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Authors name: Lord Malinov
Story title : The Professor
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The Professor
by Lord Malinov (malinov@mindless.com)
~~~
"Empress, the way is ready, and not long . . .
If thou accept my conduct, I can lead thee thither soon"
~~~
Our journey began on a fine Spring day.
I awoke with a start, as though a light had gone on
inside my head, a sudden shock of alertness which left
me lying open-eyed between my sheets, starkly self-
aware. Dim shadows lurked in the calm darkness of my
bedroom. The clock on my nightstand glowed three some-
thing, flashing faint seconds in time with the quick
drip of a distant faucet. I rolled over and thrust my
face defiantly into the soft pillow I was clutching,
trying to escape the anxiety that already had me in its
grip.
For the last week, every night had been the same and I
cursed, knowing I would not fall back to sleep soon.
The soft light of a crescent moon crept around a window
shade to vaguely touch my eyes. I felt my heartbeat
racing. There were thoughts I wouldn't let myself con-
sider in the cold reason of daylight, but lying defense-
less in my bed, those cruel thoughts held me in their
grip.
The decision was only a few days away, and it seemed
all but certain that I would triumph. Everyone I knew
predicted smooth sailing. The struggle for tenure had
been arduous, painful and exacting, but in a short time,
best measured in mere hours, I would finally be released
from my worries, for better or for worse. I wanted
desperately to drift off to sleep, to remain unconscious
for days until the decision had been announced and Jeff
or Jean or Clara could wake me with the news that my
ordeal was over, that I had been appointed a fully
tenured Professor of English Literature.
The dark stole all my courage. A desperate desire to
run away overtook my taut nerves. "Fuck them, fuck them
all," I sneered, turning my face into the pillow and
closing my eyes. "I don't need this." But I didn't
move. I couldn't. It would all be over soon. There was
no reason to run away.
Realizing my only hope of sleeping was to forcibly push
the academic worries aside, get them out of my teeming
brain, I led my imagination toward the only distraction
I could count on to turn my thoughts; a pretty girl's
panties, a naughty little cunt, nipples under t-shirts
and cute lipsticked mouths. I knew myself this well;
I quickly forgot everything else.
Impossible fantasies soon haunted my mind. I let my
waking dreams wander, remembering the sweet scent of a
student's hair as she leaned close to examine the
passage I wanted to show her, the gentle brush of her
hand against my arm as we both reached to turn the page,
the warm kiss of her breath as she laughed at something
I said.
"Sit down," I imagined inviting her.
"Thank you," my naughty fantasy girl replied as she
nestled herself comfortably on my lap. I thought about
her bottom, imagining the way it might feel pressed
against me. I turned over in my bed, trying to escape
the sordid dream.
It had been a week ago when one of my students, a pretty
girl I respectfully called Miss Anderson, bent over to
retrieve a pencil that had fallen from her hand. She was
wearing a very short black skirt. Karen always wore
skirts to class. Her back was to me when she bent at
the waist in a most unladylike fashion, and I couldn't
help staring as her skirt rose.
I held my breath as time halted, so fixed was my atten-
tion. My heartbeat pounded loud as her too-short skirt
crept higher, revealing the flesh of her uppermost
thigh. I gasped as her white panties burst into view.
My wicked imagination at once conjured an image of this
schoolgirl stripped naked.
I had done my best to forget things I should never have
thought, but no amount of will seemed capable of erasing
the all-too-real spectacle I had enjoyed of Karen's
veiled backside.
Lying naked beneath my sheet, I wanted her weight upon
me. I felt my stiff cock firmly nestled between those
full cheeks. I imagined the girl putting her arms
around my neck and kissing me. I wished she would pull
my face between her tits. I wondered if I could stand
it if she sat squirming on my lap. I began to stroke
my prick methodically.
"Please fuck me," I dreamed I heard her say. "I'm such
a naughty girl."
I stopped myself short of orgasm, somehow afraid to be
taking advantage of my student, even in fantasy. As the
heat within me dissipated, I remembered a day when I was
fourteen and had gone home with my friend, Jim. We hung
out at his house because no one paid much attention to
us there. On that particular day, we were hiding out in
his basement because Jim found some dirty comics in his
older brother's closet. There were drawings of bare-
breasted women with big feminine asses. I had never
seen anything like them. Lines of crude poetry shared
the pages, and Jim and I laughed nervously as we read
the limericks aloud.
The door at the top of the stairs opened with a creak.
We hid the comics in a panic as we heard footsteps
descending. Jim peeked around the corner.
"I think it's Leslie," he whispered. "Shh, stay back."
The clomp down the wooden stairs gave way to a softer
step on thin carpet. We froze. Jim's sister wouldn't
find us unless she came all the way to the back, because
we were stashed well out of sight in the short leg of
the L-shaped basement. There were still a whole stack
of comics we hadn't looked at yet, so we kept perfectly
still, hoping Leslie would get what she came for and go
away. Instead, a loud radio began to play.
"What's she doing?" I asked.
"I don't know," said Jim. The annoyance in his voice
echoed my frustration. I knelt close to Jim to get a
peek, anxious to get a feel for our situation. My mind
raced in search of ways we could get rid of Leslie. I
wanted to look at more tits and ass.
"The little bitch is dancing in front of the mirror,"
Jim said. I laid down on the floor where I could watch
the girl cavort. It was maddening, feeling so utterly
helpless.
"Let's just get out of here," I remember whimpering.
"How do we get Eric's comics upstairs without her seeing
them?" Jim snapped back at me. "If we get caught with
these, my Dad will beat the crap out of us."
"We'll just wait, then," I said. "Maybe she'll go away
soon."
I went back to watching the girl dance. Leslie was
wearing a pretty baby-blue dress. I'd always thought
of her as a scrawny kid, but she'd grown. Leslie had
tits that weren't there the last time I looked and when
she danced, they bounced.
She watched herself in the big mirror that was propped
against the wall, her eyes fixed on her image as she
moved back and forth to the rhythm of the song that was
playing. Leslie tugged at the soft collar of the blue
dress until it fell off her shoulders and then shook her
titties. The cloth was pulled tight and strained to keep
her boobs covered.
I lay on the floor in an agony of excited frustration,
wanting desperately to get up and do something, whistle,
scream, touch her, move, anything except hide. I could-
n't. I was so aroused and afraid, it was all I could
do to keep watching.
My knowledge of girls was probably a bit sparse for a
boy of fourteen. The comics had opened my eyes wide to
some of their more interesting secrets, so I studied
Leslie with sincere appreciation.
As if knowing how much delight she gave me, Jim's sister
wiggled her budding charms in a way that quickened my
heart. I was filled with wonder when she spun around
and then stopped abruptly to pose. It occurred to me
that I had never seen any of Jim's sisters wear a dress.
Maybe I had. I can't say I paid much attention to his
sisters before.
On that day, anyway, Leslie enchanted me with her
beauty, dancing the way she did.
Jim, however, felt a brother's general disregard for
his sister's feminine charm, and stifled a disrespectful
laugh with his hand. Then Leslie spun herself in a
tight circle and her dress rose up. I gasped when I
saw her white cotton panties.
Even Jim seemed interested in this unexpected sight.
Neither of us moved a muscle now, watching his sister
dance, hoping we could see her underwear again.
Leslie didn't disappoint us. The quick flashes happened
again and again, and then it occurred to me that Leslie
was trying to expose her panties. She seemed to be
looking for them in the mirror and whenever they ap-
peared, a naughty smile crossed her face. Leslie turned
on her toes like a ballerina, spinning faster and faster
until her dress lifted high, revealing her panties in a
blur.
After this game of little teases had gone on for a
while, Leslie took the hem of her dress and lifted it
to her waist. The bikini cut panties were sheer enough
that I could just make out a few curls of her muff.
Leslie turned to look at her panties in profile and then
over her shoulder at her ass. She bent and moved
through a variety of poses, studying herself intently,
while I found myself falling madly in love.
Leslie eventually returned to dancing, her dress still
bunched at the waist. My young prick was so hard it
hurt, caught in the too small space of my stiff blue
jeans, but I was too afraid of getting caught and stop-
ping the show to even consider moving to ease the
strain.
A song ended and Leslie brought her free hand down to
rub herself for a moment. A shiver ran through her. A
wicked grin crossed her face. Leslie sat down a few feet
from the large mirror and squeezed her breasts through
the fabric of her dress. She laughed as her nipples
began to press themselves erect against the blue cloth.
Leslie slipped her fingers down the front of her panties
and teased herself. Her pretty mouth opened slightly and
she let out a small moan.
"Such a naughty girl," she said as she opened her legs
into a wide V. Leslie leaned back on her arms to get a
good look at herself spread wide, a vision I gratefully
shared. She pouted slightly and then patted the stretch
of white cotton between her thighs with her hand.
"Naughty," Leslie said again as she started beating on
her panties, giving her pussy a spanking. It was like
nothing I had imagined before. "Naughty, naughty,
naughty, naughty, naughty."
Leslie's face went flush and suddenly she lifted her
bottom to yank her panties down. I had never seen a
real pussy before. I nearly came in my jeans. A soft
tuft of brown hairs curled above the shiny pink of her
cunt. Leslie touched her nub teasingly, and then
immodestly spread her pussy lips apart with her fingers,
staring at the secrets revealed by the mirror.
"Naughty girl," she barely managed to say as she rubbed
herself hard, watching herself as she did.
A popular song came on the radio, and Leslie tensed her
muscles to the rhythm, lifting her bottom, sticking a
finger up and out her wet cunt, pinching a tit, twisting
her hips to the music, spreading her lips for the mir-
ror, moving her young body in a wild erotic dance of
self-love, a perfect poetic beauty brought to life.
I was mesmerized.
The music came to an end, and Leslie slowed her pace.
Turning her head to one side, she bit her lip and
moaned. A dark nipple peeked stiffly above the neckline
of her dress.
"What?" a deep voice bellowed suddenly.
"Daddy." she said in a panic. The blush in her face
turned crimson as Leslie pulled at her panties and
jumped off the floor. She smoothed the dress down, not
realizing her nipple was still exposed. I wanted to
warn her, but couldn't.
"Shit," Jim said in a frightened whisper. "I didn't
know he was in the back room."
"Leslie," their dad yelled. I had never seen him so
upset, although I had often seen him angry. "Where'd
you get that dress?"
"It's Mama's," she said. I looked at Jim. He seemed
petrified with fear.
"I thought I told you . . . What the fuck were you
doing?"
"Nothing, Daddy." Leslie looked around nervously.
"Dancing."
"You fucking slut. Don't lie to me. Get over here."
The big man lifted his daughter by the arm and without
another word tossed her down against the old sofa across
the far wall, turning her so she was bent over the
armrest, her bottom lifted high.
"You pull them down," he growled. Trembling, Leslie did
as she was told. My heart pounded so ferociously that I
thought I was going to pass out. I could hardly focus
my eyes to see the swollen lips of her cunt pressed be-
tween her thighs.
Her dad put a hand firmly against her back and raised
the other hand high above her. "I won't have any more
fucking sluts in my house," he said angrily. Her bare
bottom glowed white for a brief instant. His big hand
struck the soft flesh with a smack.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," Leslie cried softly. "I was being
naughty." He spanked her again. "I won't," she howled
but he interrupted her with a hard volley of spanks. The
girl sobbed hysterically and the big man stepped away.
"Now get dressed and go upstairs to your room," her
father said. Leslie pulled up her panties and dashed
upstairs. "Fucking slut," I heard him mutter.
Jim and I didn't move, deathly afraid of what would
happen if the old man found out we were hiding there.
I doubt I could have moved anyway; I had never been
so intensely aroused, or frightened. After what seemed
like an eternity, the big man climbed the stairs and
closed the basement door. Jim and I stayed there
paralyzed for an hour.
"Wow," I said. My cock lifted the sheet of my bed with
quick throbs.
I tried to count the number of times I had seen the
schoolgirl's panties in class. She'd flashed me dozens
of times, at least, and her panties had been white every
time.
"Miss Anderson," I could hear myself say. She would
kneel down before me. She unzipped my trousers. "You
are a very naughty girl."
I managed to grab an hour or two of troubled sleep,
filled with nervous dreams of lurking fears and I felt
a sense of relief when the alarm finally gave me permis-
sion to give up the fight.
I pulled myself out of bed. "Six hours," I thought
absently as the hot shower streamed over my face. "Six
hours until I see her again."
I was wrong. Only four hours had elapsed before I
caught sight of Miss Anderson on campus. She was sit-
ting on a ledge in front of Wescoe Hall, talking to a
young buck with sandy blonde hair and broad shoulders.
I slowed my pace without thinking, taking advantage of
Karen's preoccupation to study her in the flow of normal
life, outside the magic kingdom of my classroom.
Karen cocked her head to one side and played with a
loose shock of her long hair, bringing the strands to
her soft lips for a kiss as she batted her eyes inno-
cently and blushed. The boy seemed to be charming her
with whatever it was he was saying.
Karen leaned back to allow the spring sunshine to
brighten her pretty face. I watched her thighs spread
slightly and I suddenly caught a glimpse of her white
panties. I stood still, involuntarily frozen by the
sight.
A minute passed before Karen leaned forward and hid her
panties again. I started walking again. The boy seemed
to be staring at her tits, looking down her blouse.
Karen seemed to notice and the boy started talking
excitedly. I moved on with a shrug, but then on impulse
stole a quick glance back. She kissed the youth. I
felt myself frown. She pushed him suddenly away and
laughed.
"Flirt," I muttered and headed back toward my office.
I still had to prepare for our class.
I sat behind the broad mahogany desk in my classroom,
watching as my students filed in. Karen took her usual
seat, near the front on the right side of the classroom,
the stage of my torment since the first day of class.
Karen never let me ignore her. Before our first session
of Nineteenth Century British Poetry, she brought in a
large red apple. The short-skirted young woman stopped
in front of my desk, where I sat looking over my notes.
Realizing she was standing there, I put my papers down.
She polished the apple by rubbing it on her shirt, just
above her left breast. A nipple's form grew under the
thin cloth as she held the red fruit up for a moment's
inspection. Karen softly placed the delicious looking
apple on the papers I had been reading.
"Morning, Professor," she said. Her gift and greeting
acted like a tonic on me, arousing a sense of pride I
had never quite known before, despite my years of
teaching. I felt all at once important and authorita-
tive, blessing these young people with my scholarly
gifts. I knew that I would touch them, awake in their
souls a love for beauty and life. I would be an active
principle for them, and for Miss Anderson, most of all.
I opened the text I had chosen and began to read aloud.
My deep voice boomed with a resonance that never failed
to please me. I knew Byron's words by heart, and after
I had warmed up by following a few passages, I let my
gaze stray from the book I held.
Karen was looking up at me with such rapt attention that
I suddenly panicked and forgot the next line in an im-
perceptible moment; my eyes returned to the page to
follow the dictates of the printed words. I could feel
her eyes upon me.
My heart soared again, feeling myself before them, a
professor inspiring his class of young hearts with an
understanding of the beauty of poetry. The romantic
passage flowed out of me like water down a mountainside.
I caught Karen's gaze and let the poetry spark between
us.
She smiled, playing with a button on her blouse until a
sudden glimpse of her creamy breast caught my eye. I
stumbled in my reading, lost the words in a fit of
coughing.
From that day forward, the formula was the same. I
lectured on the passionate works of the best romantic
poets. Karen disrupted my thoughts with innocently
naughty displays of the secrets she could never quite
keep hidden beneath her clothes. I fought to maintain
my composure. She laughed as she watched my concen-
tration crumble, tempted away by lusts I could never
pursue. I tried to hide the way I felt.
I doubt I ever succeeded.
Through it all, I suppose I came to think of her as
mine, the ritual of our flirtation having become a sort
of relationship which I cherished in its own right.
As I sat behind my desk, trying to decide whether to
bother with some of the subtler themes buried in the
Eve of Saint Agnes, my thoughts insistently returned to
the kiss I had witnessed. My blood ran hot and then
cold, angry and pained, fierce and defeated.
"Morning, Professor," Karen said as she sat down.
"Good morning, Miss Anderson," I replied, my voice
sounding hard and cold. I knew that I shouldn't let
her see the jealousy she had stirred in me, but I was
powerless to hide my displeasure.
Karen seemed to understand and I thought she laughed
cruelly, taunting my pain with disdain. I felt confused
and blushed deeply. The unspoken and impossible nature
of what we shared offered me nothing to lean upon. I had
wants at war with shoulds and hope fruitlessly battling
can't. Every encounter with Karen left me more unset-
tled.
I reasoned with myself, knowing I had no right to
chastise this young woman for the way she behaved with
young man outside my classroom, even if she did show me
her underwear. My lips snarled with scorn. I couldn't
help how this schoolgirl made me feel.
"St. Agnes' Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was!" I exclaimed
as the class came to order. I recited the poem's cold
opening with frigid passion. At the end of the first
stanza, as I spoke the line, "Past the sweet Virgin's
picture," I gave an angry glance at Karen. I'm sure I
didn't mean to, but something morbid within me refused
to be silenced.
Miss Anderson wasn't even looking my way; she had turned
to laugh toward one of her fellows, a deliberate stab at
my devotion, or so I felt. Karen turned back to the face
me, and slid down slightly in her seat, spreading her
lean thighs just a hair.
My heart nearly burst when I saw the faint sheen of
white cotton in the shadows under her skirt. I stopped,
lost and looked back to the text. "While his prayer he
saith," I read quietly.
As many times as I had enjoyed the naughty flashes of my
schoolgirl, I was infuriated by the glimpse she was
showing me. I couldn't help feeling that Karen was de-
liberately playing with me, teasing me with wicked
thoughts of pleasures that I, for one, would never en-
joy. I wanted to slap her. I continued my discussion
of Keats, doing my best to ignore Miss Anderson.
However, it seemed that the less attention I tried to
pay, the more intent she became on distracting me. Her
legs drifted further apart until every casual glance
revealed more and more of her cotton panties.
At one point, when she had managed to tempt me into a
brief stare, Karen began to scratch her thigh, letting
a finger rub the cotton veil with a touch of lewdness.
I dropped my book with a clatter and the class laughed
at my clumsiness. I became enraged in my embarrassment.
Karen rolled her eyes and blew me a mock kiss.
A rush of white-hot anger blinded me. I barely managed
to collect myself and make the next assignment before
dismissing the class. I felt like I was going to explode.
"Miss Anderson," I said sharply as the students began
to file out of my classroom, "I will not tolerate your
disrespect any further. If you continue to disrupt my
class, I will have to . . ." In my fury I couldn't
imagine what I could do.
"What?" she said coyly. "Spank me?"
The words shot through me like a bullet. My whole world
turned red. I took the girl by the arm, pulling her back
roughly, spilling her books on the floor.
"Oh, aren't you tough?" she said, unimpressed by my
manhandling. I angrily pushed her down over the desk.
Karen laughed and then taunted me with a wiggle of her
pretty butt.
I smacked her insolent backside. She giggled and lifted
her skirt, completely unafraid of tempting my wrath.
"Come on," she murmured. I stared for a moment at the
veil clinging to her round behind.
"Pull them down," I heard myself say. I snarled, frozen
with rage. Reaching back without a moment's hesitation,
Karen stretched the elastic of her white panties past
the fullness of her bottom, and then pushed the cloth
down until she left a roll of cotton at mid-thigh.
I paused, stunned by the sight of her young pussy.
Dampness glistened in the bright stream of afternoon
sun shining through the classroom window. Arousal
pushed her nether lips obscenely between her thighs.
"Come on, Professor," she whispered. "Aren't I bad
enough for you?" My fury rose up like a tempest within
me. I struck her bare bottom hard. Karen groaned
deeply, a sound caught between sharp pain and tones of
ecstasy.
"You fucking slut," I said under my breath. The words
surprised me and I hit her again, an angered lust
stealing my last shred of self-control.
"Yes," she said eagerly, "fucking slut, naughty girl.
I'm such a naughty girl." Each syllable seemed to beg
me for another blow. "I'm your naughty fucking slut,
Professor."
I spanked Karen again and again, each blow made harder
by the luring sweetness of her voice.
Suddenly, Karen trembled and pushed her bottom back
toward me, inviting more than mere spanks. The blossom
of her cunt opened, her tiny wings enflamed in bright
pink around the moist scarlet of her hole. Her moans
came in a cascade of low growls. I stopped my fierce
attack, all my rage deflating as I watched my student
shudder in ecstasy, "What have I done?" I said softly.
"Oh, God." I fell to my knees. "I'm sorry."
Karen shivered again and laughed. I touched her apple-
red bottom tenderly. "Mmm," she murmured, "that's
nice." I kissed her flaming skin, as though my lips
could erase the harsh punishment my hand had inflicted
on her.
"Forgive," I said between kisses.
"I was bad," she said thoughtfully. "You had to . . ."
My lips caressed her asshole. I teased her with my
tongue. "Mmm," she said, "you are bad." She ground her
ass in my face. I licked her softly, slowly descending
until I could taste the heat of her pussy. "I love you,"
she said. I caressed her deftly with my tongue. Karen
arched her back to bring her clitoris to my kiss. "I
have always loved you."
"No," I said softly. "We can't."
"Yes, we can," she said. "I want you."
I stopped myself and stood up. Karen looked back,
frowning, her eyes begging me to go on licking her. I
unzipped my trousers and withdrew my hardened cock.
"Oh," she said, or perhaps it was "No," but I didn't
care at that point. What she wanted seemed irrelevant
because I wanted her and that was enough for me.
I plunged into her wet cunt with a deliberate harshness
but the hot hole gave no resistance. "Fuck me, Profes-
sor," she moaned and I fucked her furiously.
Karen moaned. Each stroke of my prick seemed to excite
her more. I grabbed her sore ass hard, pulling her
against my rhythm, biting into the ravaged flesh with my
nails. Karen raised her voice louder, until her squeals
were nearly a full-throated scream.
Then, at once, I realized the classroom door was only
closed, not locked. Someone could walk in at any
moment. I told her to shut up.
Karen only moaned louder. I became angry with her
again, snarling as I called her foul names. Karen
repeated my profanity twice as loud.
I finally pulled my cock out of her and then she began
to curse me for stopping. I covered her mouth with my
hand, but she continued her yells. I reached back and
spanked her hard. Karen gave a muffled purr, and
tenderly kissed my hand. I gave a few more spanks and
finally stopped to push my prick into her mouth.
And in that moment, I resolved to go away, to leave my
life behind, start fresh. I knew exactly what I wanted.
As I came in the schoolgirl's mouth, I knew I had to
live.
"We should go," I said calmly as Karen licked her
smeared red lips. She pulled up her panties and I helped
her retrieve her books from the floor. In a whisper I
added, "we could run away, together."
"Lead, then, Professor," she replied, holding out her
hand.
"David," I corrected her. "Please call me David."
Karen put her arms around me and pressed her lips
lovingly to mine. "Lead, then, David, so long as you
call me yours."
~~~
The Professor
by Lord Malinov (malinov@mindless.com)
Introductory quotation from _Paradise Lost_ by John
Milton, Book IX, lines 626-630.
(http://www.gslink.com/~dcain/xanadu/erotica/)
Power belongs to those who dare. . . Sapere Aude
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It’s okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
strangers. But it isn’t okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex
with strangers!! You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 8