of sexual harassment. 

"Would you mind leaving the door ajar?" I said.

Jason looked up at me as if he didn't understand why I'd ask for such a thing. Then, as he got it, his smiled a little. "I'd rather leave it closed, Professor. This is kind of personal."

Oh, great. I hardly know this kid and he wants a father confessor. Not my job, not my desire, and definitely not a good idea. If he leaves here and shoots himself, I'll be sued. We have professionals for that kind of thing. I let the pause hang there, hoping he'd at least tell me what he wanted, so I could direct him to the student-stress counselor.

He just sat there, looking at me, directly into my eyes. His were unusual – blue flecked with brown. Like hazel, but blue instead of green. I was caught by his gaze, and somehow felt compelled to return it. I don't know how long we sat there, looking each other in the eyes. The room seemed to get a little darker and fuzzier. We weren't gazing like lovers. It was more like poker players, assessing one another, looking for the other's "tell." 

After awhile his eyes moved a little, toward the clock. I felt I'd been released, but I also turned to look at the clock. I must have read it wrong before, because it said 2:20. 

"Do you want to talk about your quiz?" I asked. My voice was a little shaky, which surprised me. The room light hadn't gone back to normal after our staring contest. His face was clear, but everything else was dim.

"Oh, no, Professor," he said quickly. "It's sort of about my quiz, but really I want to ask you about something else. You see, you seem so, . . . so,. . . non-judgmental."

"Well, thanks, Jason. I try to be that way. Most of the things other people think are really none of my business. But before you start, I need to tell you that I'm probably not the person who can help you – if you have personal problems, I'll be sympathetic, but can't offer advice. All I can do is try to steer you to the right place for real help." Here I went. If you don't shut me up, especially when giving (or not giving) advice, I'll drone on for a long time. I caught myself and stopped.

He smiled, a little. "That's okay, I'm not looking for advice. It's just that I– I– You seemed like someone who could relate to these daydreams I have."

Time to go! I tried to get up, but it didn't work. I felt glued to the chair. All I could do was nod, as if to say, "go on." Really I wanted to say, "get out." Could I even speak? What was happening?

"Well, Professor, it's like this. Is it okay to call you 'Professor?' Or do you prefer 'Doctor?'" When I didn't answer he went on. "You know that girl in the class, the one with the dark hair and the big, uh, uh, . . . cleavage? Everybody knows you do, because we see you trying not to look," he paused. "But don't worry. Nobody thinks you're a lecher. Sometimes she wears those low-cut tops. . . and it's hard to not look."

Where in the heck was this going? For a moment I didn't know who he was talking about, then suddenly I could see her, clearly, in my mind's eye. She was hot, for sure, and sassy. Tall – about my height, and proud of her C-cups and the body that went with them. Not supermodel-thin, but convex and concave in all the right places. I had made a point of learning her name, but right now I couldn't think of it. I hoped to God he wasn't going to ask me to do some matchmaking. What did he want?

Again, he locked his eyes on mine, and went on softly, miserably. "You see. . . I. . . when I look at her . . . I want to be her. I want to have big tits and sway down the hall and leave a trail of hard-ons. It's all I can think about in your class. I'm afraid I'll flunk, because I can't think of calculus, even at home. I'm stuck in this daydream."

I still couldn't move my mouth to speak, which was lucky, in a way, because I had no idea what to say. I wanted to tell him to take his weird fantasies to a good psychiatrist, but my mind wouldn't form the words. Instead, I just sat there, held in his gaze. He went on.

"The dream is really weird, because I'd still be me, too. She'd be my girl friend, and I would get off by watching the way she treated the other guys. When she really had one going, thinking he was getting somewhere, she'd drop him and humiliate him, then wink at me.

"Because – and this is the weirdest of all – all the time, she'd be my secret sex slave. She'd tease the boys I told her to tease, and give them exactly what I told her to give. And when she did it well, she'd be able to tell I approved, and she'd be so happy to have my approval that she'd cum a little right there in the hallway to celebrate. But just a little, because that's what I'd ordered."

He had my undivided attention. "And then, when we're alone together, we'd laugh for awhile, and maybe do homework, until I – Jason – decided it was time to fuck. 'Assume the Position,' I'd say, and she'd immediately drop to her knees with her head bowed. 'What is your pleasure, Master Jason?' she'd say, and I'd reply, 'Suck my cock, bitch, and do it better than last time if you don't want more punishment.'" He quickly added, "I'd never hit her or hurt her. After all, she's me, too! I'd order her to blow some geeky guy, or maybe the old school janitor, and bring me a picture as proof. She'd obey, and it would be easy, and we'd put the picture with our other trophies. I'd have all that power because of my power over her."

He paused again. I was no longer sitting in my own office. I was drawn into his fantasy, 100%. All I could see was his handsome face and shoulders. I still couldn't talk, but I didn't want to. What did I want to do?

Jason startled me by speaking again. This time, very softly. In real life I would have had to lean forward to hear his whisper, but I could hear him just fine. "Professor, I bet you've figured out why I'm telling you all this. You have the same fantasy, don't you? Don't you want to be that girl? I can tell when you're lecturing. You'll be trying to do some math problem and you'll stop. In your mind, you've become her. You're standing there, but you're really sitting down, enjoying the satin bra you're wearing, giggling to yourself as you feel the boys wonder if you're wearing panties. Watching the professor try to keep his mind on his job, but constantly longing for you. If you were that girl, you'd have all that power. You'd get really good grades! And you wouldn't even have to put out – you'd keep 'em all in heat, just by being who you are! They'd give you an 'A' just because– just because they want to please you.

"And you'd giggle again, and after class you'd tell your boy friend all about it. Me. Because that's my part of the fantasy, not yours. You can be the girl, but you can't be the boy. I forbid it. But you knew that already, didn't you? You knew even before I knocked on your door. You become that girl. You don't take over her body. Her body takes you over. You're her. Then you come to my room after class and we laugh about what a fool the professor made of himself over you – you made a fool out of your own self and can't do anything about it. And when I get tired of laughing, and I'm ready for sex, I say, 'Assume the Position!' and you drop to your knees and bow your head. Of course I don't care if you're ready. Finally I permit you to speak, and you say, 'What is your pleasure, my Master Jason?' And you humbly do whatever you're told."

As I sat there, captured by his eyes, I could feel my breasts beginning to grow. I didn't dare look. Slowly, without pause, they got bigger and bigger. They strained against my Oxford shirt, popping a button. Even though my average-sized cock was a bar of steel, as my tits grew I could feel my balls and cock fold up and get sucked into my wet, sopping cunt. The smell, of a woman in heat, rose up from my crotch. My new tits popped another button. They hurt – they were pressing against the edge of my desk, but I still couldn't move. My nipples were so taut that the breeze from a butterfly wing would have sent me into screaming multiple orgasms. 

Jason moved, for the first time. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a lovely satin bra, from Victoria's Secret. "38-C" read the label. "You may move now," said Jason, "but only to remove your shirt and put on your bra. I'm a good Master – I don't want your boobs to hurt."

I tried to thank him for his kindness, but still could not speak. I did what I was told, but continued to gaze on my Master. I discovered that I was familiar with putting on a bra, although I could not remember ever having put one on before. The pretty new bra was practical, too. My tits stopped hurting. Once the bra was in place, though, I could not move my body. I gazed at my Master, anticipating his next command.

He stood, and placed his hands on his hips. "Assume the Position." I was released from whatever had held me motionless, so I complied immediately, on my knees with my head bowed. Once in the Position, I was again immobile. "Professor, from now on you are my bitch, until I get bored and discard you. In fact, your new name is Dr. Bitch. What is your name?"

"Dr. Bitch."

"What!!?"

"Dr. Bitch, Master Jason."

"That's better. Well, my cute little bitch, you have a chance to earn a great privilege. I will permit you to suck my cock. But only on one condition."

"Yes, Master. I shall do whatever my Master commands."

"Dr. Bitch, when I leave, you must get back to work. You will give me an 'A' on my quiz."

"But of course, Master. You deserve nothing less. You do not need to ask for such an obvious thing."

"Did you say, 'ask,' Dr. Bitch? Surely that was a slip of the tongue. I ask for nothing. Anything I want from you, I demand."

"I am very sorry, Master Jason. Of course you shall have all you demand. Can I please make amends for my mistake?"

"No. I don't have time. But I will keep my promise. You may blow me. Begin."

"Oh, thank you, Master. And please forgive my inexperience. I have never done this before." 

"No talking. Just suck."

Suddenly I could move, and I looked up. Master Jason had stepped toward me so that the large bulge in his sweat pants was right in front of my face. I'd received plenty of blow jobs, but never given one. I reached up to his waistband and tried to pull it down. But it was tied! By his command, I could not speak to apologize, and for a moment I was afraid he would deny me this privilege. I looked into his face, and saw impatience, and contempt, but not cruelty. He would permit me to continue.

Quickly I untied the drawstring and hooked my fingers into the waistbands of his pants and his underwear. I pulled them down frantically, almost panting in anticipation. His cock leaped out of its confinement, pointing almost straight up. It reached almost to his navel. From my perspective, it looked about a foot long. And it was rock-hard. I almost wept when I realized the compliment. My Master's young cock was huge! And hard! For me! Overcome with gratitude, I reached for his balls and kissed them, then again and again. They could have been golf balls within their sac. All that cum – for me!

Carefully, but quickly, I worked my way up the long shaft, kissing every inch of it along the way. My Master had been circumcised, so the rosy-pink head was proudly exposed, waiting for my unworthy efforts. I hiked myself up straighter and marveled at the head of my Master's hard dick. It was huge. Another golf ball, or bigger. I kissed it lightly here and there, calculating the best way to suck him at that steep angle. I licked the head, then the whole shaft again. When I straightened up, this time, Master Jason grabbed my hair with one hand and my nose with the other. My feelings were hurt. He didn't have to grab my nose to force me to open my mouth. I wanted to suck, I just had to figure out how.

He must have sensed my unhappiness, because he let go of my nose and changed his grip so his fingers were tightly wound through the hair on both sides of my head. I knew what he intended, and was grateful. I opened my mouth as far as I could, just as he pulled my hair down so that my mouth was impaled by the huge, pink, hot shaft. I felt its head on the roof of my mouth, then the back, then at the top of my throat. My body wanted to gag, but somehow I had the self-control to prevent it. Even with his pride filling every inch of my mouth, my lips were several inches from the base. Just as I reached for that lower portion, to pump it with my hand, my Master pulled my head up until the head almost popped out of my mouth, then slammed it down again. This time I wrapped my lips around the shaft as tightly as I could, so that my lips alone would stroke his dick as he yanked my head up and down.

After a couple of times, though, my teeth grazed the sacred shaft. He stopped immediately and snarled, "Dr. Bitch, you idiot! Wrap your lips around your teeth. Make your mouth as much like your cunt as you can!" I could not speak to apologize, but obeyed instantly. He resumed moving my head up and down on his cock, by yanking my hair. After a while – too few beautiful strokes! – his dick felt hotter and thicker, and his rhythm picked up speed. Then he started bucking his hips, honoring my mouth by fucking it on my very first blow job. The bucking got harder and harder, to where he might have thrown me over on my back if he hadn't been holding my hair. 

Suddenly he rewarded me with his cum. It gushed and gushed, with so much pressure that most of it seemed to fly straight down my throat, bypassing my mouth. I was determined to relish the wonderful taste, which, as his member softened from hard as granite to hard as a stick of wood, I was able to do. Gobs and gobs of his cum, swilling around my mouth like egg nog or something else sticky, sweet and unbelievably delicious.

He released my hair, but I didn't quit. As his body relaxed and his cock continued to soften, I sucked and sucked, inhaling every drop I could get.

I wasn't sure what to do when his immense, uncircumcised member became so soft that it popped out of my mouth. He was breathing hard, and seemed unable to give me my next command. So, I did my best to lick up all the cum on his crotch. Then I resumed the "Position," the only one I had yet been taught. I bowed my head and listened to his breaths. I wanted to ask, "Did I do well, Master? Am I worthy?" but I had not been given permission to speak. So I waited.

He didn't speak right away, but twined his fingers in my hair again and pulled my hair back, looking in my eyes. "You have a lot to learn, Dr. Bitch," he intoned. "But you're teachable." He pulled my hair upward. "Stand up."

Naturally, I stood, respectfully looking into his masterful gaze, hoping he would condescend to kiss me. But he did not and I dared not ask him. He let go of my hair and caressed my new boobs. I almost came then and there! But I sensed that I needed his permission to cum, so I fought the feeling.

Master Jason knew. He smiled, the small, contented smile of a man who knows he owns something of high quality and value. 

"You can do better," he said. "If you follow through with my 'A,' you'll have the chance. Buy some K-Y Jelly and keep it here. If you ever get the mouth right, you can beg me to fuck your ass. I might even do it. You will not tell anyone of our new relationship, of course, but also you will not have sex or even masturbate without my express permission. If you want to cum, you'll have to earn it. Don't even bother to say, 'Yes, Master.' I know you'll do exactly as I say, for as long as I put up with you. But right now, take that bra off and give it back to me, put your shirt on, then sit down in your chair." My heart leaped, of course, at these words. Could I really be that lucky? And in exchange for such a simple demand! I removed the bra, and put on the shirt, but my tits still prevented me from buttoning it. I sat, rapt, expectant. 

He looked stern, then grinned. As he did, my office was no longer so dim, bathed in the radiance of his smile. He stood by the door. "Thanks, Professor, for listening to my sob story," said Jason. "I'll just have to hang in there and study harder."


Give the Student What He Wants Ch. 02



It's been a week and a half since I first met "Jason's" lovely cock. Even Jason himself has praised my progress. That was a few minutes ago -- now he was relaxed on my living room sofa, sipping from a bottle of spring water. I was lying on the couch, with the back of my head resting on his muscular thighs, looking up and his firm pectorals and handsome face. His dick, now mostly drained of his sweet cum, flopped against my cheek. There'd been a lot of cum -- he's just nineteen, after all! -- and I'm sorry to say that I'd spilled some of it. He'd had one last spurt just as I pulled back for air. It missed my gaping mouth, and now that fragrant juice was all over my face and hair. I had a big gob in one eye; I'd tried to wipe it out and eat it, but he'd reached down and grabbed my wrist with one hand. His eyes were smiling, but it was obvious I didn't have permission to wipe my eye. "Yes, Master," I thought. Whatever pleased him, made me ecstatic. 

While Jason and I are relaxing, let me fill you in on the past week or so. I suppose you're wondering what happened to all the "Master" Jason talk. Bear with me.

After young Jason had left my office on that first day, I naturally spent the rest of the day in a happy daze. I did manage to get my grading done. My Master, of course, got the "A" I'd promised him, but he really had done poorly. It wouldn't do return a paper bleeding with red ink, with an "A" on top. Some classmate might spot it. In a few moments I figured out a workaround. I made a copy of his quiz, lightly marked the original, and given him the "A". Then I carefully, lovingly, noted his mistakes on the copy, and wrote a long explanation of his mistakes. 

How did I dare correct my Master's work? Because he was a finance major, and he'd have to master calculus so he could pass his other courses. I hoped, I mean HOPED, he'd see it for the supportive gesture I'd meant. Before going home, I looked him up on the system. He's nineteen, from a suburb of the only real city in our state, about 100 miles away, and so far has a 3.2 grade average. I felt a jealous pang as I wondered if any other faculty had been privileged to suck his cock and give him good grades.

In class the next morning, I handed back the quizzes, answered some questions, and tried to get down to work. Jason sat at the end of the row, by the windows. He said nothing to me, and didn't do anything special. It didn't matter to me. It took a lot of will power to pull my adoring gaze from his face, and crotch, and attend my other students. His face was bland, but with a faint smile. Then, just as I turned around to work a problem on the chalkboard, he winked at me. I gasped, but just in time turned the gasp into a cough, as if from chalk dust. I'd get another chance! I was sure of it!

I'd thought ahead, last night, and bought a new jockstrap, to help keep my own insignificant cock from straining through my pants, into the face of the well-endowed cutie in the front row. It worked some, but when he winked, my cock turned into an iron bar. It didn't break through the cloth, but I knew without looking that there was a big tent in my crotch. I turned just in time, I think, and took a long time to work that particular problem on the board.

Somehow I got through the class period. He didn't wink any more, but even so every time I looked his way, which was often, I got a little weaker in the knee. I hoped that the students who noticed would decide I was sick, or else in heat for the girl in the front row. Actually, I didn't much care what they thought. My thoughts were elsewhere.

I dismissed the class about ten minutes early. This would give me a chance to big to help him. "Jason, can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Sure, Professor."

When he approached I said, in a normal teacher voice, "Nice work on the quiz, Jason, but I need to talk to you about the unusual way you solved number 3. Do you have some time now?"

Just about then, the last student had reached the door. As it shut behind her, I started to speak, then collapsed into The Position. "Master Jason," I stammered. "As your teacher, I must help you learn calculus. Please forgive my presumption." Without raising my eyes, I handed up the copy of his homework, covered with my comments. No Cupid's hearts, though. I still had a little dignity. But I'd thought about it.

I forgot my station and looked up to his eyes, but he was looking at the papers I'd handed him. His crotch was right in front of my face. Without thinking, I kissed his pants, about where his cock should be.

Wham! He didn't even stop reading his quiz, but simply slapped the side of my head with his free hand. I fell over, not because he'd hit me that hard, but because I was both startled and nervously apologetic.

"Please, Master, forgive me. I don't know what I was -- "

"SHUT UP, Doctor Bitch! You insult me on this paper, but you think you deserve to touch my body? What's wrong with you, worm?"

I saw the door handle move and jumped to my feet. Before he could react, I said, "Listen, Jason. I'm just trying to help you get the math basics down so you do okay in your business and finance classes. I really have your best interests at heart." He looked like he wanted to hit me again, but he'd heard the students enter and just glared. "We can talk about this more, in my office, if you'd like," I said.

"O.K." he said slowly, "Maybe this is a pretty good idea after all."

I was trembling as we walked to my office. Not much small talk. In fact, not much talk at all. I used my key, and we went in together. This time, it was me who relocked the door. Again, as soon as it latched, I fell into The Position.

"Get up, Dr. Bitch. Now!" I rose helped along by his grip on my hair. "You may assume The Position only when I order it. You took too big a chance in the classroom. If you want another taste of my cock, you'd better remember that I'm in charge here."

"Y- Yes, Master." I moaned.

"I thought about our what you said as we walked over here. As Professor ___, you're right. I do need to learn this stuff. Okay, you can tutor me in math. But as Dr. Bitch, you'd better not forget your manners."

"Oh, yes, Master." I cried. Joyous tears flowed from my eyes. So much more time to spend with him! So many more opportunities. . . 

"I would have come here after class anyway. I need to get my rocks off," he growled. "Your clumsy blow job'll take too long. I'm gonna jack off, then you're gonna lick up my cum from wherever it lands. Got it?" I nodded. He yanked down his long zipper and pulled his magnificent organ from his boxers. I hadn't gotten a good look at it yesterday. It really was huge! I guessed 8 inches long, two in diameter. I've measured it since then, and wasn't far off. It curved out from his fly, rooted in those wonderful balls I couldn't see except in my memory. Up, up, past his belt. Rigid -- so hard it could have been a brick sculpture of a hard-on. The blue veins formed ridges, defined like a body-builder's muscles. The top, almost brick red itself, was lovely. How I wanted to wrap my lips around that boy's dick and keep them there forever!

But, my Master had said no. He wrapped his handsome fist around the shaft and started to stroke. "Get a good, careful look, Dr. Bitch. Maybe you'll get it right next time." Slow strokes to start, then faster. He looked weak in the knees, so I rushed to place the chair where he could ease into it, still stroking. The violence of his strokes had pulled his beautiful balls out of his pants; they were keeping rhythm by slap, slap, slapping the cloth. I was mesmerized.

Then (because after all, I'd jacked off a few thousand times myself) I knew he was about to explode. I positioned my eager mouth as close to the tip as I dared -- he'd ordered me not to touch him, and anyway if I got too close I'd risk getting hit by that big, heedless fist pumping up and down on his piston. 

Pow! I could almost hear the splat! of the first stream of cum hitting the roof of my mouth. After that, though, I didn't get much. He came plenty, but I couldn't catch it. His cock-head was flying around as he stroked, and his cum shot across the room. On my computer, on my books, but I didn't care. I still tried to catch more in my mouth. Actually, it was good that I got only small amounts at a time. I had the chance today, that I hadn't had yesterday, to savor the taste and texture of that lovely nectar. How had I lived so long without tasting this before? I wondered if other men's cum tasted the same -- not as good as my Master, of course, but pretty good anyway. Then I realized that if my dreams came true, I'd never find out. I'd just service my Master on demand. He'd graduate, get a job, have girl friends, eventually get married. . . and I'd find some job in his area, just to be on call for him. Did I dare to dream such a dream?

As ordered, I went around the office, licking up his cum wherever I found it. Some was on his shirt -- he permitted me to lick that up, too. After my tongue got all it could, I used tissues to get a little more, and to wipe my saliva off everything. Of course I ate the used tissues, without being told.

Master Jason sat and watched me, with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. Well, he deserved it. I was his professor, I'd been to graduate school and earned a Ph.D., In my time I'd had maybe a dozen women, I'd fathered a child (in custody of my ex-wife) and I was supposed to be in charge. He'd changed all that yesterday, in a matter of minutes. He should be self-satisfied.

When I couldn't find any more cum around the office, I turned to him with my head down, bowing. I wanted to assume The Position, but he'd ordered me not to without his express command.

"Today, right now, I want you to go buy some porn DVDs. Get some with lots of cocksucking and buttfucking. Watch them carefully, over and over if you have to, and learn something. Practice on vegetables." That struck him as funny, and he gave a smug laugh. "Yes, Master. I shall do as you order me as soon as you have gone. And --"

"You got something else to say?"

"M- Master, if you please. I see that your magnificent penis is still leaking cum. It's a shame to waste it. May I please --"

He laughed. "Okay, sure. But be quick about it. I have to meet some friends for lunch."

I was quick. I had my lunch, then and there. He didn't offer to kiss me good-bye.

That was Wednesday. I spent most of Thursday watching the porn movies -- I thought of them as instructional demonstrations. I looked forward to seeing Jason on Friday, but he didn't show up for class. I was disappointed but not surprised. Half the class usually skipped on Friday. But-- After class, he was waiting for me in the reception area by my office. I did a double take, then felt the rush of relief. I had no way to get in touch with him -- I didn't even know if he'd permit it. But not to see him for five days (Wednesday to Monday!)! It would have been too, too long.

In my office, I showed my eagerness to please him, standing with bowed head as I had done before. He let me stand there a couple of minutes, then snickered to himself. "Sit down. In your regular chair," he ordered.

Naturally, I did so. He started to talk -- the first time I'd heard him say more than a few words.

"You know, Dr. Bitch, I didn't have to do even a little hypnosis on Wednesday. You just naturally obeyed everything I said. You're just a natural cum slut, aren't you?"

"Yes, Master. Was I hypnotized? I was not aware. Why did you bother? Of course, serving you is my sole purpose."

"Well, Dr. Bitch, let me tell you. I did hypnotize you on that first day. I'm good at it. You're a great subject. You almost put yourself under. When I told you that your tits were growing, and reached over to yank a couple of buttons off your shirt, it was all I could do not to laugh. You were preening like Jennifer Aniston or somebody! You thought you were really hot stuff. It was cute. But I gotta tell you. You never grew any tits. The bra was real, though. You sure loved that bra."

I started to speak, but he snapped, "Shut up!."

"You had no idea you were gay, did you?" he resumed. "Well, you are. You'd be gay, now, because that's my command. But you were gay before. You just didn't know it. I had a pretty good guess, but then I've got some experience. Ever since I discovered how easy it is to put some people under my spell. 

"And they stay under my spell. You're really mine, Doc. I own you. I suppose you could find some expert to break through my post-hypnotic suggestions, but it would kill you to try. You'll never look for 'help' escaping my power. You'll never comprehend that obeying me isn't normal."

He was right. I didn't comprehend. Of course obedience to one's Master is normal!

"I might just decide to release you. Then where the hell will you be? After a couple of years as my slut-slave, you won't have any life to go back to. I don't know what'll happen; in the past, I've never seen a person after I released them. You'll be automatically released if I die or disappear, you won't walk around like a zombie. You'll be free." He stopped and looked at me for a long moment. "Unless, unless, you're involved in my death. Then you'll live the rest of your life in torment I don't even want to think about."

As he said this, I felt a hint of the torment, just from the thought. My Master? Dead? Disappeared? How could he possibly think I would do such a thing? "Master, Master," I cried, tears on my cheeks. "You'll never leave me! I could never try to harm you! Please say you'll never leave me!"

"Oh, I'll probably leave you some day. I'll trade up for somebody better, or just somebody else. But I won't disappear. I'll still be here with my new slave. And whether I release you from the spell or not, you'll ache, every single day. But every single day, you'll know that dumping you is my right, and that your trivial heartache is totally unimportant."

"In fact," he went on, "you might not survive. Did you know Professor Bridgman, in the English Department?" I shook my head, still confused and getting scared. "He was the original Dr. Bitch here at college. Fall semester. I didn't even dump him. I just went home for Christmas vacation. When I came back, just a couple of weeks ago, I heard he was dead," he paused. "Shot himself. Too bad, he was one great cocksucker. Now I have to train a new one."

If he felt any remorse for Professor Bridgman, it didn't show. If anything, he seemed pleased with himself. But it was okay with me. If Bridgman's death left the vacancy I had won, then, well, too bad for him. Part of me wondered where my morals had gone, part of me knew, most of me didn't care.

As he boasted of his casual, life-or-death power over me and others, my cock became a steel rod once again. I'd been chosen to serve this superman! His cock had grown, too, almost to how it had been yesterday, when he sprayed cum all over my office.

"Well, Dr. Bitch, you're making me horny. Three days in a row! You're a lucky slut, Dr. Bitch. Now assume The Position and get to work. Show me that you've been doing your homework."

I'd learned a lot from the porn movies, except for one thing. Most of the porn actors had big dicks, but they weren't beautiful like my Master's. Of course not, you say. But the odd thing was that when erect, their dicks stuck straight out, horizontal, and not vertical like mine and Jason's, the only two erections I'd ever seen live and in color.

I suppose that it's an occupational hazard of a porn star -- he starts the day with a normal hard-on, but after all the rehearsals, he's getting tired. That's neither here nor there, except that the lessons from the porn flicks didn't show what I needed to know, right now: how to blow a long, thick, vertical erection from the kneeling position. When the porn stars knelt, the stud's pole conveniently stuck right into their mouths. I had to get my head ten or so inches higher, and get the angle right. I'm afraid I was clumsy at first. I could hear my Master's grunts and sighs of impatience. But he did not become angry -- my kind Master! 

Finally I found a working position. As he sat in the chair, I supported myself with my hands on the chair's arms, and climbed to a half-kneeling, half-leaning-over position. I kissed the long shaft down one side and up the other, and then again, generous with the saliva. The angle was wrong to service his balls, but mentally I blew them a kiss, too.

When his pole was good and wet, all over, from my tongue, I opened my mouth as wide as I could and plummeted down onto his cockhead, taking as much as I could in one stroke. The best part of his cock, the end with the hole in it, slid so far into my throat it made me gag a little, reminding me that I needed to leave a little working space between cock and tonsils. 

That's when I realized that I had no hands -- they were on the chair, holding me up. If this had been an ordinary lover, I could have asked him for help, or at least talked it over a little. But this was my Master! Besides, he wanted to see if I'd learned my lessons. I couldn't very well ask him for help in the middle of the quiz!

Thinking fast, I tucked my lips up under my teeth and fastened my mouth around the shaft. I sucked, and sucked. The seal was tight. No air got in. On a lesser man, this would have been impossible, but my Master's huge cock filled most of my mouth anyway. Then, pacing myself, breathing through the nose, I moved my head rhythmically up and down, up and down. I worked my arms a little, too, as if I were doing push-ups. I could only go an inch or so, because his dick head hit my throat, but I did what I could. Some day, I hoped to learn "deep throat" techniques, but that's still in the future. 

I pistoned up, and down, up, and down, with the same slow, steady rhythm. I think he wanted to push me away and jack himself off, quick, hard, NOW!, but his will power won out, and he took the pleasure I offered. Either was okay with me, of course. As long as he was happy. I could hear little grunts that sounded like pleasure, but I was a man, too, and knew how it worked. While your cock is being sucked, the little grunts are mostly to encourage the sucker, and to celebrate your luck or charisma or whatever led to this encounter. You enjoy the service for what it is -- service. It's only when you're about to cum that things get really exciting.

His cock told me it was almost time before his breathing and tense body did. I didn't think I really felt the jism rushing up from his balls, through that gorgeous shaft, but I imagined that I had. (Since then I've learned -- it was real.) It felt like it reached a point just short of the head, then stopped. I sucked harder. Jason moaned, and bucked in his chair. He grabbed my hair, and I expected him to fuck my mouth again, for these last few seconds. 

He didn't get the chance, because he was stuck in the chair. All he could do was buck his hips a little, and grab the sides of my head and pull it up, and down, up and down, faster. If that made my Master happy, it was fine with me, but he wasn't really doing anything. I was going up, and down, picking up speed slowly, exactly as he seemed to want.

He gave a strangled groan, and his whole body shuddered. Score one for the slave! I thought. Just then the cum started to flow again. I pulled my mouth back to catch the cum on my tongue, where I could enjoy the taste. He understood, and grabbed his shaft, pumping like mad. One, two, three. . .

With no warning whatsoever, his cum exploded into my eager mouth. No matter how hard he stroked, this time I was going to get every drop. I was sucking for all I was worth, and he was pumping, and what felt like pints of cum were swishing around in my mouth before being swallowed, and we both were groaning, him from the animal pleasure of the sex act and me from my sincere joy at being allowed to perform the service. Not to mention the sweet nectar I was feeding on. 




Give the Student What He Wants Ch. 02



I could hear his heart pound. His free hand suddenly stopped pumping, and I heard a scratching sound as he grabbed at the fabric of the chair. His body shuddered again and again. He twisted and turned, almost as if he wanted me to release his dick, but I knew better (I hoped), and hung on tight. Verrrrryyy careful about the teeth.

After what felt like a long time, his spasms quieted down, the flow of cum dwindled to a trickle, and his cock softened a little, like before, from steel I-beam to, maybe, one of those half-sized bats they give out at the ballpark on Bat Day. Almost that big, too, it seemed to me. His jacking hand slid back to his cock, stroking softly. Then he did something that almost made me cream in my pants for the sheer unexpected joy of it. I was still propped up on my arms, my hands on the arms of the chair. His free hand squeezed my hand, gently, with affection.

I wasn't letting go of that sweet pole until I absolutely had to. Softer and softer, that just made more I could cram in my mouth. There was nothing to suck, but I just liked the idea of taking care of the tired thing until it could be put to bed. Master Jason just sat, still, I suppose in post-orgasmic bliss. After a while he spoke.

"Assume The Position, " he whispered. I released his soft prick and dropped to my knees, bowing my head. He reached down and cupped my chin in his palm, pulling my face up so I was looking at him. "Dr. Bitch, you learn quick," he said, sounding strangely friendly. "Some day you just might be a good all-around slut. On a ten point scale, I'd give that one a six, maybe six and a half. I don't mean to hurt your feelings. For your second blow job ever, it was a ten, maybe higher. But after some practice, you'll see what I mean."

He hoisted himself out of the chair and rearranged his clothes to proper. His stern voice returned. "Dr. Bitch, stay in The Position until I leave. Then you can get up. If those porn movies don't have anything more to teach you, get some others. I expect you to learn deep throating, but not 'til you have more practice at regular cocksucking. In fact, in a month or so, I expect you to be an expert at deep throating. That Linda whats-her-name will want lessons from you." He picked up his backpack and was gone.

I didn't remember giving Jason my unlisted home phone number, but on Sunday he called me. He sounded like he'd been drinking. "Dr. Bitch?" he slurred. "Is anyone there? Assume The Position." I fell to my knees, clutching the phone. "Good boy. Now get up, get in your car, drive around until it's warm inside, and then come pick me up at Richie's Tavern. You know it?" "Yes, Master." 

"Just come in and sort of run in to me. 'Jason! What are you doing here?' You know the drill. Then offer me a ride home, because I'm too drunk to drive. Understand?" "Yes, Master."

"Then get moving!" he slammed down his receiver.

I was nervous, because this plan contradicted his orders about perfect secrecy. Nevertheless, I did as I had been told, and soon we were driving away from Richie's. He was tipsy, but not drunk. Definitely DUI, if he'd driven and been pulled over, but not drunk enough for the cop to notice in the first place. Even so, I was immensely pleased to have been summoned. I'd missed him.

"Take me to your place," he commanded. "I need a piece of ass. NOW."

I drove. I was thrilled, and scared, and elated. He planned to favor my ass with his cock? My virgin ass? I was ready with K-Y jelly, as commanded. (I had tried to imagine how it would feel, but concluded I had no way to tell. (Which, I've found out since, was true -- I'd had no idea.) I tried using my own fingers in my ass, as kind of a practice, but that was ridiculous. All ten of my fingers, in a tight bundle, might just barely be as thick as Master Jason's prick.)

I wanted to stammer out my thanks right then, but stopped. He really hadn't promised. For all I knew, he'd told some girl to meet him at my place. I was sure she was a stunner. D cups, size 4 ass, chestnut hair. She'd know all the secrets of sucking cock, and maybe of taking it up the ass. Maybe she'd have some good advice for me.

I daydreamed about it as I drove -- they'd take my bed, of course, and I'd make do on the couch. I'd be on call in case they wanted anything: more condoms, beer, sex toys. Not that I had any sex toys, but I'd run out and buy some. 

Maybe they'd let me watch them fuck. Jason would taste her tits, then ease that beautiful face between her legs, tongue out, rigid, seeking just the right spot in her cunt, to get it ready for his massive tool. I hoped she wouldn't blow him, though. That was my privilege. No matter how much he fucked her, if he'd let me, I could get him off one more time. After two-and-a-half blow jobs, I sure thought I was some expert. 

And all the while, they'd be kissing, and kissing, and kissing. That made me jealous, of a woman who might not even exist! I wanted to kiss Jason, really necking, tongue wrestling, almost as much as I wanted his cock. I wondered if I could ask him: "Please, Master, may I kiss you?"

OHMYGOD! I'd said it out loud. Jason gave me a long look, then said, "Pull over." I complied right away, neatly at the curb, shifter in "park," motor running. "Okay, kiss me," he commanded. I leaned toward him, enjoying the superior smirk he was giving me. Head to the left or to the right? Left. Can I use my hands? On his head? Shoulders? Cock? Better not. All I had permission for was the kiss.

I pulled my legs from under the steering wheel, so I could keep my balance. The car was dark. It was January out, but the car was warm, as he'd ordered. There was no traffic. No one walking a dog. In fact, almost no sounds.

Slowly I leaned into his thin smile, giving my lips one last lick, so they were moist enough. I tried not to hope he'd respond, so I wouldn't be disappointed. No luck. I had high hopes as my lips touched the skin of his face. I leaned in a little harder, and planted the kiss.

His response shocked me. He placed his strong right hand on the back of my head, opened his mouth and kissed me with all the warmth and affection I could possibly have hoped for. I did the same. Our teeth opened, and our tongues did their dance. My face was already flushed from the flames of the contact. I could feel the warmth moving down my body, like good Scotch moves down your throat. 

His kisses grew hotter, and more urgent. I could taste the beer. I wanted to reach for his cock, but didn't dare without an invitation. Just as I was thinking about this, Jason, to my absolute shocked delight, shoved his hand inside my belt, inside my pants, and inside my underwear to grasp my puny dick, which was harder and straighter than it had ever been. He didn't stroke it, he just cupped my balls gently, with his thumb and finger loosely around the base.

I almost exploded like a 12-year old. No stroking necessary. But, somewhere deep I remembered that I was not ever, ever to cum without his permission. I wasn't sure if I had permission, so my subconscious turned off the cum. Oh, well. Obeying one's Master has its ups and downs. Does it ever!

Suddenly he disengaged from our kiss to look in my eyes. Mine, I knew, gazed upon my Master, as ever, with total adoration and submission. His eyes showed the light of affection, tentative, like people kissing on their first or second date. If he had me under his spell, I thought, then I had him at least partially under mine. I'd never felt this way about anyone.

After a long moment he spoke. "Home," he whispered. I turned back around to the driving position, pleased and proud to have his left hand remain on my cock. I took a chance, and after turning the key I dropped my hand to my crotch and squeezed his, gently. To my surprise, he smiled.

"Drive," he said. "To your place. Quick."

I did as I was told.

As I opened my apartment door I automatically started to do the host routine. "Let me take your coat. Coffee? Decaf?" But the look on his face brought me up sharp. "Master," I restarted. "May I hang up your coat? Would you like something to drink? I don't have any beer, but there's some single-malt Scotch." As I spoke, Jason shed his coat, then his shirt, shoes, pants, underwear, socks. He was quick. I was surprised by his urgency; those services were my job. I wished he'd let me do them.

"Neeooo, I would not like you to take my cooooat," he hissed, in a simpering nasal tone, mocking me. "What I want is you, on your knees. Assume The Position." I dropped.

It was sort of a replay of our first time. Not a blow job, really. He fucked my mouth. Hard. Not brutally, but totally unconcerned with my comfort. His hips bucked and thrust his prick to the very limit of my mouth, then back, so the cockhead almost reached my lips, then his hips would thrust him in again. On some strokes, but not all (thank you, Master), he'd yank my hair and pull my head toward him as he made another strong, uncaring, abrupt thrust. It hurt like hell. My hair hurt, my jaw hurt, even my nose and lips hurt, banging into his scratchy crotch hair on every stroke.

I was in heaven.

As he fucked me, he was talking, sort of to me, I guess. "See, Dr. Bitch, it's not going to be all lovey-dovey like last time. I'm the Master here. I do what I want. You submit. Period. I bet this hurts. It'll ache tomorrow -- all my sluts have said so. Too fucking bad. You'll take it, and when I'm done, and you've drunk down all the cum, your first words will be, 'Thank you, Master. Thank you for using me however you please. Thank you for fucking my mouth.' Like this." He yanked my hair, and my nose hit his crotch so hard I was afraid it might start bleeding all over those perfect balls and their garden of curly pubic hair.

"I'm cumming! I'm cumming! Dr. Bitch, you bastard, you'd better catch every drop! Swallow it all! Here it comes! You'd better be ready! Aggghhh. . . "

Of course, he didn't need to say all those harsh things. I had no intention of spilling a drop. I wasn't going to swallow right away, though. I'd let it linger on my tongue, as much as I could manage.

The cum gushed and gushed, like it did on the first day. I'd had a little more practice, though, and carefully watched all those movies. I handled it much better this time. I said my lines, with a lot of feeling: "Thank you, Master. Thank you for using me however you please. Thank you for fucking my mouth like this." 

He dropped his naked body, spent, on the sofa, flopping one forearm over his eyes. "Get me a beer."

"I'm sorry, Master, I have no beer. Shall I go buy some?"

"No, just come here." Unsure what he meant, I knelt at his feet, leaning on the sofa in a kind of lazy version of The Position. He idly petted my hair, like you'd pet a dog. "What was the idea of asking for a kiss, back there, in the car?"

"Master, I was daydreaming about the days I hope for, when you would let me kiss your lips, caress your lovely hard body, present my ass to you for fucking. Those are my only daydreams, since last week. In my presumptuous lust, I slipped and spoke words I should have kept to myself. I am truly very sorry."

He chuckled a little, but the forearm remained over his eyes. "No, it's okay. When you said it I thought, 'now, here's a slut with some spunk.' My cock approved, I can tell you. Too bad I was wrong. No spunk. Not enough, anyway."

I was crushed.

It must have showed, because I looked up to see him peering out from under the arm across his face. "Oh, what the hell. Come here, my little Dr. Bitch. Let's find out how much you know about kissing." His prick was already stirring, getting ready for another round.

Wow. I meant to catch you up all the way to Friday, as I lay with my head in my dear Master's lap, trying to hide my eagerness as we await his next erection. But it's only Sunday evening, and we're necking on the couch. It's already happened, so I know: Later tonight he'll let me give him a hand job, and then suck down all that teenage cum. Then -- how do I deserve such a Master! -- he permits me to give myself a hand job as well, that is, to masturbate. But he orders me to be tidy, in the bathroom, and to use a warm damp washcloth to catch all the cum. He has no interest in my hand job, but he wants to watch me suck and lick my cum off the cloth. 

It was fun. I have the K-Y jelly, but we don't use it tonight. Be patient, like I had to be.



Give the Student What He Wants Ch. 03



Let's see. As I tell this story, relaxing with my head in my young Master's lap, kissing his stiffening cock now and then, I'm trying to catch you up to how I got here. Today is Friday, January 27. I believe I left you last time on Sunday night, happily licking and chewing my own cum off of a damp washcloth. 

You see, my Master, a college student I call Jason (of course not his real name), had finally given me permission to jack myself off. This was only after almost a week of servicing his magnificent member, with my hands and mouth. I was about to burst. When Master Jason granted me this kindness, I almost did burst. I dashed into the bathroom for the washcloth and got right to work. Seven or eight strokes. It was laughable. But I was a fountain of cum, like I hadn't been for years and years. Even though I'm a 40-something man, you could have measured my cum in pints, not teaspoons. I lost two pounds (just kidding). I caught it all, on the cloth, and got busy eating my jizz. Tasty, but not as good as Master's. I offered him some, but he turned it down.

That was late Sunday night. My Master went home, to sleep the morning away, like all 19-year olds do after a night of drinking beer, necking and cumming, and I got a few hours of sleep before getting up to teach my math classes. I teach at a midwestern state university, over a hundred miles from anything you'd call a city. Jason is in my 10:00 calculus class. That's how I met him, or to be more accurate, how he met me, or to really tell the truth, how he took me over, body and mind, with a little hypnosis and a promise that I could suck his cock on a regular basis. I'm his property, period. He says so, and he's always right.

My dullest class, a remedial class of high-school algebra, meets at 9:00 on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; Jason's calculus class follows, then at 1:00 another section of calculus. Of course, my algebra class no longer really "meets" on Monday morning -- they're all home in bed, sleeping off whatever excitement they enjoyed over the weekend. It's hard to blame them. They cut this class in high school, and didn't magically develop an interest in math over the summer. But, about a third of the class showed up on Monday (including, apropos of nothing, a gorgeous, well-endowed girl with a beautiful buttery cafe-au-lait complexion, who could easily be the next Miss November. Oh, for the days before Master Jason told me I was gay. . . ). I wade through the material, assigning homework problems with regret, because I'll have to grade them. But, as one of the critters on the Flinstones might say, it's a living.

I had my eye on the clock, watching the seconds tick slowly toward 10:00. I hadn't seen my Master since about 1:00 AM and that was 'way too long. At 9:50 I let the algebra class go, erase the chalkboard, put the algebra stuff away and got out the calculus stuff. Calculus-for-dummies isn't exactly fun and games, either, but at least it's a college-level class. Some students wandered in, as I watched for Master Jason. He's about six feet tall, muscular, and sort of handsome -- better than average, but not the tallest, strongest, or best-looking guy on campus. (I'd bet on him in a cock-size contest. But you have to remember, I'm biased.) 

At last, he arrived. My face wanted to light up in greeting, but our affair is strictly secret, so I controlled myself. I can't control my prick, though. Even though I'd totally drained him just a few hours before, he was doing the iron bar routine again. I was wearing an extra restraint – a jock strap – that helped some, but I'm sure that some dirty-minded students noticed. "I've gotta solve this erection problem," I thought.

Jason didn't even glance at me. He just found a chair in his usual spot next to the window, sat, and got out his notebook. I was doing my best not just to gaze at him, but instead of gazing I was taking little quick, furtive glances in his direction. If any student saw me doing this, I don't know if he or she made the connection, or not. Deep down, I didn't care much.

Then it was 10:00, straight up. About half attendance. "Attention, please, class. It's time to start. Let's review a little from last time, to get a running start. We're working on the composite-function rules of differentiation – the product rule, the quotient rule, and the chain rule. If you remember, I said that the quotient rule is just a special case of the product rule – why?" I saw a couple of grudging hands, and the class was under way. Jason was paying attention, as usual – I'd of course promised him an "A" but I'd also persuaded him that as a corporate finance major, he'll need this stuff. No secret smile, no sly wink, nothing for me but the business-as-usual mask. He was really good at this secrecy game!

Ms. Decolletage was present, front row center, proudly displaying about 75% of her C- or D-cup tits. (Some professors actually resent sexy girls in sexy outfits in their classes, as if they're personally being prick-teased. I have news for them. Sure, they're being prick-teased. But all the boys are being prick-teased, equally. I've always been sure that they keep a count of how many heads (both kinds) turn, and that there's somebody, with an office in some sorority, keeping score. But it's not a problem. It's a perk.) She (Ms. Decolletage) is actually helpful, in my situation, because if anyone notices the bulge in my jeans, they'll assume that she's the cause, and won't think about me and Master Jason.

So, the math professor (me) droned on, and the 50 minutes dragged by. I hadn't caught Jason's eye all morning, and dropped my guard. Without warning he looked away from the window and raised his hand. By habit, I pointed to him. Usually I don't say anything. Pointing at the hand-raiser is sufficient. But before I could catch myself, I said, "Yes, Mast---," then, "Yes, Mr. D____?" To make matters worse, I turned beet red. Still worse, I let some of my adoration shines through my eyes. I felt my body language change, in an instant, from competent, in-charge professor to besotten, servile slave.

It didn't take two seconds to catch myself and get back into character, but two seconds is plenty of time for people to notice such things. I never found out if any students actually did notice – how would I? – but Master Jason did. Or, as I hoped at that moment, my lenient, understanding and forgiving Master Jason did. 

His brow was slightly wrinkled, signaling his displeasure. "Professor, I think I understand the product rule, but did you make a mistake in that last example? Isn't the derivative of the logarithm of x equal to one over x?"

I can't tell you how many different, panicky thoughts raced through my brain in the time it took him to ask that simple question. Did my Master really mean to force me to explain things to him, or, worse, correct him, right in class? I was proud I'd gotten him to accept my private comments on his quizzes. Could I even make the words, "I'm sorry, but you're wrong," come out of my mouth? Then, when I realized that he was correct – the derivative of log-x is 1/ x – I had just as much relief as I'd had panic. He was right! I turned to the board and said, "You're absolutely right. My mistake. Maybe I should slow down and check my work, like I'm always telling students to do."

I gave him the patented sheepish-professor-to-bright-student grin, nothing personal about it, as my mind continued to race. How could I have thought he'd be wrong? What kind of treachery was that? My eyes tried to beam, "Imsorry imsorry imsorry imsorry imsorry." I can't decide if what happened later makes me think he got the "I'm sorry" message or not.

"Thank you, Mr. D___." I'd already divulged that I knew his surname, so that was okay. Raising my voice to announcement mode, I said, "Everybody else! Are you following? If you wrote my error into your notes, correct it now. If you do it wrong on the quiz it's your error, not mine. Mine has been fixed."

I got through the rest of the class, but my confidence was shot. It wasn't that Master Jason, pleased or displeased, made me nervous or afraid. It was that the struggle not to drop to The Position and beg to lunch on his cum took too much of my energy. That was another problem I'd need to solve. I couldn't very well ask him not to come to his own class. In fact, I was his slave. I couldn't ask him anything.

As the class stood up to leave, I saw Jason tear off a piece of paper he had written on. A note! For me? What would he say? I moved to the classroom door, as I did sometimes, wishing the students a "good one" and other nice things. I did the same for Jason, and received a many-folded scrap of paper. It almost burned as I continued the airline stewardess routine until the last student had gone.

Trembling, I opened the note. "Your apartment. Tomorrow night, 7:00. Have plenty of Sam Adams ready, cold." At the bottom was an afterthought: "You are in trouble, dr. b. No honey for you today. Think about what you've done and what we should do about it." 

I thought about cancelling my 1:00 class and going home, sick, but I struggled through. Then I went home, sick. Really. I was so nervous I puked, just after I got home. Luckily, I'd bought the beer right away. Then I just sat, my mind a blank. It was a long afternoon.

Tuesday snailed by. I spent the morning in my office, pretending to work, but really playing Sudoku on a web site. I suck at Sudoku. Me, a mathematician. I wish I could play Sudoku as well as I can suck cock. That's the kind of profound mathematical thoughts I had all Tuesday. Should I make dinner for him? Should I eat dinner myself? I had no way to tell. I didn't eat. Puking on my Master would not make things better.

Seven o'clock arrived. No Master Jason. Eight, eight-thirty. I had that part figured out. I was getting these extra minutes to really sit and worry. It worked. I sat and worried. 

A little after 8:30 came a double tap on the little door knocker. I took a deep breath, slunk to the door and threw the bolt. Just as I turned the doorknob, the door crashed open, knocking me on my butt and knocking the wind out of me. There stood my Master Jason. He'd kicked the door open. I took in a lot of details. He had on ordinary clothes, except on his feet. Heavy boots. Their footprint was on the door.

He didn't exactly look angry. He just looked determined. And huge. I flashed on the idea that maybe I was shrinking, or he was growing, or both. But it wasn't supernatural. Somehow his determination and firmness of purpose made him look bigger.

Master slammed the door. "Assume The Position." I struggled up to my knees, gasping for breath. Not fast enough. He put his boot on my forehead and pushed me over, so I tumbled half-under the dining table. "I said, 'Assume The Position.'" 

"Y- Yes, Master. Y- Y- Yes, Master Jason." Still gasping, I arranged myself on my knees, rigidly in The Position, without being shoved again, or even slapped. My breathing still wasn't right, but gasping was not part of assuming The Position. I forced myself to breathe regularly. 

"You better have the beer."

"Y- Yes, Master, in th –"

"Did I say talk, Bitch?" He snickered. "From now on you're demoted. You're just 'Bitch,' not 'Doctor Bitch.' Okay, Bitch. Don't speak without permission. Got it?"

I didn't know whether to answer or not. I stayed silent.

He laughed. "Caught in a contradiction, isn't that what you math types say? Listen, worm. If I stop talking after you hear a question mark, answer. Immediately. With respec—no, with worship. And don't do any boneheaded blurting like you did in class yesterday. If you can't talk without disobeying my orders, then don't talk. Even in class. Got it now?"

By now I could breathe a little better. "Yes, Master Jason." I managed to say it firmly, I hoped worshipfully, without quavering.

But he'd disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the 'snick' of the bottle opener, and he reemerged with the beer.

"Well, Bitch – " he appeared to like to say the word – "Well, Bitch, I've been thinking about this evening for the past day and a half. I bet you have too. Right!?"

"Yes, Master. I have tried to anticip—"

"SHUT UP, BITCH!" he roared. "I want your answer, not your opinion. And I never want to hear your excuse. You're a slave. Slaves have no excuses. They perform, or they are punished. You will be punished. Tonight. Here."

He didn't say anything I didn't know already, but even so, the ferocity in his words was terrifying. What did he have in mind? But I knew, at long last, to keep my mouth shut.

He killed his beer and his boots stomped into the kitchen for another. I stayed in The Position. When he returned to the living room carpet I couldn't hear him moving any more, but in a moment he roared again: "Doctor Bitch! On your feet! Stand right there, facing me!" 

This time, I moved fast. Master was standing in front of the couch. If he relaxed backward, he'd be sitting very close to its center. He still looked determined, like he had a job to do, but I still didn't detect any genuine anger. Maybe his anger was play-acting. Maybe I was guilty of some wishful thinking. I stood straight up, sort of as soldiers do, standing at attention. I still had no permission to speak.

"Listen, Bitch. If you want to continue to service my cock, and enjoy my other favors, you have to have some self-discipline. Our arrangements are our secret, and no one else's! Got it?"

"Yes, sir, I mean Master."

"Did you almost blab, 'Master Jason' to the whole math class yesterday?"

"Yes, Master. I'm really ver—"

"SILENCE!!! You don't catch on very well, do you. Did I ask you if you were 'really' anything?"

"No, Master."

"Better. Now. What can we do to prevent you from blabbing our fun little secret? Cut out your tongue? Nah. Beat you black and blue so you're so traumatized you can't talk at all? Kick you in the guts until your intestines rupture? No. Not even I am powerful enough to kill. Besides, if you're dead, there's no secret to protect. You're the one in trouble, not me." 

He began pacing up and down, in front of the couch. "I have it! This is goodbye, Ms. Bitch! You are hereby banished from my presence. You may speak to me in math class, about math, but you are not to venture to offer any personal comment, or note, or anything. Anything at all. I may drop by your office some day, to introduce you to my new Dr. Bitch, but you WILL NOT ATTEMPT to contact me in any way. How's that?"

I was still standing, rigid, but tears of fright, of loneliness, of bewilderment rolled down my cheeks as he pronounced sentence. The beatings he'd suggested didn't frighten me. That was only pain. He was banishing me to emptiness, for life. I understood about Professor Bridgman, now. I really hadn't when my Master had casually mentioned that he'd probably been the reason for a man's suicide. Now I did. And I started, with horror, to realize that he had absolutely no regrets or remorse for his treatment of Professor Bridgman, and probably wouldn't for me.

I would have collapsed, sobbing, in absolute terror, if I dared.

"Master, does your question require an answer?"

He sneered, "Go ahead."

"Master, please, I beg you, do not deprive me of your Presence. The beatings, the other violence you described, they'd be wrist slaps compared to that. I could bear beating, but not banishment!"

My tears were gushing, but I stayed on my feet.

"Wow, you've got it bad, don't you, Bitch?" he snarled. "You'd die, you'd really die, for one more taste of my cock, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, Master, but more. I'd die for just one more hour of your time, if afterwards you would be lost to me."

He immediately calmed down. "You mean it. I can see it in your face. You're by far the worst of all my bitches."

"Yes, Master, and proud of it." I was fairly sure by now that he hadn't meant to follow through on his threats, he just wanted to scare me. He succeeded! But I would never, ever, tell him I thought so, without a direct order. I was besotted, not stupid.

"Okay, Bitch, here's your sentence. I won't tell you, I'll show you, phase by phase. Got it?"

"Oh, yes, Master, and thank you, Master, thank you – "

"Shut up." He stood directly in front of me. "Assume The Position." I dropped. "Look at my waist. At my belt. Unbuckle my belt, and remove it." I reached up, but he kicked my hand. "With your mouth."

I complied. It wasn't that hard, really. Lucky for me that my Master was physically fit. If he'd had a beer belly, the task might have been impossible, and then what? It was, of course, fairly obvious where this was heading.

When I had finished, I held the end of the belt in my teeth. "Stand." I did so. "Strip. Absolutely naked." I was sure that the command included permission to move, but I moved as little as possible as I hastened to yank off everything I was wearing. My prick, for once, wasn't excited.

As I stripped, he'd sat down on the couch, crossed his legs, and relaxed, watching. He chuckled at my flaccid dick. "You know what's next, don't you, Bitch?"

"I think so, Master. You want me to lie across your knees, with my ass in position for a whipping."

"Give the man a Ph.D.!" he exclaimed. "One hundred per cent correct. Move." His voice changed for that last word, and hit me like the first lash of the belt. I lay across his knees. I was almost sobbing again, but this time with gratitude. I was not going to lose him. A whipping was trivial by comparison.

I had no permission to look, but I could feel by the shift in his thighs when his arm went up, and when it came down, whipping with the heavy leather belt. "One!" he said. "I'm not going to tell you how many, Miss Bitch. I'll let you wonder, 'Is this the last one?' each time."

"Oh, and by the way. You do not, you absolutely do not, have my permission to say a word or make a sound."

"Two!"

"Three!" The lashes made my butt cheeks burn like I'd sat on a hot stove. I didn't know if they were bleeding, but I knew they would be, before the end. I lay as still as possible and resolved to say nothing, to show that I could be a good little bitch.

"Four!" "Five!" "Six!" The hotness of the pain reached a limit, but now the strokes were driving the pain deeper into my muscles, and into my bones. Not just around my butt, either – all over. I was, simply, in agony.

But at right about this time, through the pain, I perceived something through Master Jason's body language. He was enjoying this. Not as sadism, but as affection. I didn't know why I was so sure, and I didn't understand how such a whipping could be done with love, but I was somehow sure. 

And my body communicated this confidence to my Master. With each stroke, my dick grew bigger and harder than it had ever been.

The lashes continued. I won't say how many, but it was more than 10 and less than 100. Each lash caused my pain to grow exponentially (only a math teacher would think of such a thing at a time like that), as did the hardness and thickness of my prick. If Master noticed the latter – and how could he not? – he said nothing about it.

"Okay, Bitch, we're done with Phase One. Get up." I tried, but all my muscles were like jelly. So were my bones. All the firmness in my body was concentrated in one place.

"I said, 'GET UP!'" I was too afraid even to say that I couldn't. "OH, ALL RIGHT!" He wrapped his arms around my chest and thighs and stood up. This was the first time I realized how strong he actually was. Well-built, that was obvious. But this man was strong. 

He turned around and lay my body down on the sofa, butt side up, away from the scratchy fabric. "What now?" I wondered, and found out almost immediately. 

"Where'd you put that K-Y jelly?"

He was going to fuck my virgin ass, now, as my body oozed like jelly and I was in agony almost everywhere? What kind of man was my Master, anyway?




Give the Student What He Wants Ch. 03



"In the bathroom, Master Jason. In the drawer next to the sink." It was all I could do to whisper this information, but he let it go, and left the room.

He was gone for a few minutes. I could raise my head enough to see him return. He had the K-Y jelly, all right, and that was all. He was totally naked, and totally aroused. I guess whipping made him as excited as being whipped made me. I wondered if I'd ever have the temerity to ask him. But there was his member, stretching up to his sternum, thick as a baguette, hard as the granite of the Sierras (I exaggerate). If bricks can catch fire, it was red as a burning brick. A red dark and angry, and red and eager, both at the same time.

My hard-on couldn't possibly get any stiffer, but it didn't get any softer, either. It seemed that my hormones were very, very excited at the prospect of hosting that meaty pole in my intestines.

He squeezed out some K-Y jelly and slapped it all over my red, burning ass. Said nothing. Twice more. It helped a little, but not much. Then he flicked another slug of K-Y right in my ass hole. My ass hole hadn't been whipped, but this was startling, and I twitched.

"That's right, little Bitch," he chortled. "You're about to lose your virginity. Any last words?"

"Thank you, Master," I murmured, as humbly as I could manage. "I am pleased that I still have the privilege of servicing your magnificent cock."

A huge, probing stick invaded my ass. I'd thought I was beyond pain, but I was wrong. I wanted to scream out in redoubled agony, but dared not. What was going on? Surely he hadn't just shoved his dick in? He couldn't have. He was in the wrong position. I couldn't see behind me, but I could see that his legs were both on the floor.

It felt as if the probe penetrated clear through to my pubic bone. Straight line, no concessions to the natural bends and twists of the intestinal canals. He pulled the huge thing out, almost all the way, then shoved it in again, and again. "Agggghhhhh!" I screamed, silently.

More cool K-Y jelly on the ass hole, rubbed in, packed in the hole. Then another probe was shoved in, more violently, twice as thick, four times as painful. Then it hit me. That wasn't his huge cock, bigger than a pepperoni. Not even close. It was only his fingers! Two simple, little fingers. I hoped he got a huge string of orgasms, because this evening was costing me plenty. More jelly, three fingers. Now his fingers were functioning not only as a rigid, straight probe, he was using them to explore around my anus. More likely, he knew what my anus would be like. He was stretching me out as much as he could before taking his pleasure with his massive prick. 

One leg swung over and landed beside mine, at the V of the back and the seat of the couch. No warning, again. His body lunged forward and his hands caught the arm of the couch. I could feel the head of his cock, sort of ringing the doorbell of my anus. 

"Are you ready, Bitch?" he hissed. "Not that I care."

With that, his huge pole, that baseball bat, that cock that was bigger than my forearm, crashed through my last defenses and penetrated all the way to my heart. I can't imagine anything, ever again, hurting so much, and so quickly. Get buttfucked, by a real, well endowed Man, one who knows his business. I recommend it. Then if you're in a car crash, you'll have some perspective for the pain. 

He'd found a way to batter and bruise my inner organs as he'd battered and bruised my skin and muscles with his belt. I gritted my teeth and let the tears squirt from my eyes. How could so many people just do this, this anal sex, casually and without a very large cash payment up front? What was I missing?

He took his first stroke. Out almost all the way, then plunging in, as if it were my mouth. More fire, more of that dull ache, like being punched in the solar plexus (maybe that's actually what happened). Again. This time I was ready for him, which helped a little. It only hurt like a sonofabitch. I guess my body was instructing the organs, "Hey, we can't stop this thing, so get out of the way!"

Another stroke. The pain was subsiding, but everything's relative. My inner ass still hurt worse than the skin of the ass cheeks. By now, I'd relaxed as much as possible, because that eased the pain a little. I was just going to grin and bear it. If I could.

The strokes continued, in that strong steady rhythm that my tongue and throat knew so well. But as they did, a miracle occurred. I started to like it! It still hurt, just as much, but I felt as if that beautiful cock was joining my insignificant cock, from the inside. My balls were tingling like a palm sander. I noticed, suddenly, that my cock had never softened. Maybe I should listen to him, a little more.

Without really realizing I was doing it, I began to match his strokes a little. This actually eased the ache in my muscles, from the whipping. Just a little movement of the hips, then a little more,. . . until totally without meaning to, I was stroking as hard as my Master was, pulling and pushing as he pushed and pulled. If I thought about the flesh, it was agony. If I thought about the feeling – the same sort of feeling when you're about to explode with cum – I was in heaven.

What an incredible experience.

Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. I didn't know how to sense when he was ready, but by his breathing, I guessed it would be soon. I guessed wrong. My Master has good breath control. When he starts to breathe hard, and he's fucking, exerting himself, then the short breaths come at the same moment as the first gallon of jism.

The cum gushed, and the canal he'd cut through my muscles and organs got a huge dose of very organic lubricant. That felt nice, just by itself. A few more strokes, the gushes diminished, the cock softened. Master's sweat was dripping all over my back and neck. He flexed his elbows, lowering his torso toward mine, and gently bit my ear.

I wanted to cry for so many reasons, I couldn't cry at all. I'd just had the most incredibly pleasurable experience of my life, eclipsing the other personal bests I'd set over the past week. My ass cheeks screamed in pain from the whipping. All of my inner organs, except my bones and one other, ached or felt afire. My bones weren't damaged, they'd just all turned to rubber.

The organ that didn't hurt was my heart. I'd been hypnotized, I'd been besotted, but now I was in love. Losing his virginity will do that to a fella.

He pulled his cock out of my asshole. I felt a little 'pop!' as he left. His leg swung back over me, and he knelt so his mouth was close to my ear. "Phase Two." he whispered. "We'll save Phase Three for when it's needed. If you fuck up again, this is what you'll be missing."

Thus ended, for me, Tuesday. I passed out, on my own couch. When I awoke, it was about 5:00 AM. I ached the worst aches of my life, all over, inside and out. But, the softest blanket in the house was spread out over me. Master Jason had left. But I was sure he wasn't gone, if you know what I mean. 



Give the Student What He Wants Ch. 04



There was no way I could move on Wednesday, let alone teach, so I called in and cancelled my classes. (I could hear the disappointed moans all the way from campus.) I moved around in a weird daze, pain and post-coital glow together. I felt better after a hot bath. That sounds like a real girlie thing to do, but, hey, I'm quickly turning into a real girlie, or 'bitch,' if you prefer. I prefer 'bitch,' actually, but of course I don't get a vote.

I'd have liked to call Master Jason, but he'd made it clear that I must not. I assumed that he had one or two more post-hypnotic sluts, like me, around town, but I'd never presume to ask him. If I needed to know, he'd tell me. Otherwise, I was simply to be available to him, whenever he wanted me. 

At least, today, I had the confidence not to worry when my Master didn't call. He'd know that another round like last night would come close to killing me! And although I ached through and through from the mauling I'd taken from his belt and his buttfuck, I understood that my Master was not a cruel or sadistic man. My Master was simply selfish, and didn't care about the damage he did pursuing his pleasures. This was absolutely proper. From that first day, I'd understood that I'd been useless my whole life, until this superman came along and found a use for, at least, my mediocre body. My mind? What a joke! My students tried, and succeeded, in forgetting everything I'd told them by the end of the final exam. I'd done the bare minimum on the 'publish or perish' gerbil wheel, but I strongly doubted that anyone ever read my stuff, let alone found it useful in amazing scientific discoveries. I had been born to serve this young god, and I was grateful that he was not any crueler.

Later in the afternoon my cell phone rang. I hobbled to the night-table, where it was charging, and caught it on the third ring. It was Master Jason!

"Hello? . . . Oh, hello, Master! I hope you are feeling well after all the favors you granted me last night?"

"Shut up, bitch. But DON'T assume The Position. I know you're all bruised up. I don't care about your pain, but I do want you to last for a few more weeks, anyway. So take it easy. That's an order."

"Yes, Master. Thank you."

"I'm calling to say I'll be coming by this evening. I won't tell you when. Be ready for me, starting now. Naturally, if you have any plans you will cancel them."

"Of course, Master. But you know I have no plans. You are my entire universe, except for my job and necessary functions like buying groceries."

"I know, although you'd better get used to the idea that if my desires conflict with teaching all those dopes, or buying groceries, I take absolute precedence. I'm sure you agree. Don't even bother to say it."

"Yes, Master. Do you desire any special preparations for this evening?"

"You have coffee, and beer; that's plenty."

"Very well, Master. I eagerly await your arrival. I shall keep the door unlocked, so you can enter at will." But he'd already hung up. I don't know where I picked up these expressions like 'very well,' as if I were a well-trained English butler. Probably Public TV. But they automatically came to mind as I listened to Master Jason's demands.

I popped the button on the doorknob (Master had not thrown the bolt when he left last night, and I hadn't thought of it today); then set up the coffee maker to start with the press of a button, got out mugs, sugar, spoons, and such ready, and put a couple of tumblers in the freezer. I don't have any real beer glasses. I hoped that these simple preparations would find favor, but the nauseating nervousness was gone. Unbelievably, my confidence was growing. I even remained in my cheap, but comfortable, lounging outfit of cotton pajama pants from Old Navy and an old t-shirt. The pants, especially, were therapeutic, because they didn't squeeze or constrict the welts on my butt cheeks.

I'd salved and bandaged said butt, to where sitting was uncomfortable, not agonizing. I cleaned the dried-up fluids from last night's gymnastics off the couch and the rug. It felt good to be moving, even if only slowly, giving my muscles something to do besides remember how they'd strained to keep my ass steady for its whipping. Inside, where that long, golden shaft had blazed a very new, very wide trail, I still felt wonderful. Little shudders of anal orgasm delighted me, at random, all day.

Master Jason arrived at about 6:45. I was sitting on the couch looking at the TV, but not paying any attention. When I heard the first rattle of the doorknob, I leapt to my feet. I hadn't moved that fast all day, but now I was back on duty.

I didn't speak; the last instruction I'd had was always to wait for permission. I stood at attention, facing him, as he looked me over. "Turn around. Drop your pants. Bend over."

I complied instantly, but anxiously. Was he going to take my ass again? Bruised and bloody as it was? He ripped off the bandages, and I could feel his fingers pulling this way and that on the cheeks. Inspecting the damage, I assumed. "You don't look so bad. I've seen worse." He giggled that self-centered giggle. "I've done worse. But you'll recover. I'll give you a couple of days. Then, if we're going to break in this asshole properly, it'll be entertaining my cock every two or three days."

Mixed emotions. The pain! The immeasureable, orgasmic pleasure! And most important, my Master intended that I would continue to service his cock! Compared to this, the pain was nothing.

"Go put some new bandages on, if you want to, and put your pants back on. Then come to the table. I'm having trouble with your math homework." I did so, and we sat side by side, discussing calculus. I, wisely, I think, kept my hands off his loins, and didn't even stroke his thigh. After a while I asked, "Master, are you hungry? Shall I order some pizza? Chinese?."

"Good idea, Doctor Bitch. Chinese. You be careful what you eat. You don't want some rocky stools coming through that tunnel I blasted out last night." "Most considerate of you, Master." I ordered the food and returned to the table. As I pulled out my chair, I felt this hard, open-hand smack! on my ass. I bit my lip to suppress the tears, but said nothing. 

"Just a reminder," he said, grinning. "No punishments tonight. I promise."

I wondered if that meant I wouldn't get to at least see his organ. Sighing, I switched back to math teacher mode as we worked through the homework, and even some unassigned problems. He really should have been in the rigorous calculus class. Forgetting my station, I said so.

"Yeah, I know, Doc. But I had you spotted and needed to get into position. Besides, we can do the hard stuff sitting here, together, right?" Of course he was right. And I was glad to be of service to his mind and career, as well as to his libido. But 'get into position?' What did that mean?

As usual, he was reading my thoughts, and grinned. "Doc, after dinner let's put this math away and chat. I'll tell you about how I went from little Jason, who didn't even know he had the biggest dick in the school, to Jason, Master of slaves."

My enthusiasm and curiosity must have shown, although my words were cautious. "I have been very curious about your powers, Master. But should I, whom you sometimes call 'slut,' or 'worm,' be entrusted with your secrets?"

"Why not? I'm certain that you'll never tell. Besides, who'd believe you? It's not as if I came from that town where the UFOs go. I'm just a human, but one with a special gift."

After dinner, we sat on the sofa and did a little passionate necking. He must have liked kissing for its own sake, not as "first base," because we both knew that he could bypass the foreplay whenever he wanted to. He was sprawled on the cushions in the corner of the arm and the back, with his arm around me as I leaned upon him. I was half turned so I was looking into his face. Once in a while my glance drifted downward. He noticed, of course. 

"Oh, all right!" he said. "I'll pull him out so you can touch him. But no sucking! I want to have a conversation, and if you start sucking you'll be stuck on like a leech." 

As I fondled his cock, he started to talk. "First, let me answer some of the questions you are thinking," he began. "Yes, I have a girl friend, on this campus. She's cute, but not gorgeous. B cups. And I don't dominate her, even a little. For one thing, she's ten times smarter than I am. And she's damn good in bed."

"I'm sure I'm not gay, and I don't even think I'm bisexual," he went on. "Last summer I had some psychotherapy. The therapist said that he thought my interest in fucking men was about dominance, not sexuality. Something about my father, probably. I'll never know; it was my last session."

"Why?" I asked, recognizing my cue. He was actually pulling my attention away from the flagpole attached to his crotch.

"Because as soon as the arrogant little cunt said that, I put him under and fucked him right there. No K-Y jelly, no vaseline, nothing. Just my angry dick and his flabby butt. I suppose he was in a lot of pain; I never asked."

"But Master, did you release him from the post-hypnotic trance?"

"No need, because he was hypnotized the whole time. When he came out of it, he remembered everything, but not under any suggestions from me." He smiled. "He talked about calling the cops, but let it drop. Probably he realized that if our little session became known, he'd be ruined."

"You know," he continued, "I should start at the beginning, when I first discovered this hypnotic power. It's nothing supernatural, I don't think. It's just concentrated charisma, and a little self-confidence."

"The first person I hypnotized was Mrs. Graham, my fifth grade teacher, although I didn't know it at the time. I think I was on some kind of watch list, because of my family. My mother absolutely dominated everything and everybody in the family, especially my father and me, but my sisters as well. One of them spent a year in a mental hospital. My mother isn't magic. It's pure meanness. I think she beats my father. He's almost the slave to her that you are to me.

"Anyway, I didn't fuck Mrs. Graham." He shuddered at the prospect. "During class free time, she called me to her desk and started trying to do some amateur therapy. Eyes wide and moist, conscientiously trying to help a troubled student. The thing was, I didn't want her help. So I returned the look in her eyes, and made up a hokey story about a family that had all the issues, some of them twice. I could almost see her heart knotting up, then going out to me. When I stopped, I asked if she'd let us all go spend the rest of our free time on the playground, and she did." That was that. I don't know if she's still alive, or still hypnotized, because I didn't know what I was doing to start with.

"In seventh grade, my symptoms got worse, and I had regular appointments with the school psychologist, who had just the same manner. The soulful gaze, the empathy, but indifferent about actually helping. She went under almost immediately, and confessed that she was burned out, she didn't care about my problems, she was just serving time until retirement. That was when I realized I had some sort of hypnotic power. I suggested that her report say my symptoms were not clinically significant. I didn't like therapy. Worked perfectly.

"Naturally, I tried it on other people, beginning with Natalie, who had big tits for the seventh grade,and I wanted to feel her up. Failed miserably. She didn't even start to go under. She just giggled. I tried to get a convenience store guy to sell me some liquor. No dice. I didn't work on my friends, either.

"The next time was also not on purpose. I was in tenth grade. By then I'd had sex -- first time with Natalie, as a matter of fact -- and the word about my prick was getting around. Why a girl would share information like that I've never understood. You'd think she'd keep it to herself, reduce competition. Anyway some of the faster girls came on to me and I was running a pretty good score. No mind control, just the promise of the monster cock."

Impulsively, I kissed my Master's monster cock, to tell him I wasn't much different from those high school girls. He rewarded me with a smug, contented smile.

"Tenth grade. I went to church every week -- hard to believe, eh? -- and was active in youth groups there. As far as I knew, gossip about my cock had not reached the church, but everyone of course knew about my family. Anyway, one Sunday afternoon, I was helping rearrange some furniture. In walked Mrs. K___, wife of the fattest of our church fat cats. She was 35 years old and hot, for 35; at 22 she'd probably been a trophy wife. You wouldn't mistake her for 22, but you wouldn't mistake her for 35, either. Suddenly, I wanted her. Bad. I wasn't that horny. In fact, I'd been up, fucking, half the night before. Something about power, and possession and dominance, I dunno.

"But this woman, she had some kind of effect on me, because while ogling her, I suddenly understood. I realized that my successful hypnotisms were successful because the subject was listening, caring, sympathetic, non-judgmental -- minds totally open to invasion. Impulsively, when Mrs. K___ and I were alone I asked if I could talk to her about a personal problem. 'Of course,' she said. And, well, I spun a half-true account of some of my home life, all the while gazing into her eyes. I didn't know how fast it worked, so I went on 20 minutes. Then I readjusted my expression to normal Jason mode. She hadn't been asleep, so I don't think you can say she woke up, but she looked just a shade different.

"To test her, I first asked her to make a Burger King run for all us volunteers; she said, 'of course. Anything you want.' I raised my eyebrows -- it was so hokey I wanted to laugh -- and she clearly caught the meaning. 'Anything,' she emphasized. Then I took what I thought was a risk. When she came back with the burgers, and we all went out to have a sort of picnic on the lawn, I sat next to her, close up, so our legs touched. She didn't acknowledge me, but she didn't pull away, either. When the coast was clear, though, I leaned over, reaching for her French fries, and asked, quietly, but without mincing words, 'Do you want to fuck?' She slapped my hand for stealing her fries, then whispered, 'Of course. I said "anything," didn't I?' Fifteen minutes later, I'd taken about three inches of her virginity -- she said I was about three inches longer than anyone she'd had before -- and she had a triple load of my cum and a serene smile. Then I released her from the spell, because I didn't know what would happen when she was out of my sight, and I didn't want her to be hurt.

"Well, that was the beginning of our affair, which is still going on, now and then, when we're both in town. I never even tried to put her under again. She's my sex slave anyway. She's simply mad for my cock. Her ass was a virgin, too -- not my first ass, but my first virgin ass. I didn't know how to break in a virgin ass. By now, I've had three virgins, including you. I wasn't nearly as gentle with her as I was with you."

I contemplated my internal bruises, and smiled.

Master Jason continued: "Since then, I've had a few cunts by the post-hypnotic suggestion method. Nice, caring, women, like two of my high-school teachers, both married, who enjoyed the privilege of entertaining me, separately and sometimes all three of us together. There was the chair of a scholarship committee, two nurses at my HMO doctor's office (another threesome), and the high-school secretary, who wasn't much to look at but was a great fuck, and besides she'd give me keys to closets and such where I could fuck high school girls during the school day. Having a huge cock is sure an advantage. Even if size doesn't matter, curiosity does. No mumbo-jumbo needed. I could never get the girls to stop thinking about themselves long enough for me to do the hypnotism routine. I guess they were just self-centered teenagers.

"To really test the power, I decided to try subjects who were very unlikely to tumble -- a woman in my neighborhood, she'd known me since I was a baby, and the therapist I told you about. Both went under, snap! and the woman stayed under. She's mine. I mostly use her mouth for relief, once in a while, when I'm home.

"Like I told you, that makes two women at home under my thumb, but when I came here I had no one. I'd had some time to think, and decided that I wanted to stop fucking every girl I saw and sort of settle down with just one girl friend, and the two at home for old times' sake. But that therapist, the one I fucked, had me convinced that I'm into dominance, not just sex. 

"But, I decided not to try to find a girl who was into S&M. Instead, I figured, I'd just spot a few professors who seemed likely, maneuver myself into their classes, and start with a sob story that was weird and spicy enough to keep their undivided attention, while they, without knowing what hit them, accepted my absolute authority. Then I could get my violent rocks off with them, whatever I felt like doing or saying, whenever I felt like it. I decided straight men would be better because they'd be more confused by their sudden delight in fucking a man, and because they'd feel like they had more to lose if the affair became known. Dominance and control. I took Professor Bridgman in September, and taught him to be one excellent cocksucker. Then I went home to my captive women, which of course I'd told him all about, and he died. Which leads us to you, and our conversations last week."

By now I was cuddled very close, legs curled up, with one arm behind him in the V of the couch. He had his arm around my waist. From this position, I had a very good view of one fact. As he talked, his woody got harder and harder, and became a steelie. Mine, too. It was vertical, hard, and trying to find a way out from behind my pajama pants. My hard-on was from the wonder of it all, how my young Master Jason was smart enough and brave enough to step forward and demand the obedience that is due to him. His, no doubt, was due to some of his memories of great sex and perfectly bending people to his will.

From my vantage, looking straight down on his member, I was reminded of one of those big NASA rockets waiting to take off. Hard, vertical, ready. Ten, nine, eight, seven, . . 

I don't know if my Master caught me staring at his rigid, godly organ or if it was just his own whim. Either way, I was taken by surprise. His arm moved from my waist to gently stroke or massage my shoulders, then suddenly became a pile driver, forcing my face down to the red-and-gold shaft directly below. It was abrupt, and fast, but just slow enough for me to think, open my mouth, and lock my lips around my teeth so as not to scrape that work of art. Thank heaven for small favors. Small favors for a huge prick.

My lips also formed the suction seal around the shaft, so the cock followed my mouth as he pulled my head this way and that. I got a little support from one arm, but the other was trapped behind my Master as he lolled on the couch. 

"Well, my fine little Bitch," he said, in exactly the same tone he'd told his stories, "let's add a chapter or two to the tale, eh?" Up, down, up, down. "I bet you thought we were getting to be lovers, and not Master and slave. Hah! That's a laugh. As if I could ever love a worm like you. 

"Did you think you could have the day off, because of yesterday? Wrong again. My prick gets serviced when my prick needs service, and your bruises and your day off are totally meaningless. Agree?" As my mouth was busy servicing his prick, I could not answer, but yes, I agreed, 100%.

"Remember, I'm dominant, not sadistic. I don't want to humiliate you. I don't want to hurt you. I just don't care if you're humiliated or hurt. If fucking your mouth by pushing down on the head, pulling up by the hair" -- which he'd been demonstrating for several minutes -- "makes me feel good, then that's that. Does it hurt? Sorry, Bitch, but it makes me feel good. End of story."




Give the Student What He Wants Ch. 04



He got impatient and clamped his other huge hand over my forehead. Pushing my forehead and pulling my hair, he could go faster, and did. Up down up down up down. . . It didn't hurt so much, except by reminding me of all the pains I already had. Faster yet -- updownupdownupdown. I knew he was cumming before he did, I think, but only by a little. Just as the first blast flew out, into my eager mouth, he let go of my forehead. I caught most of the cum in my mouth, this time, so I'd have some to savor. No need.

He was pumping his scorching prick, slowing down, but squeezing hard. My mouth and throat were ready for the second blast, but didn't get it. Instead, just as that cum was about to be launched, he yanked my head back, off his hard prick. Shot after shot of hot, oven-roasted cum flew into and coated my face. I couldn't see, and for one second my nose was blocked and I thought I couldn't breathe. 

As he ejaculated that hot semen, he pulled himself out from under me, so he was now standing, pumping his cock all over my face and torso. I couldn't see him very well, and I wasn't sure if it was permitted to move, so I just lay there and watched. Where did it all come from? His balls were big, but all this cum --?

The spurts got smaller, and came out under less pressure. Abruptly he turned away. A moment later I heard the clatter of tableware in the drawer, and he came back with a spoon, which he shoved into my hand. "Here," he said. "Suppertime."

I knew what that meant. As he stood there watching, I spooned his cum off my face and body, and into my mouth. If you think it feels like a lot as it gets pumped down your throat, imagine scooping it teaspoon by teaspoon. I'm certain there was more cum on me and in me, today, than on my office walls that time last week. 

Only last week! So much has changed.

By the time I finished, my Master was leaving. He paused at the door. "Do you have a cell phone, Bitch?" 

"Yes, Master."

"Well, get another one. With a different phone number. You will give that number to me, and only me. Save your money, don't order voice mail. When I call, you will, without fail, answer by the third ring. Understood?"

"Yes, Master."

I felt the breeze from the door as it swung shut. I was still too sore to go out, so I spent the day cleaning up after our fuck session and trying to think about what kind of a gift I could give that would be anywhere good enough for my Master.



Give the Student What He Wants Ch. 05



As you may recall, Master Jason and I spent Wednesday afternoon studying math, then after dinner we cuddled on the couch while he told me the history of his hypnotic powers. That interlude ended quite abruptly, due to my Master's need (or desire -- they're the same to me) to fuck me, and as my ass is still recovering from yesterday, I had almost a whole second meal consisting entirely of his wonderful cum.

As I was cleaning up I found his note. 

"Bitch --

"Meet me Friday at 8 PM at Richie's Tavern. Your name will be Bitz; if anyone asks, it's short for Elizabeth. Elizabeth is a good-looking single divorcee in her mid-30s. I will very displeased if nobody hits on you. Very displeased.

"I won't see you tomorrow. I'll be getting a blow job from somebody competent."

No signature. Bitch, Bitz, Bitch, Bitz. Cute. "Well-hung, dominant, and clever, too!" I thought. "Oops. Careful. As slave, I have no right to judge whether he's clever. I mustn't form opinions about anything he does, except math, where I have his express permission. It's axiomatic. What he does is right, and if there are several right answers then his is the best. If you're going to have a Master, you can't be second-guessing. What if I were to think he'd made a mistake? A conflict between logic and my Master's will, with me as the battlefield. I'd go mad in an endless recursion, like that renegade computer in Star Trek. Worse, I'd blurt it out like I've done, twice, already. I don't want to know, ever, what Phase Three punishment is like. No, I won't presume to understand. Master Jason is right in all things. Logic's for math only."

How was I going to obey these commands? I knew nothing about dressing in drag. And it can't be silly, like "Some Like It Hot," because I must be convincing to horny, pool-shooting boys. As "Bitz." In less than 48 hours. I sat down to make a list. Dress. I'd need a dress, sort of dressy, but not too much -- Richie's is just a neighborhood tavern, not an upscale wine bar. Bra, with some way to fill it; will B cups be enough? Panty hose, shoes -- some heel, not stiletto. Makeup. Hairstyle. It's probably long enough, but how would a woman do my hair? Nail polish. Purse. Woman's watch.

In despair, I crumbled up the list and threw it, somewhere. What in the hell was I thinking? The guys at Richie's aren't blind. Or stupid. I'm 5'10", 165 pounds. And I want to trick them into hitting on me? What am I going to do? More accurately, what's going to happen to me when I fail Friday night? Maybe he wants to dump me for Mr. or Ms. Thursday Night, and giving me an impossible task will be his excuse. No, he doesn't care about excuses. If he dumps me, he'll just stop showing up. If I shoot myself, he'll mention it casually to Mr. Thursday, but that's all. He's all about power, not remorse. 

That was a dazzling, if irrelevant, insight. My Master is totally, totally self-absorbed with the idea of increasing his power! Maybe. If a worm such as myself can comprehend his thinking. I can't even comprehend my own thinking. How did I get so obsessed with a 19-year old boy's cock? 

A searing pain shot through my head. It darted all over my brain, here, there, everywhere, until its charge wore down. Then it exited, through my eyes. On a scale of 1 to 10, where the pain of having your virgin ass buggered by three or four pounds of rigid, engorged cock is a 9 (I left 10 for later -- no telling what Master Jason had planned for some future session), this lightning bolt in my brain was at least a 7. The generalized ache in my whole body was about a 4. Funny thing. Two weeks ago, I'd have given my body pains an 8 or 9. I wondered if the lightning bolt was a warning -- "Warning! You're about to cross the line into blasphemy and disloyalty. Warning!"

If the pain inflicted by my Master was excruciating, so was the pleasure. That is, whatever word is the pleasure equivalent of "excruciating." Being fucked in my virgin ass hurt, hurt like hell, but that explosion of sheer sexual bliss, maybe a half-pound of endorphins, offset the pain and then some. He was going to do it again, soon. He'd said every two or three days. The skin around my ass hole flinched, just at the thought. Even so, all things considered, I couldn't wait.

Treason, heresy, disloyalty. I must get control of myself! I have no right to an opinion about anything my Master does. My purpose is to cater to his pleasure, as he commands, and to hope for crumbs in return. Drops, not crumbs. Drops of his delicious, life-enhancing cum.

I knew what I had to do. Wearily I got in the shower, and got dressed to go out. I was out of Advil, for one thing. More important, I had to go to my office, to do some intensive Web searching. (I have really fast Internet access at work, so I never saw the point in paying for service at home.) It was kind of obvious, once I cleared my mind of all those impious doubts about my Master. Lots of men dress as women. Many are convincing. Commerce will find a way to help, in exchange for cash -- it always does. Probably serious cash. So, I had a sort of a plan. Google -- what? -- maybe transvestite + accessories, see what turns up. Most important, find a store where I could buy what I need, tomorrow. That meant a four-hour drive to Metropolis, my impromptu pseudonym for our nearest big city. (Chicago? Minneapolis? My lips are sealed, except to admit portions of my Master.)

I sat at the computer, waiting for the long, tedious start-up routine, complete with every anti-virus program since Pasteur. As I sat, I thought of my need for a bit of good luck, which, now that I was thinking straight, was the only kind of luck I'd had for over a week, since Master Jason first came to me with that silly story of his dream. His dream of becoming a woman! Of course! He wants me to become the woman in his dream, even if the whole thing was fiction! I closed my eyes, trying to recall her description. He said she looked at lot like Ms. Decolletage, from the front row of our calculus class. Ms. Decolletage has big tits -- C cups, for sure -- and a very big frame, for a woman. Of the few times I'd talked to her at all, she was standing only once -- she was about my height! Was she wearing heels at the time? I couldn't remember, but I thought not. And not thin, either. Not fat. Her curves curved in all the right directions. Just big. In fact, she was really sexy. She filled a plaid flannel shirt like nobody's business. At least, I'd thought so until just the other day. As I thought, I realized I'd seen routine paperwork about her -- the athletic department checking up on its team members. What team, though? I couldn't remember. Anyway, Dr. Bitch was probably broader and heavier than Ms. Decolletage, but with luck Ms. Bitz would be just her size. Maybe I could borrow some clothes.

My luck held, as it had held for over a week. Yes, there's a whole lot of stuff you can buy and put on, or stick on, to help yourself become a convincing transvestite. Spendy, but that was no surprise. Stick on boobs, pads for the hips, . . . not to mention the actual garments. I found the web site of a store in our Metropolis. It was 8:45 PM.

I called the number, and they were still open. Getting ready to close. Hours tomorrow 11:00 AM to 9:00 PM. I really, really needed their help, so I just told them the truth. Most of the truth.

"Listen, I'm really in a bind. I need your help. I've agreed to meet a my beau in a bar Friday night, and I have to be totally female. He wants straight, pool-playing guys to hit on me."

The clerk sighed. "I'm afraid, sir, that it's almost impossible. The clothes are no problem, it's the mannerisms. You have no idea how much differently women move and act than men."

"But it's imperative that I try. Can you help me?"

Another sigh. "All right, but you'll have to come to the shop."

"I'll be there, 11:00 sharp. You know, I've never met a man who's so demanding and, and. . . virile! I'll do just about anything to please him. You have to help me, you have to. This man makes me feel like I've never felt before. I don't want to make this all about money, but I'll certainly pay for your time, and everything else." I paused. "You have to help me, coach me into acting feminine. This could be true love."

Reading the words in black-and-white, you might think I was mincing like some bad imitation of what we used to call a queer, or fairy. Not so. I was pouring out my heart. I sounded desperate, because I felt desperate. Everything I said was true, except where I said I'd do "just about" anything to please my Master. Strike the "just about."

He unbent a little. "Sir, we work with two or three women who are experts in such coaching. I can arrange for one of them to be here tomorrow afternoon, but I'll have to guarantee payment. It won't be cheap. And that's just for her. On top of that, to really pull it off you'll have to have quite a lot of accessories and even equipment you've never heard of. Stuff you wouldn't need, if you had a woman's body." He gave a ballpark estimate of the total. 

I almost gasped, but I'd had lots of practice recently in keeping such reactions silent. It was obvious he was padding the price to get a big gratuity for himself, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was pay, or fail, and I couldn't bear to think about the consequences of failing. Besides, the value of his services would be immense. So, what the hell, I figured. What's the use of a high credit limit if you never splurge? 

He was still speaking. "You'll have to guarantee Mme Coach's fee, tonight, by credit card. Would you like to continue?"

I recovered. "Yes, very much." I told him my credit card information. "Also, I hate to impose, but I must get up early and drive from College Town tomorrow morning, and back here tomorrow night. If I tell you my basic measurements and certain requirements, will you have things ready when I arrive? In fact, can you open the store early for me? I'll meet you as early as you think necessary."

In an old Warner Brothers cartoon, you'd hear a 'ca-ching!' and his eyes would light up with dollar signs. I didn't hear the 'ca-ching!,' but his eyes might have done just that -- I couldn't see him. His answer was immediate.

"Yes, sir. Actually, yes ma'am. I can meet you here at 9:00, and have things laid out for you to try. Of course, I'll need your word that you'll buy what you need from us -- really, from me. I work on commission, you know."

"Yes, yes, I promise. I already promised you an extra fee for your time. If you'd rather fold it into your commission, that's your business." 

"Very well, ma'am. I shall expect you at 9:00 AM tomorrow. Now, about your requirements?" I gave him my measurements, and described Ms. Decolletage, explaining that I was sure she was the model my beau wanted me to look like. He asked a lot of questions about minute measurements that I'd never thought of, ever, but apparently were important for properly fitting the transvestite appliances. After about 45 minutes total, we were about done.

"One more thing, ma'am. Shall we schedule you for a makeover -- you know, manicure, hairstyling, and such? As you can imagine, we know some very good artists in that line."

"Yes, yes, of course. But remember, I want to keep it simple. This is College Town, not Park Avenue. Please choose the stylist accordingly. Someone who can also explain to me how to do it myself Friday evening."

"My dear madame, I very much hope for your sake that you will be putting on your makeup more than just the once on Friday evening. No more questions? Then, good night, ma'am. Go to bed. You'll be very busy tomorrow. If you can fly, or persuade someone to drive you here and back, it would be wise."

"Thank you very much. I can't tell you how much. And thanks for your advice. Good night."

At nine, sharp, the next morning, I pulled up to a small boutique in a crummy strip mall. There was nothing sexy about it. In fact, they overdid the discreet bit -- a woman's boutique would have had much better windows. Anyway, I didn't need to knock. The clerk swung the door open. He looked nothing like what you're picturing. He looked like an insurance salesman, but in a high-quality, well-fitted suit, if you can imagine such a thing. As we shook hands, he told me his name. "Call me Bitz," I replied.

His eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?" 

(Sigh. He'd probably heard, "Call me bitch.") "Bitz. B-I-T-Z. Short for 'Elizabeth.' 'Bitzi' is okay too, if you'd prefer."

"No, here we always call a customer what he wants to be called. Many men, like possibly yourself, need to practice their name, and get used to responding. Well, please come right this way, Ms. Bitz."

I held up both hands, to stop him. "Listen, I know you don't want to hear about my personal life, but I want to explain just how badly I need help. A week and a half ago, I thought I was straight. I was straight. I have an ex-wife and a kid. Now I'm madly in love with a handsome, virile man, and I'm ready to renounce women forever. I'll do anything to please him. But except for what he's taught me, I know nothing about being gay, or women's clothes, or anything. Nothing. Any tips you and your team can give me, especially on how to act like a woman in woman's clothes, would be infinitely appreciated."

"Of course, Ms. Bitz. Congratulations. You have learned the truth relatively young. But right now, time is of the essence. Please follow me."

Just as darkness fell Thursday evening, Ms. Bitz got into my car and got on the freeway for College Town. She was hot. Very warm, anyway.

Twenty-four hours later, I pulled the same car into the parking lot of Richie's Tavern. I was exhausted, and still in pain from my activities of past week. But I was also keyed up. Excited. Of course, I was thinking about my Master, Jason, but I was also thinking of all the good-looking kids, cock-teasing girls and cock-heavy boys. It was gonna be fun. 

I was wearing my best (only) out-on-the-town dress, a black number cut about two inches above my knees. It had a high neckline, but had a wide belt, almost a cummerbund, showing the outline of my generous tits. Instead of sleeves, it had a sort of bunched-up gather of cloth. From the back, it looked a little like a monk's robe. This was to conceal the shoulders and biceps of which I had been so proud only a short time ago. I couldn't wear a low-cut dress, either, at least not until I got falsies exactly matching my skin tones. Too easy to see the seam. They'd promised me that the adhesive would hold, and not hurt if the bra -- Victoria's Secret, C-cup, satin -- was doing its job holding up my tits so they didn't pull on the skin of my chest. Real stockings and garters -- I had a boyfriend to seduce, after all -- and shoes with a heel, but a low one. Luckily, it was warm for January, because the boutique didn't carry women's winter coats and I'd had no time to buy one anywhere else. I just picked up my simple but elegant black purse and dashed in to the bar, sans coat.

The hardest part of my new role was movement and mannerisms, as I'd been warned, and coached for hours, just yesterday. Getting dressed and made up wasn't too bad. Shaving my legs was a hassle, but nothing I couldn't figure out. I'm naturally not hairy -- 42 years old and can't grow a proper beard -- so it had been relatively easy for the experts to devise a makeup pattern that would lead the eye away from my cheeks and chin, to my eyes.

Which were gorgeous. Eyebrow waxing hurts, but on my new pain scale, only about a 2, maybe 2.5. Somehow, I'd instinctively known how to apply eye makeup, after being shown only once, and I thought I'd done a better job this evening than the pros had done yesterday. So there. Anyway, my eyes were elegantly tapered, almost but not quite almonds. Eyebrows waxed, but not in any high-fashion arches.

They'd shown me how to apply false nails, but I decided to let it go. After the manicure, my real nails looked feminine enough to me, even if they weren't long. I'd' had to redo the polish myself, this afternoon, but it was plenty good enough for a dark, loud, smoky bar. Lipstick, the same. Good enough for enticing horny kids.

As for the girly mannerisms, after endless coaching and practice, I knew the basics of what not to do, but most of the feminine touches, that je ne sais quoi, I couldn't do well, or couldn't do reliably, or couldn't do either well or reliably. Finally, possibly in desperation, we'd had the idea that I simply shouldn't move quickly unless necessary, so I'd have more time to adjust. Marlene Dietrich?

Besides, as I had to remind everyone at the end of a long and often frustrating day, I'm a strange woman, alone, in a bar that isn't rough, but is mostly male. It's dark. It's loud, making it relatively easy to fake my voice. I've got great legs (been a runner all my life), good tits, and, thanks to the makeup, a very pretty face. How many 22 year-old guys are going to bother about the details? I don't think I would have, 'way back, two weeks ago.

As I left the city last night, the salesman said something really sweet. "One problem. What are you going to do when you're carded?" I kissed his cheek as a reward, and we both laughed and laughed, tension easing after a long day. I wasn't worried about being carded. Besides, my Master hangs out here, and he's underage.

I walked in, stride correct, hips swaying just a little. The bouncer looked me up and down, like guys do, but if he thought I was underage he kept it to himself. Inside, the action was just starting to pick up. The band was setting up, the music on the loudspeakers was just that -- loud -- and the light was even dimmer than we'd rehearsed with. 

Some guys cleared their coats off a spare barstool as I approached, so I could sit at the bar. I didn't even have to ask. Girlness has some advantages. I resisted the temptation to hike up my skirt a few inches as I took my perch there, but I didn't resist very hard, and hiked it up. Caught a couple of older guys -- wedding bands embedded in their hands -- looking. Smiled a cool smile for them, one that said, "compliment accepted, stay where you are."

"Yes, ma'am." The bartender startled me. Lucky I'd thought this one through. "Do you have Chardonnay by the glass?" He nodded. "That would be wonderful." I didn't bat my new eyelashes at him, because I couldn't yet do it without looking like a whore in a bad movie. My natural, formerly guy-to-guy smile worked well. It looked okay in the mirror, too. Go with what you know.

You don't want to hear about the Torquemada-inspired devices preventing my cock from spoiling the planes of the dress, and especially preventing him from any gallant responses to sexy creatures. As far as I was concerned, only one person, man or woman, was at all sexy, but he's the one I was concerned about. If I popped a hard-on when I saw my Master, which I certainly, 100%, would do, then my chances of getting hit on would diminish considerably, and Phase Three awaited. I was sure that the prevention was less painful than the punishment.

My wine came, and I paid for it, man-style, by handing the guy a twenty and just leaving the change on the bar. Nobody noticed. I peered at my new watch, bought at Tar-zhay on the way here tonight. How could dames really see the tiny watch face, especially in a dark bar? It wasn't quite 8:00. Was Master here? I hadn't seen him, but I could see only half the room. So I sat, demurely, sipping my wine, a nice girl waiting for her date or her friends.

That got boring pretty fast, and 8:00 had come and passed. What was Master's game, this time? What hoops did I have to jump through? Forgive me, Master, for doubting, but I was nervous and a little scared. What would happen if I slipped up somehow? They'd laugh, but would anyone recognize me as their math professor?




Give the Student What He Wants Ch. 05



Time to rehearse. I threw back my shoulders in a stretching yawn, drawing attention to my tits, and hoping that soon the attention would turn into an inspection of my legs, ass, face (in that order), perhaps a little flirtation, a kiss, or fucking our brains out in the broom closet. Wow. It's amazing how fast a role can go to your head. Fucking my brains out in the broom closet was not on the menu, so far as I knew, and if it were, my Master would lead me there, whether I wanted to go or not. That's wrong. Of course I'd want to go once I understood that that was his wish. I mean, whether I realized I wanted to go there or not.

Just as I came down from the yawn, this guy was turning from the bar with his fresh beer in hand. I knocked it down, and it crashed on the floor.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I exclaimed, truthfully. "Are you okay?" Luckily, it was really noisy at that moment, because my female voice cracked a little. I had a little beer on the hem of my dress, but one leg of his pants was soaked. It was all okay, the bartender said. Happens all the time. An employee turned up with a broom and a mop, and the bartender drew the guy another beer.

"Let me pay for that," I said. "It was my fault."

"Nah," said the bartender. "No charge."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. It's in the overhead."

"Well, thanks."

The boy, who was either underage or had just turned 21 last week, turned to me. "Thanks anyway. And don't worry about the pants. I'm planning to be here a while. They'll dry out."

"Oh, you have a date?"

"No, just a couple of buddies."

"Good-lookin' guy like you? No date?" He wasn't that good-looking, but he was cute as a bunny. Then I saw -- he looked like me at that age. Pure narcissism. 

"No, I'm between relationships. My girlfriend graduated last June, moved to Metropolis. We tried the long-distance thing, but we both knew it was no use. She's seein' some guy at work. So, no date." He turned away, then awareness dawned and he turned back towards me. Good boy! "How 'bout you? You been stood up, or something?"

"Well, he's late, that's for sure," I managed to smile and look cross at the same time. "But he's not late enough to retaliate. If I'm still alone here at 9:00, let's go off somewhere and play doctor."

Even in the dim bar, I could see him blush, deep red. "Well --, well--, It's a d-- date," he stammered. He wasn't good-looking, but he was one cute kid. A little like Archie, of Archie Comics, but not a carrot-top. Dark hair, maybe even Mediterranean. Maybe I should rethink this Master/slave routine. Aggghh! The pain, the magic migraine, hit me again. Post-hypnotic suggestion?

He did the concerned-stranger act. That's not fair. He was concerned. He might really be the Eagle Scout he seemed. "Are you okay? Can I get you something?"

"Thanks, but no. Nothing helps. It goes away after a couple of seconds." Yeah, and as soon as I clear away those blasphemous thoughts. How was I supposed to flirt and be seductive if I got these zaps to the head every time?

"Well, okay, but if you need anything, I'm in the pool room."

"Thanks. What's your name?"

"Phil. Yours?"

"Bi-- Elizabeth. You can call me Betsy." What was getting into me? Half a glass of Chardonnay?

I didn't see Phil, or Master Jason, for the next half-hour, but I did collect my quota of hit-ons, and then some. I got six, all told, including the ex-jock who blocked me off from the room, like a trap; the pair who were quite the comedy team, but neither one quite tried to close the sale; the pure drunk who wanted me to promise him a dance "once the band got hot." I collected proof for Master; telephone numbers. No more head zaps, though. Nobody tempted me even a little. I did develop a little empathy for field anthropologists. 

Wouldn't you know, at nine o'clock sharp, real time, not bar time, Master Jason came in the door, and Phil came in from the pool room. How sweet! Phil had been watching the clock. He reached me a step ahead of Master. "Phil! Oh, what bad luck! My date just walked in the door -- an hour late." I tried, but couldn't voice the annoyance I felt. "Phil, Jason, Jason, Phil. I hope you weren't waiting for an old woman like me. You poor baby! Give me your phone number. Next time I'll give him only twenty minutes."

Phil looked at Jason, as if wanting his permission, then pulled himself up straight and handed me a business card. "I know that's kind of pompous, but I don't have a pen," he said. "I'm usually there during business hours." I got only a hasty glance, and shoved into my purse. He was some kind of technician at one of the ag-chemical labs around town. There were several. Really I was memorizing his number. My luck was in, big time. Everybody in town has the same first two digits. His last five were 2-4816. Two, two squared, two cubed, two-fourth. Hey, I'm a mathematician, remember?

I memorized the number, of course, because I knew Jason -- excuse me, Master Jason -- would confiscate all my phone numbers. That was okay with me. I'd just wanted the proof that I had the right stuff for a good pick-up. 

Phil smiled, said good night, turned away. He did not slink or slump. He'd had bad luck, or so he thought, but wasn't discouraged. Some girl ought to get hold of that boy and hang on.

"Hiya, Bitz, sorry I'm late." He didn't look sorry. He looked stoned.

I leaned to his ear. "Of course it's perfectly okay, Master. You always arrive at the best time, which is the time you arrive. Besides, do you have any more of that smoke?"

"What if I do? I wouldn't waste it on a cunt like you."

Wham! No longer the self-assured barroom flirt, back to the abject slave of this erratic Master. "Yes, Master," I whispered. "I am very sorry. It's just that I've been flirting with all these boys for over an hour, and forgot how to talk to a real Man."

"Flirting? What do you mean?"

"Your command, in your note, was to be flirtatious." I fished it out of my purse. "'I will very displeased if nobody hits on you. Very displeased.' At least six -- males -- hit on me. I have their phone numbers to prove it. By the way, did you have a nice blow job yesterday?"

"Shut up, Bitch." Not 'Bitz.' He pulled the stack of phone numbers from my manicured fingers. 

I straightened up to conversing distance. "How do you like my makeover, Jason?" I shouted over the band, tuning up. "I spent the whole day yesterday getting a primo job done, just for you." 

"You look okay. Almost attractive. C'mon, let's get out of here. It's too loud."

"Yes, Master. But I don't have a coat. Is your car warm?"

He leaned to my ear and hissed. "Why in fuck's name should I care if you're cold? You have a job to do, Bitch, and if you don't want to do it in your car, you can do it right here."

"Whatever you desire, Master," I murmured, tears welling up. "My car is right outside."

As we left, some guys were coming in. Apparently a couple of them knew Jason. "Nice," I heard one say. "Way to go Jase!" Was I in some old Bill Murray movie?

Once we got into the car, Jason realized that he didn't want to be waving his member around in the cold, even if it was a warm night for January. "My place, then?" I smiled. 

"Where else, you stupid cunt?"

This was getting old. And thinking that it was getting old was brand new. Something had happened, yesterday or today, to loosen Master Jason's post-hypnotic hold. The hectic fun I'd had yesterday, with my one-day crash sex change; teaching this morning (Jason cut class), feeling so sisterly toward Ms. Decolletage? Phil? Those other bozos? 

I almost had to pinch my leg to remind myself -- I've never understood any of the hypnosis, post-hypnosis, deep-hypnosis, quasi-hypnosis, any of it. So how could I possibly understand the anti-hypnosis? The important thing was to decide what to do.

For the next hour or so, that was easy. Hypnotized or not, I was crazy for that boy's cum. I'd take it on whatever terms it was offered, unless his Phase Three was absolutely unbearable. If I had a gun I'd rape him for it. The image was funny. "Let me suck your dick or I'll shoot you." Should I do it as Betsy, or my alter ego, the math teacher?

Betsy. I could get used to that. Sweet, wholesome, just the thing for a 42 year-old cross-dresser having a very unethical affair with a student. 

As usual, Jason -- the word 'Master' was fading away -- sat still and said nothing. I didn't ask, I just reached over and squeezed his thigh. He grabbed my wrist, then looked at me and slowly let go. "You're coming out of it, aren't you?" he asked.

Deep breath. "Damn straight, Junior. No more of this degradation, no more threats, no more boasting about driving that poor man to suicide, if it's even true. You'll get an "A" in my class, but you'll have to earn it like the other kids. But let's keep everything else. The blow jobs, pulling my hair, jacking off all over my face, I love it! And I'm totally spoiled, now. Where am I going to find another cock just the right size for the tunnel you drilled through my ass? You don't have to be the comic-book dominator. Just be the man. Just be My Man. Not my Master. My Man." 

We were just reaching the block where I'd kissed him for the first time Sunday night, after picking him up from Richie's. I pulled over in the same spot, swung my left leg over him so I straddled his beautiful body, took his face in my hands and kissed him, deeply. He resisted, then decided to go with the flow.

I'd had fucks, back in my womanizing days, that weren't as satisfying as that kiss. Never again.

So, dear reader, you can figure out the rest for yourself. I sucked his cock nearly off, and almost drowned in the fountain of cum, and he didn't say anything mean. He said stuff like, "you're fabulous," and "Yeah! Yeah! Right there!," you know -- traditional blow job stuff. He didn't even pull my hair, which I kinda missed, but I do have that new 'do.

And now, we're just waiting for that 19-year old cock to recover its full powers. I kiss it now and then to help it along. It won't be long (actually, it will be long -- eight inches).

I'll call Phil sometime, buy him lunch, level with him about Betsy and the math professor. Betsy's sticking with her man, but Betsy and the professor would both like to be his friend.

Gotta go, and see a Man about a drill.



Give the Student What He Wants



What was he talking about? "There is no need, M–," he cut me off with a frown, "Jason. I think you'll do very well in this class." Then he was gone.

After a moment I shook off my daze and got practical. How was I going to hide these beautiful tits? What did I know about hygiene for my new pussy? Nobody gets a sex change operation overnight. How would I explain? Could I use the women's bathroom?

Then I noticed. The tits were gone. I could feel my own puny cock, semi-hard. Could it all have been a dream? Hypnosis? 

My shirt was missing two buttons, and the smell of cum was in the air. I gave a happy sigh.