Tolerance
Chapter Four
After the debacle at game night, DJ spent the rest of the weekend cloistered in his room. He didn’t have rounds duty until later in the week, and his social calendar was clear as usual. He looked occasionally at his list of experiments, and while part of him was curious as to whether or not the tolerance power would work online, would work if he were an anonymous stranger, the memory flashed of Rachael bent over her brother’s lap, begging him to spank her.
He read. Did homework. Filled in some sudoku. Anything to avoid the constant temptation of walking down the hall to the girl’s shower and… No. Another sudoku.
But that Monday was as inevitable as any other. Wary of succumbing, he kept his head down and didn’t look around. Tried not to bump into people on the sidewalk. Intro to communications and intermediate comp both passed smoothly; he spent most of the time looking down at his notebook and doodling.
Allie Gentrose came to class in shorts so short her ass cheeks hung out at the bottom, a tank top so sheer he could see her nipples. He could walk over and grab them right now if he wanted, and she wouldn’t complain. Maybe a little, if his hands were cold or he made her late for class.
The lecture ended, and he walked out, hands firmly in his pockets. Really, he felt pretty good about it. He kept reciting the golden rule to himself, kept himself distracted from looking around at his peers, and it wasn’t so hard.
Until Dr. Restrepo’s class.
It was a large lecture hall, though only seventy or so students were enrolled in her class so there was plenty of room. DJ sat towards the back of the room as his fellow students shuffled in, and soon Dr. Restrepo—Missy—walked in. As usual she was dressed like “one of the gang”—a fashionable fall sweater, denim skirt, a pair of uggs, her thick mane of curly hair back in a pony tail. Anyone visiting would probably mistake her for a student, just another hot sorority girl.
She opened class with a lecture about their essays, which she’d graded over the weekend. DJ half-listened, not because he was at all worried—it was fast becoming difficult to imagine someone taking punitive action against him—but because of how tight her sweater was. He couldn’t get the image out of his head of the eyeful she’d given him in her office last week. And he didn’t want to.
He stared openly as she moved up and down the aisles returning the graded papers, figuring he could forgive himself this one little transgression. You’re only looking after all. No harm in a little looking. Not like you’re touching her. Stripping her. Putting your dick in her mouth. Fucking her brains out. No, nothing like that. Just looking. When she slapped his down upside down on his desk, she was keenly aware of the way his eyes were feasting on her breasts, only a foot or so from his face. She was unaware, however, of how close he came to groping them instead.
At last she finished complaining about the poor quality of the essays and began her lecture. Instantly bored and with his view obscured by her podium on the class’s stage, he finally flipped over his paper and saw his grade.
An F. An F! There was only a single comment written—“plagiarism: violation of university academic honor code 02-04a.” Plagiarism! He’d worked hard on this! She didn’t even cite where he’d plagiarized from!
Up at the front of the room, she was still going through her lecture, something about the impact of expressive typography in new media. The class was filled with faces of students concealing angry expressions, people who seemed to have about the same reaction he had to their essay feedback. He was halfway up to his feet before he again remembered Derek and Rachael, and he sat back down. He’d handle this maturely. Talk it out. Calmly.
And ya know, he might have made it if she hadn’t had to go and push him. “Let’s hope you guys put a little more effort into your note-taking today than you did on your essays.” The condescending tone, the flippant dismissal of her students’ concerns, the roll of her eyes.
DJ stood up and walked down toward the stage, stopping at the foot of it and looking up at her. She eyed him, but opted to continue lecturing—right up until DJ walked around behind her and grabbed her tits, pulling her ass up against him. “You fucking bitch,” he hissed in her ear.
“Schmidt, this is hardly the time. I’m trying to teach.” She wriggled a little in his grip, but barely struggled. Someone in the class yawned loudly.
“My name is Swanson! Not Schmidt, Swanson! Get it right, Dr. Restrepo!”
“Well while we’re on the subject of names, it’s Missy, remember. I wouldn’t think it would be so difficult for you; you have what, five professors, and I have hundreds of students.” She gasped a little as he squeezed one of her boobs harder.
“Hmm. Well I can’t seem to remember how you’re ‘one of the gang’ when you keep treating the gang like this. So maybe now we give you a name that’s easier to remember.” He picked up and uncapped the black dry erase marker from the nearby white board, then walked over and scrawled something on her face. Dr. Missy Restrepo waited with strained patience; the class was now watching with much interest. When he was done, the words “BITCH FROM HELL” were written on her forehead. “There now, that should be easy for everyone to remember.” A number of his peers laughed. A ways back someone elbowed the student on her right awake and pointed.
Not sure what else to do, she grabbed her cell phone from her purse beneath the podium and used the camera function as a mirror. “Well that’s going to be a pain to wash off. Are you quite done disrupting my class?”
“I’m tired of listening to you talk. Quite frankly, I think we’re all a little tired of being condescended to by the great Dr. Missy.” DJ grabbed the hem of her sweater and pulled it up and over her head with a little effort, revealing a boring beige bra that somehow reduced her sex appeal from the snug sweater. As Missy put her hands on her hips and regarded him impatiently, he unzipped the denim skirt and tugged it down to reveal a pair of boring matching beige panties.
“This is extremely unprofessional,” she said evenly as he unclasped the bra. Discarded, it freed an amazing pair of tits. Not as big as Ashleigh’s, but that girl’s were enormous. Still, these were remarkably perky little hemispheres, especially given their size.
“You’re one to talk about professionalism, standing there in nothing but your panties. And wow, Missy, these are some nice boobs—never would have guessed they were this big.” He fondled them, one bulging out of each of his hands.
“I wear minimizers, not that it’s any of your business.” She put her hands on her hips reprovingly.
“What? Why would you want to hide these? They’re amazing.” He put his face down in her cleavage and motor-boated her with a giggle he couldn’t quite restrain.
She raised her voice to be heard over it. “It can be difficult in academia to be taken seriously for an attractive young woman. Having large breasts only lets people see you as a—oh shit—stereotype,” she ended breathily, responding to his sucking at a nipple.
“Well, I wouldn’t want anyone to stop taking you seriously,” he said when he’d had a good long suck, then with a hard tug ripped her panties clean off and tossed them into the crowd. They hit a girl in the second row, who squeamishly tossed them away.
Missy followed him with her head until he was completely back behind her. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.” She heard a zipper being undone, a rustle of fabric.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. Anyway, why don’t you get on with your lecture. And would someone mind recording this? I’d hate for anyone who was sick today to miss important notes.” He took her hips and brought her a few feet away from the podium, spreading her legs apart with his feet as a few dozen cell phones came out in the hands of Missy’s male students (all of them abashed that they needed to be reminded to record it in the first place).
As DJ pushed her shoulders forward until she was leaning hard on the podium, just barely able to reach it, she resumed. “Well all right then. So anyway, modern typography is in many ways retrogressive not just to the 20th century, but dating back centuries to the OH FUCK!” Missy cried out as DJ thrust his cock into her from behind.
“Don’t stop now, bitch, it’s just getting interesting.” He struck a rapid pace, pistoning in and out of her hard enough that she had a hard time keeping her grip on the podium, which in turn was nearly causing it to fall over with all the pressure she was exerting on it.
“R-right, so dating b-back to the, oh, oh God, to the 1700’s, as the uh-HUH-HUPtick in literacy caused b-business oh-hoh-fucking-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-hohwners to start using customized, oh fuck, cust… custom… OH FUCK!” She shrieked as her gyrations caused the podium to fall forward, crashing loudly down the steps leading up to the stage. Only DJ’s firm grip on her hips kept her upright.
“Customized…?” He prompted, smacking her ass once, then a second time to snap her out of her reverie.
“Yes, c-custohmy-God-mized signage! Storefronts compe—holy fucking shit that’s good—com… com…”
DJ slowed his pace so he could talk clearly. Her pussy was incredibly tight, and he was already getting closer than he wanted to admit. “What’s that Missy, you saying you want to cum? Or you want me to cum?”
“N-no! No, they competed, that’s it, through innovation and creativity of their l-layouts.”
“Oh, so you don’t want to cum?” He stopped thrusting.
“Not in front of the whole class! They need to respect me,” she whined, but her hips still wriggled against him needily.
DJ looked up to the class. “What do you say, class? Will you still respect her if she cums?”
A raucous cheer went up from most of the guys in class, and more than a few of the girls. (Though to be fair, the look on a number of young faces made it clear they already had no respect for her.) “Well there you have it—everyone’s OK with you cumming.”
She inhaled deeply a few times, trying to catch her breath. “All right then.”
“Oh no, Missy. I want to hear you ask for it.”
She frowned. “What? No. I don’t wanna.” Her voice was small, petulant.
DJ reached down and cupped both of her tits, rubbing her hard nipples as he started gently thrusting his hips again. She trembled in his hands, whimpering with barely contained need. Distantly he wondered how long it’d been since the poor girl had gotten laid. “C’mon. Just ask me, then you get to have your orgasm and maybe I’ll even let you get on with that boring lecture.”
She was quiet a moment, eyes closed tight as she simply savored the sensations, grappled with her pride, evaluated her desperation to be done getting fucked like a common whore in front of her class. (She didn’t worry that it would end her career; after all, it was DJ. People would understand.)
“P-please.”
He gave her a single hard thrust, and she moaned loudly. “What was that? Please what?”
“Please, please let me cum.”
“Well if I’m going to let you cum, then I better get something in return. Tell you what—you promise me an A in your class, right now in front of everybody, and I’ll let you cum.”
She quivered in his arms, whether in indignation or rage or lust, he couldn’t say. Still, it wasn’t long before she responded, in a meek voice, “all right. You have an A. Just fucking screw me already!”
“You got it, Doc.”
With that, he roughly lowered, almost dropped really, the bitchy professor to her knees, his cock following close behind. Down on her hands and knees, Missy arched her back for ease of access, and soon he was jack-hammering her needy pussy with all the vigor a young man could muster—which was quite a lot, really. She was long past trying to preserve any modesty—she moaned as he drilled her, one hand supporting her weight while the other pawed at her tits as they dangled and bounced beneath her. She rocked her hips to meet his thrusts, panting with need, beyond caring about the dozens of cameras on her, no longer wanting anything but to get off.
And then, with a shriek, she did. Her arms gave way and her pretty face slumped down with one cheek on the floor, shaking and quivering as a massive orgasm rocked her entire body. A long, low moan transmuted into a high-pitched squeal of ecstasy, triggering DJ’s own orgasm, emptying his balls deep inside his bitchy teacher’s cunt.
Still dazed, she barely noticed as he lifted her back to a kneeling position and slid his softening dick into her mouth for a quick clean-up. She just sucked, like she knew what he expected of her, until he pulled out, then dried her spit off in a handful of her frizzy hair. DJ was dressed and heading back into the seating section before she had the presence of mind to stand up and start collecting her clothes, getting dressed hurriedly. Except her panties, of course; DJ’s cum was already trickling down her thighs and would no doubt soon drip down where it could be seen.
DJ, meanwhile, approached one of the nearest recorders and took his phone right out of his hand. By the time Missy was dressed again, he had uploaded the video to the class’s university-sponsored web page in the Class Announcements tab. Dr. Restrepo ordered two jocks to help her get the podium back in place and, as if the whole class hadn’t just watched her get fucked like a bitch in heat, she resumed her lecture without missing a beat. “BITCH FROM HELL” was still mostly legible on her forehead, though the words were smudged on one side from when she’d collapsed with her face on the ground mid-orgasm.
And like that, class went on. She resumed her lecture, and everyone learned about the fascinating nature of 18th century sign-crafting. Missy dismissed the crowd that assembled after class to talk about essays, telling them to find her in office hours instead. DJ ignored the dismissal and approached her anyway.
“Schmidt.”
He scowled. “It’s Swanson. Do you have this hard of a time remembering the names of all the guys who fuck you?”
“Sorry, Swanson. What can I do for you?” He marveled anew that nothing in her manner suggested she was put off by what he’d done to her, just like it was any other day.
“I know I already earned my A for the semester and all, but still. You gave me a zero for plagiarism. I didn’t plagiarize. I came to your office and you said it was fine.” He showed her the essay.
She looked it over. “Oh. I see, honest mistake. I remembered talking to you about it, but I thought your name was Schmidt. So when I saw Swanson at the top, I thought you had cheated off of Schmidt.” She shrugged. “Sorry, honest mistake.” She handed him back his paper, and he just laughed. For a moment, he’d actually thought that there was some loophole in the tolerance that let her punish him for his writing—but it turned out she had actually been trying to protect him!
And then the question that had been burgeoning beneath the surface of his mind these past days sprang to the top. What can’t I do?
“Oh. Glad to know I didn’t actually fail on my merit.” He looked around for something to help wipe her face clean.
“Oh? No, you still deserved to fail. Just not for plagiarism. I told you that was a bad topic choice. Not that it matters now, with your A.”
He froze. “You know, just when I thought you might be a decent person… Well, you know what I think is a bad choice? That outfit. In fact as of now, I’m changing your dress code. Every class meeting, you’re to show up in something nice and slutty. Nothing lower than here,” he put a finger on her thigh about two inches below her pussy, “and nothing higher than here,” he said, drawing a line with his finger just above her nipples, “unless it also reveals a hell of a lot of cleavage.”
“You can’t tell me how to dress, Swanson.” She folded her arms across her chest, but it looked more sulky than defiant.
Two hours later, the two stepped out of Ink, Inc., a local tattoo parlor. Missy walked delicately, the fresh brand on her lower back still burning. “Now, you’ll adhere to my dress code, or I’ll bring you back here after class Wednesday and get something a hell of a lot worse. You get me, Missy?”
She nodded. “I get you. I’m sorry. You didn’t have to do this you know. I would’ve worn the outfit like you said.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, we;; some things you just have to put up with. And Missy? Add to the dress code that whatever you wear has to show off your new tat.”
She hung her head low as DJ lifted her sweater to reveal her lower back where the words “Bitch From Hell” were written, stylized flames coming out of the letters. Expressive typography indeed.
DJ had her drop him off outside his dorm, giving her a long farewell kiss and squeeze on her tits before he got out of the car. It was a bright fall day. All around him, college girls were taken advantage of the last warm days of the year to don their skimpy summer clothes. It was a shmorgasbord—and the only thing keeping him on his diet was a nagging little whisper that called itself Conscience.
But even louder was that other voice. What can’t I do?