9 comments/ 88055 views/ 11 favorites The Bad Professor Ch. 01 By: MikeWrites Part 1: Sandy Sandy is the perfect student. She's rich, blonde, tall and beautiful. And stupid. So stupid that, not only has she had to cheat on the last four assignments she's done for me, she hasn't even begun to disguise her dishonesty. She's copied whole sections from the most obvious internet sources, and she's left them in a different font. I wonder if actually she's so arrogant, so sure of her own untouchability, that she doesn't care if she's found out. Daddy's always bailed her out in the past, why should it be any different this time? This time, I have plans for the cheating eighteen year old. She stands in my office, a faintly coquettish look of insolence on her face. So far, she won't admit she's done anything wrong. "Fine, Sandy, if that's how you want to play it, I'll phone Professor Kilbride." I make an obvious play of picking up the phone. She looks a little confused. "You won't tell the Dean?" "No. The governors have asked Professor Kilbride to deal with all plagiarism issues." "Oh." She looks devastated. So I guess that means Daddy has the Dean in his pocket. It can't be that Sandy's blowing the Dean, his interests are in completely opposite direction. Which leaves the field conveniently open for me. "Yes. You're a nasty cheating little slut, Sandy." She blushes bright red. "You can't say..." "I can say what I like, Sandy, and I can do what I like. Because at any time I can pick up the phone to Professor Kilbride and you're right out of here. And I don't imagine Daddy would be too impressed by that. So what are you?" She blushes again. "I'm a cheat," she says in a small voice. "That wasn't what I said." "I'm a nasty little cheat." I find her childish evasion techniques quite delightful. "You're a nasty cheating little slut." One tiny little tear runs down from the corner of Sandy's eye. "I'm a nasty cheating little slut," she whimpers sadly. "And what happens now, Sandy?" She shakes her head. "I don't know." There are more tears now, silent like the first. "You have to show me how grateful you are, don't you?" She sniffs. "Yes." I scribble on a piece of paper and hand it to her. "Meet me here at seven." + I am the wicked professor. I will lie and cheat and connive just so I can take advantage of my students. Young or old, good or bad, if I'm attracted to you then, make no mistake, I will find a way of having you. + Sandy stands in front of me in my apartment. She is not crying any more, but her face is puffy and red from what I imagine were floods of tears. By now I figure she has steeled herself to what must happen. I am sitting very comfortably, thank you, in my leather easy chair, and I have a glass of fine malt whisky in my hand. I find the alcohol takes the edge of my over-heightened state of excitement, making me calmer, and making the experience longer and ultimately more satisfying. I take a sip of whisky. "Show me your tits, slut." There are times when I can almost be gentle, but there is something about Sandy that, frankly, makes me want to brutalise her. She stands there for a moment, but I suspect that all the internal anguish and dilemma was over before she got to my front door. The moment she rang my door bell, she accepted whatever came her way. Still, that doesn't mean it's going to be easy for her, does it? With a bright blush of shame and embarrassment Sandy reaches for the hem of her cream turtleneck sweater, and lifts it over her head. I am not surprised to see that Sandy is a girl who likes the sun. Before she began stripping for me I had already taken in the tanned face, the warm sprinkle of freckles around her nose and on her cheeks. Sandy pauses, as if taking off her sweater is likely to be all I expect from her. I don't have to say anything however, before she reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra. There is then another pause before she slumps her shoulders forward and lets her bra fall to the floor. It doesn't matter how many times I do this, how many women I degrade; the first sight of bare flesh is always special. Sandy has full, creamy breasts, with all the perkiness of youth, and large chocolate nipples. As she stands there I can tell that despite the humiliation she is proud of her body. "Nice tits," I say. She flinches. People don't talk to Sandy like this, not about her tits, not about her clothes, not about anything. "They'd look good with my cum all over them." She is wondering if that is when it will be over. If all she has to do is offer them to me while I jerk myself off? Or maybe she will have to do it for me, take my cock in her hands and move them up and down my shaft until I shoot off over her chest? No chance. "Show me your ass, slut." I enjoy the rollercoaster of emotions that display on Sandy's face. One moment she had adjusted herself to my cum on her tits, now she is being forced to submit to further shame. Obedient, she turns. "Closer," I say. "I want that to see that pretty little butt of yours nice and close." She walks towards me, slowly, her bare eighteen year old breasts swaying heavily, and turns. There is a brief, nervous, fumble with her belt and buttons, and then she slides her jeans down over her rounded ass. I am mildly intrigued to see she is wearing a thong. What was she thinking as she dressed for this? I gotta look good? I gotta look sexy? Mr Chambers is going to fuck me and I want to look hot for him? "You've dressed nicely for me, slut," I comment. "Good." I'm never exactly nice in these situations, but an important part of the psychology for me is to gradually persuade my sluts that a little bit of thought and an eagerness to please can work out for all of us. "Pull your thong to one side and bend over. I want to see your asshole." Like I say, I'm never exactly nice. Although Sandy is facing away in my imagination I see her lifting her eyes to the ceiling. This was almost certainly not covered in her mental preparation; there aren't many eighteen year old princesses who have encountered a grown-up interest in the intimacies of anal sex. I would be surprised if up until this moment in her life Sandy has ever even considered the tight little hole that she shits out of as a focus of erotic interest and pleasure. Too bad, life's a steep learning curve sometimes. "Oh my," I say. "You have the sweetest, cutest, sexiest little asshole. Shall I tell you what your asshole looks like, Sandy?" I am sure that she is horrified anyone is even looking at her musky hole like this, let alone about to describe it back to her. "Crinkled and tight, a nasty muddy brown color which is in beautiful contrast to your white bum, some soft wispy hairs around your anus. Mm. All in all, Sandy, your asshole is as perfect as your big tits." I sit for a moment, in silent contemplation of Sandy's little back hole. "Okay, turn around, we can come back to your shitter late." Sandy turns back to face me. Her face is deep crimson. My coarse inspection of her bottom has been every bit as sordid for her as I'd hoped. Her pussy is every bit as pretty and tempting as the rest of her. Like most of the pampered rich kids these days her pubic hair has been trimmed back to a discrete little bush at the top of her slit. The rest of her mound has been expertly reduced to smooth bare white skin. But. Sandy's pussy lips are puffy and there is honey seeping. It seems that a sordid inspection of her anus is just what is needed to get this spoiled slut going. "You really liked showing me your asshole, didn't you Sandy? Turns you on in a big way opening your ass up like that." She nods, not because I demand it but because she knows it is a simple, wonderful, terrible truth. From this moment, I know, sex for Sandy can never be a simple matter of lying on her back with her legs open again. Normally I am happy to do whatever I want, whatever. But I must take advantage of this sudden turn. The possibilities offered by Sandy's unexpected uncovering as a beautiful submissive slut must not be ignored. "On the bed," I say. My tone is different now. It is still clear that I expect to be obeyed, totally, but the contempt has gone. We are partners - unequal, but partners - in a new, beautiful game. Sandy lies on my bed. Her legs are slightly spread and she makes no attempt to hide her body from me, and yet there is still something slightly uncertain and inhibited about her pose. "For now," I say, "it very simple. We're going to lie next to each other, and I'm going to bring you off with my fingers. Then I'm going to kneel over you and you're going to jerk me off over your face. Later, there will be time for much more adventure. For now, all you have to do to make me happy is to say anything I tell you to say. Understand?" Sandy nods. I reach down to her sex. She is soaking. "Tell me how it felt while I looked at your asshole, Sandy." She nods again. "I...I couldn't believe it was happening. I've never done anything - anything - like that. I never even knew you would want to look at me there. It felt really bad to let you see me there. I hated showing myself to you. It was the worst thing I'd ever done. Really." My fingers are soft and gentle on Sandy's cunt. She understands she can take her time, that she is pleasuring me by the gentle writhing of her body. "But then," she continues, "when I knew you were looking right at me, at my..." "Say it." "You were looking at my...asshole. And you were saying all these horrible words. And I realised it was perfect. To surrender my most intimate place to you so completely. To have to accept that you could look at me there...you could look at my asshole and say all those things. And I had to accept that at that precise moment the only thing that mattered in the world was for you to be able to do and say whatever you wanted, that even my...anus was just an object for you to enjoy. And then it felt incredible, all of our excitement, our lust, focused on my... shithole. You could do anything to me." "I can." "You can do anything to me." "I can lick your asshole." "Yes." "Say it." "You can lick my asshole." "I can finger your asshole." "You can put your finger up my ass." "I can fuck your ass." "You can fuck my ass." "Tell me." "You can put your cock in my ass. Fuck my tight little ass. Fuck my asshole as hard and as often as you want." Sandy has been close for some time, and now she is ready. "I can fuck your ass and then your mouth just how I want." "Oh God, yes." "Say it." "I'll take your cock in my mouth after it's been in my ass. Fuck. I'll taste my ass on your cock. Oh fuck, please. I'll clean the taste of my shithole of your cock..." Then Sandy cannot talk, she is cumming, her poor little imagination filled with lust at offering her mouth for such filthy services. When she has stopped shaking, when she has recovered some of her senses, I straddle her gorgeous flushed breasts. Impossible though it may seem, things are about to get even better... {Author's note: I would love to turn this into a series. Please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading}. The Bad Professor Ch. 02 {Author's note: you don't need to have read Chapter 1 to enjoy Chapter 2.} Jacqueline Jacqueline is a good student. She normally prepares well for class, she tries to contribute to discussions, and her essays usually show an understanding of the main issues. She is not brilliant, but she works hard and I like her. It is a pleasant surprise, therefore, to discover that she helps to support her studies by waiting tables at a restaurant in town. I have, in fact, been checking out Jacqueline's slim ass without even realising it is her, and when she turns around and we recognise each other I am, momentarily, embarrassed. But she gives me a nice smile and I realise that, even if she noticed, she is most likely used to guys perving, and probably it all helps with the tips anyway. We have a quick chat - she is as conscientious a waitress as she is a student - and she explains how important this job is for her, and how much she enjoys my classes. She isn't really waiting my table, but as we leave I give her a twenty tip, which may seem generous, but then again, it isn't every day that a juicy ripe plum drops right in your lap, is it? A couple of days later Jacqueline has her next class with me. As she walks in the room I take in the details of my next prey. She is tall, lean, with not much of a bust and the neat little bottom that had already attracted my attention. She has straw-blonde hair that could be dyed but probably isn't, tied back in a very short ponytail. She smiles at me, her teeth dazzling and neat. I nod back curtly, and I can see she is disconcerted. She'd thought that our meeting in the restaurant means she is something special. When she contributes to our discussion - a contribution that is, in truth, a standard and reasonable Jacqueline effort - I am dismissive, indicating that I think she hasn't put much effort in. She blushes deep red, embarrassed in front of her colleagues, and also perhaps ashamed at the fact she had presumed my act of generosity in the restaurant signified anything. For the next few weeks I avoid the restaurant. In Jacqueline's classes, despite the fact that she is now clearly trying particularly hard, I alternate between friendly compliments and harsh criticism. She is confused, of course, but, as I expect, the main result of my casual and unfair cruelty is that she tries harder than ever to please me. + I am the wicked professor. I will lie and cheat and connive just so I can take advantage of my students. Young or old, good or bad, if I'm attracted to you then, make no mistake, I will find a way of having you. + I finally return to the restaurant. I can see that Jacqueline is uncertain how to respond, but I am playing "good" Mike, and I smile and we chat pleasantly and I insist that she finds me a table she waits at. Now I am not normally the flash type. I like the good things in life but as far as I am concerned the good things don't advertise themselves in flashing lights. If you look closely at my suit and if you know anything about tailoring you'll know it's Boss, but most of the time I'm comfortable with it only being me that realises or cares. But tonight with Jacqueline I want her to know that I have money and more money and then some, and so tonight I indulge. And she is a good little waitress, so attentive - all those stinging remarks in class have made her so eager to please me. This time I tip her a fifty, and she can't take her eyes off the note in her hand. "Jacqueline, is everything okay with your studies?" I ask. "Yes," she says, a little too quickly. "I'm worried. Some of your work recently, it just hasn't been up to your usual standard. I know most of my students work, but perhaps this job is too much alongside the course?" "No, it's fine, honestly." "Money problems can be a terrible distraction which, frankly, right now you can't afford. I don't want it to be a choice between the high grade you're definitely capable of, and something mediocre because of your job." "No." "When do you finish here?" Not surprisingly, Jacqueline looks a little askance at this sudden change of direction. "In about half an hour." "How about I wait here for you, and we can have a quick chat about ways we can see you through this? I'd like to help, if I can." + Three nights later, I am sitting in my apartment sipping whisky when the doorbell goes. Jacqueline. She is still wearing her waitress outfit of black skirt and white blouse. She looks nervous, very nervous, but for me that is really all part of the charm. "Please sit down," I say. "Would you like a drink?" She is finding it difficult looking at me. "Thank you." "Anything in particular?" "Whatever you're having is fine. Thank you." As she takes the tumbler of whisky I see her hands are shaking. She takes a long, unwise sip. "Are you sure you're okay with this?" I ask softly. "We can always try some other time." "No," she says quickly. "Now is best." "Okay." I sit back in my seat. She really is very pretty. Normally I prefer a fuller figure, but there is something about her face and, frankly, her mind that attracts me. Jacqueline pulls a couple of sheets of paper out of her bag. "I think I've done what you asked," she says. "It probably isn't very good." "I'm sure it's fine. Go on." "Okay. I mean, I don't know anything about this, so it probably isn't very realistic." "Don't worry, Jacqueline." "No." She takes another big sip of whisky. "Okay." She clears her throat, and starts to read from the paper. "'The Striptease. I stand in front of him, knowing what I must do. Soon he will see me naked. I start to gyrate my body to the rhythm of the music. I can feel his eyes upon me. I fumble with the buttons of my top, one by one revealing my lacy bra. Then, my skirt, which slides easily to the floor. Now I am wearing only my underwear in front of him. His eyes don't leave my body. I reach behind for the clasp of my bra, unhook it, and my bra slides off onto the floor also.'" Jacqueline pauses. Her eyes are fixed on the pages and her face burns deep red. "'He stares at my breasts and nipples. I know he wants more, everything. I reach for my panties and slip them off. I am naked. He can see everything.'" She looks at me, her eyes filled with concern. "That's it." "That's very good," I say quietly. "But, to really finish it off properly, I think you need to describe to me what he can see." "Okay." She knew I'd ask for more. She looks at the page again, although the words are not written there. "'He stares at my...crotch, at my pussy. I turn around so he can see my bare ass. All the time I am moving to the music.' I don't think I can say any more." "No, that's fine. That's very good. Thank you, Jacqueline. We said fifty? And here's a twenty tip." "Thank you." "If you want, if you would like to make some more money, we could try this again sometime. Of course the story would have to be a little more adventurous, but then there'd be a greater reward..." "I don't think so. Sorry." "Okay. That's fine." + Three days later, Jacqueline emails me. She has changed her mind. + "'I kneel on the floor in front of you. I can see through your jeans that you are hard already.'" Although Jacqueline's face is as flushed as before, there is a different tone to her voice. She is, frankly, less terrified. And, who knows, I think to myself, maybe just a little turned on. "'I pull your penis out of your jeans.'" The choice of words is Jacqueline's. All I tell her is the subject, (today I required a blow-job, told in the second person), and also a clear indication that the more appealing the language the bigger the tip. "'I move my hands up and down your shaft. As you move your hands to my hair I can feel that you want me to use my mouth. I move closer until my lips brush your cock.'" Jacqueline looks across at me, to confirm that her choice of words has had the effect she desired. It has. "'I take you in my mouth, my tongue teasing around the rim of your cockhead. I feel you harden even more at my touch.'" Oh yes, Jacqueline is correct there. My cock is rock hard in my jeans. I know it, she knows it, but for the moment the terms of our arrangement mean it stays there. "'As I stroke your balls gently I can feel that you are ready, and so I prepare myself. Then I feel your cum rising, you are groaning and pulling my hair, and then I am struggling to swallow as you fill my mouth with your hot, white cum.'" As I stand to take her money out of my pocket, Jacqueline glances down at the fat bulge in my jeans. We both know that is what this is all about, but even so she seems remarkably unfazed by such direct evidence of my excitement. "See you next week?" she asks. + "'I take Lauren's nipple into my mouth, and slide my fingers down to her wet pussy. She moans, and thrusts her hips, inviting me further into her sex. I begin to move down her body, knowing that she needs more than my fingers to satisfy her.'" When I'd asked Jacqueline to write about fucking Lauren, I'd thought it would be quite a challenge. Lauren is one of the uber-glamorous bitches in Jacqueline's class, and I wouldn't have thought she'd ever have spared so much as a word for her less well-off colleague. Regardless of that, and regardless of whether Jacqueline has ever indulged herself in Sapphic fantasies before, her story is convincing and painfully hot. "'My tongue slips between Lauren's labia. She tastes delicious - so different yet so similar to the familiar salty tang when I smell and lick my fingers after pleasuring myself.'" Jacqueline steals another of her glances. Is she simply checking that she's maximising her tip? Or is she perhaps in some way thrilled that she has casually volunteered a delicious little detail about her masturbation, teasing me with the new image of her slim fingers busy between her long legs? I am physically restless now, so wonderful and so uncomfortable are the effect of Jacqueline's words. "'My tongue flicks across Lauren's clitoris, and as I look up her body I can see that Lauren's nipples are hard and stiff with excitement. While I continue to slide my fingers in and out of Lauren's pussy, I move my other hand between my own legs to meet the need that I feel there.'" From the moment that Jacqueline began reading the first words of her first story, her posture has always been the same. She sits on the edge of her seat, leaning slightly forward, the pages of her writing resting on her knees. Most of the time she simply looks at the paper. Given the context of what she is saying, it is modest, and yet it only serves to make my desire for her greater. I want her shoulders back, her pretty little titties exposed, her legs spread and her cute young cunt displayed brazenly for me. She's wet, isn't she, reading to me like this? Surely as she sits there right now, she can feel her panties are sodden? I really can't tell. "'As I pleasure Lauren with my mouth and fingers I can feel that her orgasm is close. As Lauren pants and writhes I focus on my own need, rubbing and punishing my own clit. Then my mouth is full of the taste of Lauren's juices as she thrusts her orgasm against my face, and I feel the same explosive sensations rock through my body as I cum with my face between another woman's legs.'" Jacqueline stops, and looks across at me. There is certainly more eye contact than when we started, and more confidence too. But I am caught on the horns of a wicked dilemma. Previously I have been happy for Jacqueline to leave me, and then enjoy repeated masturbation as I read her words, remembering the sound of her voice as this straightforward, decent young woman describes these filthy things for my benefit. But... Inevitably, I want more. I am hard, surely she is wet, isn't it obvious, wouldn't it be incredible, for us to actually do something together? Even watching each other masturbate would be wonderful. The danger is that I have no real hold over Jacqueline, nothing more than her desire for money and a vague threat that her academic results may be threatened if she displeases me. I cannot be sure, but I know her quite well now, and I suspect that more overt threats would backfire, and she would simply walk away. Not everyone can be coerced. More money may not work either. It is one thing for us to sit in a room while she reads to me. It would be quite another to offer her money for actual sexual activity. There's a word for that, and there is something about Jacqueline's straightforward decency - what turns me on about her so much in the first place - that makes me believe she would run a mile from the hint of such a thing. So do I continue to enjoy our readings, despite the torture? Or do I risk losing everything for a shot at something more? "Next week?" I ask weakly. Jacqueline smiles, politely. "Yes." + When I hear Jacqueline ringing my doorbell, I wonder how she will be dressed. Surely there will be some visible sign that reading these stories has had an effect on her? Perhaps a dab of perfume? Or an extra hint of décolletage? No. Black skirt, white blouse. Hot, alluring, but frankly a little samey. Jacqueline sits in her usual place, in her usual pose. Even the glass of whiskey has become part of the routine. But all is not the same. While my lust has weakened me, the familiarity of our routine and my evident need for our stories means that Jacqueline, in her quiet way, seems more relaxed than ever with what she is doing. "You keep asking me to write about things I don't know about," she says. I am excited to hear that Jacqueline doesn't know about today's subject, anal sex. "That's part of the idea," I reply. "I enjoy pushing boundaries. Yours, mine." "It may not be very realistic, that's all. You may not like that." "I'm sure I'll like it. I've liked all your stories so far very very much. I mean, I don't suppose you've slept with Lauren, but you wrote about that convincingly." Jacqueline smiles, a private, non-committal smile that could mean anything. But my mind whirrs - am I wrong, has Jacqueline secretly fantasised about fucking Lauren, does this sensible demure person lie in bed at night, her fingers stroking her wet pussy while she imagines tasting that rich young woman's sex? "Shall I start?" she asks. I nod. I am much too excited for speech. "'I kneel on the bed. I know what you are going to do to me, that you are going to take me there, that there is no part of me that I can deny you. As you climb onto the bed I can see that you are very hard in anticipation of what you are going to do. I am already nervous, and the sight of you like that makes me wonder how you are going to fit inside me. I rest on all fours, feeling terribly exposed. As you move behind me your cock brushes my bottom.'" As always that little glance, checking that I have heard and enjoyed the crude word. "'You hold me by the waist. I cannot escape. Then the end of your penis is pressing against my anus. I am really scared that it will hurt, but I cannot move away. You whisper for me to relax, that it will be more enjoyable that way.'" Jacqueline pauses. "I did a little research on the internet," she says. "It seems being relaxed is important. I can't imagine how anyone could relax before something that big goes in there, but what do I know?" "A lot of women love anal sex," I say. "Really. It's their favourite thing." "I can see why a guy would like doing it," says Jacqueline. "It isn't a very nice thing to do to someone, but I imagine it would feel good. But what could a woman get out of it?" "Well, for some women the fact it isn't very nice is part of the appeal, enjoying something bad. But actually physically it can be very exciting too. I don't fully understand the biology, but if you think about it a lot of the nerve endings in your...in normal sex, they're stimulated in anal sex too. In a different, indirect way. And, perhaps if women like a large penis in normal sex, then the sensation of being filled in anal sex is just as...even more satisfying. Women have the most intense orgasms I know during anal sex." I look at Jacqueline. She looks at me. She is not performing for me, reading a dirty story for my cash reward. We are talking about sex, and it is almost normal. She is not in control of the whole situation, but she is certainly in control of herself. "Do you like anal sex?" she asks. "Yes. I like the fact it isn't very nice. And physically, the sensations...it's so tight." Jacqueline nods. "But more than anything I love a woman getting off on it, the fact she is so turned on by me doing that to her, feeling her cumming with me inside her ass - that is exquisite." "Perhaps you should have written this," Jacqueline says quietly. I think there is a trace of a smile on her lips. I shake my head. "I could never do as well as you." Jacqueline lifts the paper. "'You start to push inside me. You feel so big, huge, going into my tiny tight hole. The pain is incredible. And yet...there is something else. An intense sensation of being filled. Every sexual nerve is being stimulated in a new, roundabout way. And in my mind I am excited that I am being so bad. As your big, fat, hard cock moves inside my tight hole, I realise that being fucked in the ass could become my favourite thing.'" I am so lost in the simple fact of Jacqueline describing being sodomised that I do not immediately realise she is repeating my own description back to me. When I do, I see that slight smile again. "I'm allowed to improvise," she says. "Yes. It's beautiful." "Am I describing it right?" "Yes. Well, as far as I know. Women often tell me that it feels like being on the very edge of losing control, that they don't think they can cope with such an invasion but that it feels incredible." "I see. How would you write that?" "I would say: 'You are almost overwhelmed by having something so big invading you in your tight hole. It is like your asshole is being choked by my big, fat cock. Being fucked normally...being fucked in your pussy never felt anything like this.'" I look across at Jacqueline. She seems content, for now, for me to take up the story. "'I hold on to your slim waist and continue to move inside your asshole. Your ass feels so hot and tight around my hard cock.'" "'You feel so hard, so big," Jacqueline continues, "and I know I want you to cum there, to fill my ass with your cum. As you hold on to me tightly I know that it won't be long. You are pushing harder and further into my poor tight asshole, and then I can feel you shaking and as you cum you push yourself so far up inside me that I feel like I will split in two. As you finish spurting inside me it feels as if you have filled up my asshole with your sperm.'" There is silence. Normally we would make arrangements for next week, but Jacqueline seems in no hurry to leave. What can I do? She isn't exactly making any offers, but it seems she is ready for something else. "Jacqueline..." "Yes?" I am back on my dilemma, but now I have some reason for believing Jacqueline will let me move our game on. "I'm sure you know how exciting I find your stories." "Yes. Thank you." "And I love to think about them when you're gone." "Yes. I thought you would." "Well I would love to...now. If you'd like it." Jacqueline shrugs, but I can see she is not entirely disinterested in the idea. "I guess you can do what you like," she says. "I mean, I wouldn't mind." My heart is thumping as I unbutton my flies and ease my poor throbbing cock out of my jeans. I have jerked myself off in front of students before, plenty of times, but there has never been anything like this. On those other occasions it has been an act of dominance - triumphant, magnificent, but fundamentally not so different from paying for a whore. The Bad Professor Ch. 02 Now, as I slowly stroke my shaft, Jacqueline sitting just across from me, the thrill is entirely different. She can see, beyond any doubt, the effect that her dirty words have had on me. She could take her money, leave, but she has chosen to stay with me and watch me masturbate. The element of display in front of this young woman is wonderful. Jacqueline watches me wanking. There is no obvious sign of her excitement, but her eyes never leave my cock. I suspect that now it is her that is looking forward to reliving everything on her own, that she can't wait to pull off her skirt and sopping panties and rub her soft wet cunt until she comes. It isn't surprising that all these factors bring me close in no short time. The liberating sense that after all this time together Jacqueline wants to see me holding my cock, wants to see me cum, wants to watch as I shoot off all over my hand and stomach, and the deceptively innocent look of curiosity on her face is all too much, and I am cumming, cumming, while Jacqueline watches. She stands. "Thank you," she says. "Shall I come back next week? You can tell me what you want me to say later." {Author's note: I appreciated your feedback after Chapter 1. Please let me know how you liked this story. Thanks!} The Bad Professor Ch. 03 My classes are surprisingly popular. Don't get me wrong, they're pretty much the best in the faculty. My teaching is of the highest intellectual calibre, and the seminar discussions are usually informed, lively and stimulating. No, the reason my popularity surprises me is that certain students - attractive female ones, to be precise - run a serious risk of highly inappropriate attention. Each semester I expect to find a sea of male and daggy female faces. I don't. In fact I generally seem to get more than my fair share of the faculty's lookers. I might say that I don't understand women, but really I think it's the absolute opposite - I understand what they want only too well. Nevertheless it was still something of a surprise late last week when I received an email from a student requesting to transfer into my classes. Even more surprising was the way the email was written: "Hi Prof Chambers, could I start coming to your Wednesday classes please? I would love to be one of your students, Jasmine." I looked Jasmine up on the records system. Twenty-five years old, good grades, but most importantly the scanned photo showed a sweet sweet face, full lips and fabulous dark eyes. Mm mm. I clicked reply. "Jasmine, before I can agree to you joining my classes, please can you come to my rooms at 6pm this evening? Mike". I looked at my watch. 4pm. This was surely going to be a record, two hours from first contact to fucking her slutty little brains out? + I am the wicked professor. I will lie and cheat and connive just so I can take advantage of my students. Young or old, good or bad, if I'm attracted to you then, make no mistake, I will find a way of having you. + My next surprise was Jasmine's attire when she turned up at my rooms dead on six. Yes she was every bit as cute and hot as I had imagined, but I had expected her to look trampy and available, whereas her jeans and turtleneck were really quite demure. We sat and chatted. My unease grew. She seemed earnest and intense, and genuinely keen to gain the academic benefits of studying under me. There were no innuendoes or subtle suggestions that she was ready to offer me a nasty little fuck. It wouldn't be the first time I had misread genuine innocence for something more wicked, but now she was sitting in front of me I began to feel irritated that I might miss out. As my frustration grew I examined her more and more closely on her interest in my subject, and her ability. I began to push her down the old "just how badly do you want to be taken seriously?" route, which always seems to be effective in flushing out what I want. Jasmine giggled. Maybe it was just nerves, but there was just the hint of something wicked there, as though she too had been depending on this moment. "I'm sorry," I said harshly, "is there something funny about you wanting to take my classes?" "No, I..." "I think you've been wasting my time. You knew full well when you came here that I require absolute commitment from my students. Evidently that's not something you can give." "Please, no, I didn't mean anything!" "You can let yourself out." "No! I really want to be your student. Let me show you. Please." Again, a hint of wickedness. "I will do anything." Whatever. My anger was still there. This wasn't going to be a quick little fuck any more. "Bend over my desk." Jasmine blinked at me, her expression blank. "You heard me. Bend over the desk. If you want to be my student, you have to show me your asshole." Normally at this stage I'd get a "you cannot be serious!" as the prelude to a long period of semi-consensual foreplay. Jasmine simply looked at me, confidently, her dark eyes burning with something close to triumph. As she reached the desk she undid her jeans, and as she bent forward she slipped them down to her ankles. "And your panties," I said as I walked over. Jasmine pulled them down immediately. Her face was turned towards me and, just as I liked the look of her bare arse, I could see that she enjoyed the effect her brazen display was having on me. "Open up. I want to see your asshole properly." Jasmine pulled her ass cheeks apart. I bent forward to look closely, as if she was the subject of some perverse experiment. "I like your asshole, Jasmine. Do you think it would feel good wrapped around my cock?" She gasped. "Yes." It was as if everything she had imagined was coming true. "Show me how tight it is, Jasmine. Put your finger in your ass for me." She lubricated her finger in her pussy, lingering a little longer than was necessary. "In your ass, Jasmine." She slowly poked her finger inside her anus. There was no need for the normal exhortations to go further as she obediently buried her digit to the second knuckle. "Mm, good, now lick your finger clean while I have a go." With equal care Jasmine pulled her finger out of her bottom and methodically fellated it. I touched my fingertip on her anus. For fuck's sake, two hours ago she was a new name on an email, and here I was rubbing her asshole. I gently pressed my finger inside Jasmine's anal canal, loving the warm dirty tightness. As I fingered Jasmine's asshole and she licked her dirty finger clean, she slipped her other hand down to pleasure her pussy. With most of my students that would have been an unforgiveable breach of etiquette. But with Jasmine the nature of our relationship seemed established already. Her pleasure was to let me do what I wanted, rather than there be any need for me to control her. There was a curious and enjoyable equality. Given how relentlessly and unfairly vicious I usually am about sex, I have a peculiarly old-fashioned sense of progression, which is almost eleventh grade in its simplicity. Hand job, blow job, pussy fuck, ass fuck, more extreme perversions. I think the essence of it is probably delayed satisfaction. There could be none of that with Jasmine. Her asshole felt too good. "I have to fuck your ass now, Jasmine," I said. "Yes," she said. I pulled out my finger, and reaching around to hold it in front of Jasmine's face I began to push my cock up Jasmine's ass. I say push, because she was neither lubricated nor stretched enough for my assault. She gasped, her eyes still fixed on my reaction. Jasmine's ass felt so tight that I could feel the friction as my cock was tugged back by her anal canal. But soon enough I was buried deep between her cheeks, and I began a slow and restricted in-out motion. "Fuck, yes." It seemed my newest student liked being assfucked the brutal way. I liked it too, but it would have been much too easy to simply release my spunk in Jasmine's bowels, both of us knew that, so I slowly withdrew. There was a slight pop as Jasmine's hungry anus closed around the empty space where my cock had been. "Kneel," I said. Jasmine knelt before me, her eyes remaining fixed on mine. "Clean my cock." There was just a moment's hesitation, I could tell, as Jasmine checked out the condition my cock was in after its vicious visit to her behind. What was she hoping for? Squeaky clean, or something nasty and shameful to accept into her mouth? It can only have been the latter. The touch of her tongue and lips was delicate and sensuous, not reluctant. She appreciated every filthy aspect of this act every bit as much as I did, and as she diligently cleaned her ass from my cock I could see her fingers were again busy at her pussy. Once again the temptation to fill one of Jasmine's holes with my spunk was enormous, but it felt to me that one further, even more perverse, act might be a suitable finale to our first encounter. "Show me your titties," I said, slipping my cock from Jasmine's mouth. "Yes." She complied quickly. I held my now clean cock in front of her face. Jasmine looked expectantly up at me. "What do you want me to do to you now?" I asked. "I...I don't know," she said. "Come on!" I said. "You want to be my student, then you must know what you want me to do to you now." "Pee on me," she said, gulping. "I want you to piss over me." She reached for my cock and pointed it at her tits. "Yessss." Jasmine gasped as the first drops trickled onto her thighs and jeans, but then as it turned into a full flow she directed the stream of my piss over her breasts, her fingers frantic now at her cunt. Then, oh so slowly, she opened her mouth and poked out her tongue, and gradually lowered her face into the arc of piss. I watched, transfixed, as she splashed my pee all over her face. When, finally, the flow subsided, Jasmine's face and tits were drenched with my piss. She looked incredible, her eyes wild with the enormity of what she had permitted me to do. "Cum on my face," she said, "I want to feel your cum with your piss on my face." Her hand on my cock was slow, deliberate, while her other hand worked busily between her legs to relieve her own needs. I looked down at her sweet, degraded face, and after only a few delicate strokes I felt the cum surge up my cock. Jasmine didn't falter one second as my spunk spurted over her salty wet cheeks and lips and nose. Only as I was finishing did she allow herself her own orgasm, her assfucked, cum-, and piss-drenched body bucking uncontrollably at its supreme humiliation. +++ A little later, as I poured us both a drink, Jasmine turned nervously to me. "There's just one thing," she said. "Yes?" "I have to work Wednesdays. I'm sorry. I can't make your classes. But I can still be your student, can't I?"