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Safe Sex
By Anonymous (address withheld)

***

A teacher has a pretty student who doesn't seem able to 
get good grades. (M/F-teen, reluc, dom)

***

Most married people have a story about how they met 
their spouses. About my ex-wife, the story isn't so 
interesting. But the story of how I met my fiancée is a 
little different.

I had better start by explaining about Amy. I had 
noticed her on the first day of class. Sitting in the 
front row of the classroom, looking very serious as she 
took notes, she had a certain attraction that was 
greater than the sum of any parts I could analyze.

What was it about her? I generally prefer tall women, 
but she was the sort of young woman who I tended to 
think of in her absence as taller than her 5'5" frame. 
Her face was fresh and pretty, rather than beautiful, 
but without a single flaw in her complexion. Her figure 
was not the kind that made you do a double-take, yet 
when you analyzed it you could only conclude that it 
was perfectly proportioned: curvy but slim hips, and 
breasts that were medium sized or maybe just a bit 
smaller. 

Her hands were graceful; her eyes were bright and 
inquisitive; her shoulder length hair was straight and 
tidy; her teeth were white and straight. Kind of the 
girl-next-door look, not a flashy kind of beauty, but 
one that would wear well over a long period of time, I 
thought.

In one way, I have misled you in my description of Amy. 
While her eyes may give the impression of intelligence, 
in point of fact she was not a very successful student. 
I didn't feel she was actually stupid, but it didn't 
take long for it to become clear that she was not going 
to do well in this class. Maybe she didn't work as hard 
as she needed to. 

Maybe she was missing some of the background material 
the other students already had. Maybe it was a full-
blown case of math anxiety. Who knows, maybe it was 
simpler than that and she just wasn't very smart. None 
of this made her any worse in my eyes, since there's 
more to a woman than just book learning. She had plenty 
going for her even if she wasn't another Cantor.

Amy was not a flirt, during class or afterward, and on 
that first day there was nothing to make me think that 
anything unusual would happen during the quarter. My 
thoughts that day were directed toward giving a good 
introductory lecture. Although I appreciate the 
decorative value of the female students in my 
classroom, I had never harbored any illusions that they 
were there for my entertainment. 

First, because sexual harassment is wrong; second, 
because math is just not the greatest turn-on for most 
gals ("wanna come up to my place, have something to 
drink, and memorize some dynamite multiplication 
tables?"); and third because I'm too afraid of getting 
caught and losing my job. 

I don't think I'm a prude on the subject, but I know 
I've gotten some kidding from a couple of my friends 
about my somewhat old-fashioned attitude. Maybe I've 
missed out on some good times along the way as a 
result, but I have to believe I've missed out on a good 
deal of needless trouble as well. Better to take the 
safe course, I've always thought.

A few weeks into the course I administered the 
quarter's first quiz. I graded it strictly, since that 
first quiz of the autumn is for some students the shock 
to their system necessary to get started working on the 
course material. I emphasized to everyone that a poor 
grade on the quiz did not mean that they couldn't get a 
good grade for the course, but as expected the looks on 
some of the students' faces indicated that a serious 
re-evaluation of their chances had taken place.

It's at this point that usually ten percent of the 
class decides to drop the course, and a larger number 
decides that they had better schedule some office time 
with the instructor. That's the whole point, of course, 
to shake the sleepy ones out of their doldrums. This 
class was no exception, and I found myself overbooked 
with students wanting help.

Amy was one of the students who signed up for office 
hours. She had never come up to talk with me after 
class, as many of the other students often did, so this 
was the first time we had spoken with each other. Based 
just on her looks and manner, I had her pegged as a 
Political Science major, or American Lit. Maybe even 
Art. I was mildly surprised when she told me that she 
was in the pre-med program. 

The College Algebra course she was taking from me was 
required in her program; more than that, she told me 
she had to earn at least a B. Although I didn't say so, 
I was dubious about her chances. I gave her my usual 
pep talk, tried to explain some topics she found 
confusing, and gave her references for further study. 
But as she left, I didn't get the feeling that I had 
done her much good. Maybe it was because she kept 
calling herself dumb the whole time she was there.

Although some of the students came back for second or 
even third visits during my office hours the next two 
weeks, Amy did not. I didn't think anything about that 
fact, since many of the students in a given class 
aren't really that motivated, and with upwards of 80 
students in the class I didn't have the luxury of 
looking after each one if they didn't seek out 
attention. Amy attended each lecture, but never asked 
questions, and her note taking appeared to be an 
exercise in trying to take down each syllable I uttered 
and each symbol I wrote on the board. 

With some students, this would indicate a lack of real 
interest in the material, and a desire just to know the 
probable contents of the final exam, but looking back I 
now interpret Amy's methodology as sheer desperation. I 
can guess that Amy's reluctance to visit me again was 
more a reflection of her fear of failure than of a lack 
of motivation.

Not surprisingly, when I gave the midterm exam, Amy's 
score was the lowest in the class. Sometimes a foreign 
student will do poorly in a class for a while, solely 
because of the language barrier, and will eventually 
catch on to the concepts and move up in the rankings. 
But when an American student like Amy finds herself 
near the bottom, it's much rarer for progress to be 
made as the quarter goes along. 

What's more, she was a sophomore, whereas most of the 
students in this class were freshmen. I have seen many 
freshmen start out slowly, because of the new 
environment college represents, and then catch fire as 
the quarter goes along, but this is much less likely 
with a second-year student. Again, with perfect 
hindsight, I can speculate that Amy knew this would be 
a tough course for her, and she put it off until her 
advisor insisted she take it.

I don't know a teacher who doesn't feel awful when a 
student tries and still fails. The worst part is 
returning the graded exam paper to the student, seeing 
her take it with low expectations in her eyes, and 
watching her face fall when she sees that she has 
failed to come up to even those low expectations. Amy 
didn't cry, but you could see she wanted to.

I rather expected that she would visit during my office 
hours that day, and wasn't sure what I should or could 
say to help her. Honesty may be the best policy, but I 
also don't like to discourage a student who is willing 
to try-try-again. But once again I was busy enough with 
the students who did show up that I didn't have time to 
dwell upon the matter when she didn't.

The next class session two days later marked a change 
in Amy's manner. It was difficult to describe exactly, 
and someone watching her for the first time might not 
have thought anything of it. She was dressed the same, 
in her blouse and jeans. One odd thing was that she was 
taking hardly any notes, and another was that she had a 
very strange smile at times. Not a self-confident 
smile, certainly not a happy smile, one that was forced 
and seemed to be directed at me. But it was also 
hesitant, and anytime I really looked in her direction 
she dropped her gaze after a second. I couldn't have 
put the reason into words at the time, but I felt 
somewhat flustered, and found myself stumbling in my 
delivery to the class.

After class, she walked down the hallway toward my 
office. For more than an hour she lurked in the 
hallway, wandering away for a few minutes, then 
returning to check if I was alone. I had seen this sort 
of behavior before, when a student is too embarrassed 
to let classmates see how badly she is doing. I was 
sure it was killing her to have her friends know her 
troubles. Pride goith before a fall, you know. It was 
late in the afternoon before the last student left and 
she finally entered my cramped office. Quietly she 
said, "I need some help." I told her that I had a few 
minutes, and motioned for her to sit down with me at my 
desk.

She listened as I went over her exam with her, nodding 
her head and murmuring "uh huh" when I would pause to 
see if she was following my explanations. But even more 
than the first time she visited, I got the feeling that 
I wasn't getting through to her. Unlike earlier in the 
classroom, her face was almost expressionless when I 
looked at her, and she rarely looked up from the exam 
paper. A couple of lightly humorous remarks I made 
evidently did not register. She seemed distracted by 
something. Finally, it was almost five o'clock, and I 
told her, "I have to leave soon. Perhaps you can come 
again during my office hours next Tuesday."

She touched me lightly on the arm for a moment, and 
said "please, I need a lot of help. Could we schedule 
some make-up time before that?" It was a hesitant yet 
determined touch, not quite seductive and yet something 
more than just an instinctive touch on the arm. I 
crossed my legs, my own instinctive reaction to hide 
the possibility of her seeing the beginnings of the 
erection that was stimulated by her touch. Was I 
imagining things? Was she coming on to me? With some 
girls I would have been sure, yet Amy seemed so 
innocent. She had not looked me in the eye when she 
spoke, which would have given me a better way to gauge 
her intentions. I certainly did not want to embarrass 
her, or myself, by making an inappropriate comment 
based on what was quite possibly my own imagination. I 
managed to utter, "what do you mean, make-up? You 
haven't missed any lectures or exams." She seemed 
embarrassed at her misswording, and mumbled, "I dunno, 
I mean some extra help. I really need to learn this 
material."

I exhaled. Yeah, I guess I had read into her question 
something she hadn't meant. I hoped she hadn't noticed 
my reaction, or at least would forgive me if she had. 
It was an understandable mistake, after all.

Except, she continued, "It's pretty hard for me. Or 
maybe I'm just making it harder than it needs to be. 
Sometimes I like to, y'know, make things hard. That's 
what my boyfriend says." 

Was it just me, or did she also realize the double 
entendre she was making? She wasn't looking at me, and 
there was nothing else in her manner to suggest 
anything like that. I decided to try to back away from 
that line of conversation, just in case she was trying 
to lead me on. 

I replied, "Well, I suppose I could come in for a while 
tomorrow. How about 10?" She continued to look at the 
papers in front of her, and said, "I've got classes 
most of the day tomorrow. Would you have time sometime 
this evening?"

I again wondered if I should read something between the 
lines in her request? Yet her delivery was so flat, and 
she seemed so introverted, that I had to doubt the 
conclusion I was drawing. "No, I have to get to a 
meeting in a few minutes on the other side of town," I 
lied. "Anyway, maybe you should be trying to find a 
tutor, who could give you what you need." I mentally 
winced at the choice of phrase. Did she understand the 
double meaning that could be inferred? I was ashamed of 
myself for even worrying about the way to phrase an 
innocent question. My conscience was clean, after all. 
"There's a list of tutors on the wall opposite the 
department office," I went on.

"I've never had much luck with those guys. They always 
seem to be as confused as I am. I'd really, really 
appreciate it if you could find some time for me. What 
about after your meeting tonight?" She seemed sincere, 
yet how could she not know how personal her suggestion 
sounded? On the other hand, was I getting worked up 
over something entirely in my imagination? On the third 
hand, if she was trying to come on to me, couldn't she 
be more original than talking about 'appreciation'? On 
the fourth hand, how many hands do I have, anyway?

I pointed out that they keep the building locked after 
hours. "Maybe you have a friend who could help?" I 
suggested. "My boyfriend took Calculus, but he just 
makes fun of me when I ask him questions about math. 
Could I come over to your house? What time will you get 
home?" she persisted.

I knew this was wrong but my hormones were working like 
they hadn't in a long time, not since I met the gal 
that had precipitated my divorce. I looked at Amy's 
face. She had for just a moment turned slightly toward 
me, but now quickly looked back at her papers, avoiding 
my eyes. I made the mistake of letting my eyes wander 
below her shoulders. Her words sounded so suggestive as 
to be laughable, yet her manner indicated that she was 
thinking about nothing but studying to raise her 
failing grade. 

How simple it would be if I would just ask her, "Are 
you proposing a lay-for-an-A, or what?" and tell her to 
forget it, but what if I was wrong? Embarrassment, at 
the least, possibly real trouble with the dean, if she 
complained to someone. No, best to play it cool. I 
should have just told her, "No, I don't think that 
would be a good idea." But she was so attractive to me, 
the horny part of my brain wanted to find out what she 
intended. And so innocent, that the logical part of my 
brain wanted to believe that she was completely unaware 
of the impact that her suggestions were having on me. 

With the two halves of my brain pre-occupied like that, 
I had no extra brainpower for talking, so I blurted, 
"You don't know where I live." Dumb. Or, maybe the 
horny part of a guy's mind will always win.

She responded to my non-sequitur with one of her own, 
saying, "I've got a bike." If there was a hint of 
seductiveness in her eyes, or even humor, I was missing 
it. Just a simple, factual statement, like "I've got a 
pencil", or "I've got a million bucks", or "I've got a 
wet pussy just waiting for you." There went my brain 
again. Gotta stop thinking like that.

"It's a long ride. I don't know if it'll be worth your 
time." The horny part of my mind was keeping this line 
of conversation going, yet doing so betrayed the fact 
that I was wavering in my resolve. If, indeed, she was 
even thinking what I was thinking. She replied, "you're 
the best teacher I know, I'm sure you'll be able to 
help me." 

Not even a hint of a suggestion of a trace of an 
improper proposal there, was there? Especially 
considering the alternative replies she could have 
made. ("Oh Teacher, I'm sure it'll be worth it for you 
too. Pant, pant.") The conflicting sides of my brain 
came to an agreement that I was getting worked up over 
nothing. Of course, if I was such a great teacher (to 
take her remark at face value), how come she was 
flunking my class?

I looked at my watch. "Well, I don't think you should 
come over alone. Can you bring someone along, maybe 
your boyfriend?" She thought for a moment, then said 
yes. "OK, I should be home by about nine. Bring your 
books," (duh, like she was going to bring a dildo and 
some Crisco), "and I'll help you for an hour or so." I 
gave her directions to my apartment, glad to have 
figured out a way to defuse a touchy situation.

I found myself driving home very carefully. My mind was 
so woozy from the extra adrenalin I had been pumping, 
and then the letdown, that I had to concentrate on the 
road or I'd run off it. Now that she had agreed to, I 
wondered if it was really necessary to have insisted 
she bring someone. I thought, so what if she came 
alone, a few cheap thrills for me, all in my mind, and 
she'd never be the wiser. I can think what I want, and 
as long as I don't act on it, no harm done. She doesn't 
even know for sure that I live alone. For all she 
knows, I'm happily married to my gay lover. And anyway, 
I don't think she means any harm.

Soon after I walked into my apartment, the phone rang. 
It was Amy. "Hi, I'm glad I found you at home. I 
thought you were going to a meeting," she said in her 
customary toneless voice. "Uh, actually, I, uh, found 
out my meeting has been cancelled at the last minute," 
I said, embarrassed to be caught in a lie, and glad 
that I had thought up a second falsehood that would 
cancel the first. "Would you and your boyfriend rather 
come over a little earlier?" "That's what I wanted to 
call about. My boyfriend, like, can't come. But I 
still, you know, want to come see you anyway."

Hoo boy. And here I thought I had it all worked out. My 
erection started to form again, and since I was alone I 
fingered it idly through my pants pocket, before 
deciding that that was an especially foolish thing to 
be doing. "Well, I don't know..." "Please, sir, I 
really need your help. It would mean a lot to me." 
There was something about the way she called me sir 
that weakened my resolve. 

Damn, I wished I could see her face, to help me tell if 
there was anything to my suspicions as to what she 
meant. I had to go by my assessment when I saw her 
earlier, which was that she was merely naive. "Well, 
OK, for a little while." "Um, can I come now? Would 
that make it hard for you?" 

"Uh, give me a little time to eat and clean up, OK? How 
about 8?" 

"Um, OK. See you." Click. 

I wondered what I was letting myself in for.

My attention wandered as I prepared myself dinner, and 
I had a near-mishap with a paring knife. After my 
sumptuous repast of spaghetti and meatballs (no garlic, 
just in case - who am I kidding?), I decided to 
straighten up the place. Chuckling to (at?) myself, I 
took a few minutes to clean up the bedroom as well. If 
I'm going to kid myself, I might as well be thorough.

Cleaning up took less time than I expected, mostly 
because I did such a poor job of it, and I sat down to 
read a magazine. But I couldn't concentrate on it. I 
decided, however, that I was really enjoying the 
adrenalin rush I was feeling. I began to mull over the 
possibilities. Maybe she would arrive wearing a bikini, 
come through the front door and lead me to the bedroom, 
and... Nah. I didn't know her well, but that didn't 
seem to be her style. 

Maybe she would play it straight for a while and 
pretend to study with me, then at some point slip her 
hand onto my leg and rub it, moving closer to my crotch 
until she was giving me a handjob, then ask if I'd like 
to do something more. Yeah, that would be nice. But 
again, she's coming over just to study, and anything 
else is just my hormones talking.

It was a little less than an hour and a half before she 
was to be there. I decided to do a better job of 
cleaning the bathroom. After all, a gal might need to 
go pee even if she's just there to study. While in the 
bathroom, I considered that maybe the wisest course 
would be to jerk off now, so that I wouldn't be tempted 
to actually do anything when she was here. Funny how 
those childhood associations with the bathroom continue 
into adulthood. It's just a good thing my friend Dan 
isn't coming over here this evening, I thought. 

He had been with me at that bar when I met Deborah, and 
although I had been definitely attracted to her, there 
was no doubt in my mind that it would never have gone 
beyond just playful touching and dirty talk with her if 
he hadn't been egging me on. Not that I blamed Dan for 
my divorce. Maybe I should call Dan anyway and invite 
him to come over while Amy was here. Wouldn't that put 
a charge in her circuits!

Maybe Mike; that might be fun for her. Or better still, 
my three fishing buddies from up north. Boy, they could 
be crude; I'd like to see Amy's reaction when one of 
them pinched her nipple in front of everyone. There I 
go again, I thought. Even if she is desperate for a 
good grade, I don't want to see her humiliated, do I? 
She is so sweet and innocent, and here I am thinking 
such thoughts. Of course, if she is coming over to 
seduce her professor, then maybe she isn't so sweet, 
and definitely not so innocent. It's not that she has 
anything bad coming to her, but she might deserve to be 
taught a lesson.

I sat back down in the living room and resumed reading. 
Still an hour to go. I decided to take a walk around 
the neighborhood to clear my head. It was an 
unseasonably warm autumn evening, and the fresh air 
felt good. But the dark thoughts continued to loom in 
my head. I thought of the double entendres she had been 
dropping. "My boyfriend can't come." 

"Would that make it hard for you?" 

"I like to make things hard." 

Well, if she really is interested in trading a little 
hanky-panky for a grade, then she can't insist on being 
too particular about every detail of the transaction. 
In fact, if she needs this grade as badly as she says 
she does, she is in no position to dictate any of the 
conditions of the deal.

I caught myself again at this point. Isn't that the 
fantasy of a dorky teacher, that he can get free sex in 
exchange for a good grade? I felt ashamed, but not so 
much so that my erection subsided any. There's a first 
time for everything, even screwing a student. But the 
situation would have to be just right.

OK, so what could I expect from this young woman? Slam 
bam, thank you ma'am? She could no doubt be convinced 
to give a bit more. Probably a blowjob first if I 
played my cards right. Caryn had never been too keen on 
that particular activity when we were married, which 
had made it more of an issue to me than it rightfully 
should have. So, yeah, Amy should be made to sample the 
sausage. 

What about after that? I'm not really into anal sex, 
but maybe just once it might be fun, with a girl who's 
not in any position (ha ha) to argue. Would she permit 
herself to be tied up? I considered that, and realized 
that I didn't have the necessary equipment on hand. The 
ladies I date aren't very kinky, and anyway I don't 
know anything about the subject. That kind of activity 
is very tricky or someone can actually get hurt.

I realized I was getting too far from my apartment, 
getting near a bad section. I turned back. My 
realization that I was near our small red-light 
district caused another wave of guilt to come over me. 
I have never, never, come even close to screwing one of 
my students. Not that I get that many opportunities, 
but I have always been careful to not emphasize the 
power a teacher has in giving grades, and to not make 
comments that could be misinterpreted. 

Hell, I always make it a point to say "arrive" instead 
of "come", and "difficult" instead of "hard" when 
talking to a female student. It's a form of sexism, I'm 
sure, but a benign sort that makes certain that no one 
gets any wrong ideas. Now here I am, thinking about the 
possible sex acts I might perform with a student who 
will be, err, arriving in half an hour. Well, I 
decided, if she didn't try anything I'd just play it 
cool, and if she did come on to me then maybe I'd lead 
her on a bit before telling her to forget it. Cheap 
thrills, I repeated.

Besides, there's lots of times professors have students 
over to their place. Usually it's a group of students, 
and the professor is someone in the Sociology 
department hosting a rap session (like, wow, MAN), but 
the point is, having a student over does not 
automatically mean something is going on. It might not 
look good to every single old prude out there, but that 
didn't make it wrong. Then again, that analysis was 
bullshit, since the ideas going around in my mind 
definitely WERE wrong.

I walked back up the steps to my apartment, went to the 
bathroom, then came back to the living room and sat 
down on the couch. The kidneys sure were working 
overtime tonight. Again I tried to read my magazine. 
The article I turned to was about why the U.S. 
educational system wasn't teaching its students well 
enough. Just what I needed. I went to the fridge and 
got a can of pop. No beer tonight. I didn't want to do 
something I later would regret and blame it on the 
alcohol.

I went to the bathroom again. Though I felt like I 
needed to pee, just a little bit came out. I caught 
myself checking whether my underwear was clean. Old 
boy, I thought, you are setting yourself up for a big 
letdown. I went back to the living room, and turned up 
the thermostat a couple of degrees. It was a nice 
night, but you wouldn't want her to get too cold in her 
birthday suit, I chuckled to myself.

Why was I even contemplating such a risk to my career, 
for just an evening of fun? Stupid, stupid, stupid. I 
asked myself what it would take to be worth the risk. 
Maybe more than just one night of fun. What if she 
could be talked into repeat performances? I felt a 
major wave of horniness come over me with that thought. 

Now, that would be something closer to being worth it. 
The thought of reducing this apparently classy girl to 
the level of common slut was unexpectedly stimulating. 
But I would still have to protect myself somehow, from 
there being the slightest chance of word getting out. 
What kind of leverage could I have, once she had her 
grade?

How many of her other teachers had gone through this 
charade? I should make a righteous stand tonight, and 
explain to her that trying to get by in school by 
sleeping with her professors is wrong. Corny, but the 
right thing to do. Yet, when I thought of her, I 
couldn't bring myself to believe that she had done this 
before. If I sensed her leading me on, and I wasn't 
sure that I did, I also sensed humiliation and pain, 
certainly not what you'd expect from a girl to whom 
this was old hat.

I was going to have to find out, for my own peace of 
mind, just what Amy wanted. Probably she was just 
naive, and had no clue what her visit was doing to my 
imagination. If on the other hand she is already just 
another slut, then so be it, I don't have to get 
involved.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. I 
looked at the clock. Ten minutes before eight. Heart 
pounding, I opened the door, and was greeted by a young 
girl who asked if I'd like to buy some candy for her 
school's fundraiser. Sure, kid, just don't come inside 
the apartment or you'll get molested by the pervert 
with the dirty thoughts. I gave her the two dollars, 
shut the door and returned to the couch.

I realized that I was disappointed that it hadn't been 
Amy yet. I was really looking forward to seeing her, 
prepared to find out that she was really and truly 
coming over just to study, hoping for it to be 
something more, dreading that the "something more" was 
her usual M.O. for passing a course.

About the time I found my place in the magazine again, 
there was another knock at my door. It was Amy.

She looked much the same as she did in class, wearing 
nice jeans and a conservative print blouse. She was 
wearing sandals instead of her usual loafers, and no 
more makeup than usual, which is to say, none that I 
would notice, although some girls really know how to 
use makeup so that you don't even know it's there. Her 
long medium-brown hair was held in the back as usual by 
a clip. 

She wore no jewelry except for a small right-hand ring. 
The only thing I noticed out of the ordinary, almost 
obscured by the books that she held to her chest like a 
schoolgirl, was that the top two buttons of her blouse 
were undone. I couldn't remember if that was Amy's 
usual style. I decided I was going to have to sneak a 
peek down there sometime during the evening.

"Hi", she said, and I thought her voice cracked a 
little. She cleared her throat and said, "I hope I'm 
not, you know, too early. I made better, um, time than 
I expected." Her face was expressionless. So was her 
voice, even more so than usual. "No problem", I 
replied, "come on in and put your books on the table 
over there. Would you like something to drink, pop or 
some juice?" "Sure, a Cokersumthin." I went to the 
kitchen and retrieved a can from the fridge.

When I came into the dining room, she was standing by 
one of chairs at the table. "Nice place," she offered. 
I moved next to her, preparing to move around her, and 
said, "go ahead and sit down, let's get started." 

As I motioned toward the chair my hand grazed her back. 
Gee whiz, here I was trying to maintain my cool, and 
right away I did something that could be misconstrued. 
I pulled my hand back but did not comment. This small 
faux pas, and the fact that she hadn't flinched, 
perversely gave me a brief bit of courage, and I 
considered what kind of leading remarks I could make, 
ones that would seem innocent unless she already had 
ideas, but would still require her to make the first 
real move. Something like "what hard things would you 
like to work on first?" No, too obvious. "I'm glad 
you're here." Or "What do you need?" or "What can I do 
for you?"

No, I was afraid those would seem too personal or 
suggestive if she was here with pure intentions. I was 
unable to realize that if her intentions were indeed 
pure, that she would think nothing of such innocuous 
remarks. Paralyzed with paranoia, my courage evaporated 
and I wound up saying nothing as I sat down at her 
right.

I thought I detected a scent, some sort of light 
cologne. Nice, and not too much. Maybe she wore it for 
me, or maybe she wears some all the time, though I 
couldn't recall smelling it in my office. Can't throw a 
woman in jail for wearing perfume when she studies.

I opened her book to the chapter we had been covering 
in class, and began going over the material with her. 
As usual, she seemed to be only going through the 
motions of studying. After a bit, I gave her a problem 
to work, and I turned my gaze toward her neck, peering 
as far down the front of her blouse as I could and 
still be undiscovered. The light wasn't really coming 
in at the proper angle for me to see very far, and I 
was able to glimpse only just above the top of her 
cleavage. No sign of a bra, although it was possible 
that I just couldn't see far enough. I was intrigued.

I quickly looked back at her face; she was asking me if 
she was doing the sample problem correctly. Good thing 
she wasn't much for eye contact, or I'd be caught 
looking down her shirt. I gave her a little redirection 
in her work, and she resumed scribbling. I noticed that 
as she worked, the fingers of her left hand were idly 
playing with one of the lower buttons on her blouse. It 
was going to be a real challenge keeping my hands to 
myself.

"Here, would you like some M&M's? I just bought them 
from a girl for her school's fundraiser." She smiled, 
for the first time that day I think, said "thanks", and 
took the package from my hand. "You shouldn't take 
candy from strangers, you know, but in this case I 
think it's OK," I ventured. This was a little more 
provocative than I had planned to say, but it seemed 
sort of all right.

"I can trust you?" she said, and I wasn't sure whether 
it was a statement or a question. She looked at me for 
a moment, then turned back to her problem, as I said, 
"I'm safe."

I feigned moving something on the floor with my shoe, 
to get a chance to look again at her feet. I was not 
surprised that they were as nice looking as her hands, 
with no nail polish, just clean and natural. I worried 
that she'd think I was a weirdo if I spent too long 
looking down there, so I returned my attention to the 
pages of the book. 

I wasn't sure if she consciously realized what I had 
been looking at, but she chose that moment to slip her 
left foot out of its sandal, and tucked that ankle 
under her right thigh, in a semi-Indian fashion, the 
sole of her foot facing me. I guess I am a weirdo, 
because I found that it stimulated me a surprising 
amount.

I got up, and brought a floor lamp over next to the 
dining table, trying to guess what the proper angle was 
to get a maximum view down her blouse next chance I 
got. "There, that's better, isn't it?" I said.

She was still getting the exercise answers wrong, and 
sighed, "I don't think I'll ever get this."

"Sure you will," I fibbed as I sat back down, "you're 
getting better." 

"I don't know what I'll do if I can't stay in the pre-
med program. My parents will kill me," she went on, 
looking at me steadily for once. 

I asked her how she picked pre-med, and she said that 
both her parents were in the medical profession and 
that it was just expected. You have to feel sorry for 
anyone in that situation. If she fails, the weight of 
the world is on her shoulders, and even if she succeeds 
it's only what everyone expected her to do. "Come on, 
you can do it, let's try these problems here," I 
encouraged her, and I fought the urge to pat her on the 
thigh for emphasis.

Amy looked at me, then down again at her papers, and 
asked, "I really need a B. Isn't, um, there something I 
could do for extra credit?" Her voice cracked ever so 
slightly again as she spoke. I sneaked a quick look 
down her blouse, but really didn't see much more than 
before. Well, here we go again. Was she, or wasn't she 
trying to start something? Surely she was. 

My curiosity was getting the better of me, yet I had to 
be sure before committing myself to saying something 
overt. I considered a thousand different things to say, 
without finding the magic combination of words that 
would be safe and still tell me what I wanted to know. 
I finally told her, "Well, the course covers the 
fundamentals of basic algebra, so there really isn't 
anything you can skip and make up for with other 
material." Not very sexy, I know, but I couldn't afford 
to make a mistake. 

"Oh. I see." Her voice had a flat tone of dejection in 
it. After a moment, she tried again. "What about if I 
came over and graded some papers for you?" 

I struggled with my emotions. I wanted to hear her to 
offer a somewhat more personal favor than grading some 
boring papers. But if the offer was not to be freely 
given, the ramifications would be serious. "Uh, no, 
outside work like grading papers can't have any bearing 
on the grade a student gets. It wouldn't be fair." As 
though what was going through my mind was fair. 

"What can I do?" she asked, more to herself than to me. 
A tear worked its way out of the corner of her eye, and 
began a journey down her cheek. 

"Keep trying, you'll get it," was all I could muster. I 
hoped this was not some sort of scam she was pulling; 
could that tear be genuine? It was awfully well timed.

She wiped the tear from her cheek, and said, "I'm 
sorry. Um, could I use your bathroom?" 

"Sure, down that hall, first door on the right," I 
said, glad I had taken the trouble to give it a second 
cleaning. 

She slipped her sandal back on and got up, and I 
watched as she walked out of the dining room. Her 
blouse was not the clingy kind, so it was hard to be 
sure, but it seemed that maybe her breasts were moving 
more freely than they would if she were wearing a bra. 
Or was that my imagination seeing what it wanted to 
see? I hadn't been able to tell for sure when I'd seen 
her walk before, because of the way she'd been holding 
her books. Well, I'd be sure to get a better look now, 
when she came back.

When the bathroom door closed, I got up and moved the 
floor lamp a few inches and turned it a few degrees, 
trying to have it be in just the right spot to shine 
down on her chest when she sat down again. I heard the 
toilet flush and the sink being used, and the sound of 
her blowing her nose. It occurred to me that maybe she 
was having her period, but I looked and saw that she 
had left her purse on the table, so that probably 
wasn't the case. 

I'm not too hung up about menstrual blood, but it is 
one of those things you don't usually think about when 
you size up a girl as a bed partner, even though it's 
part of every girl's life. After another minute, I 
heard the bathroom door open and she returned.

I noticed immediately that the third button of her 
blouse was now undone. Yes, as she walked you could see 
from the way her blouse moved that there was nothing 
constraining her small breasts underneath. So. It was 
certain now that she wanted to earn her grade in 
exactly the way I had suspected. Why couldn't she be 
more straightforward about it? Maybe nothing more 
complicated than nerves. 

I just said, "Everything all right?" but knew that I no 
longer had to be ultra careful with what I chose to 
say. I could say something now, or wait and she'd say 
something soon that would confirm her intentions, and 
I'd figure out how to tell her no. I'd give her that 
wise yet caring advice, you know, something like out of 
Father Knows Best.

Amy sat down, looked at me and nodded. Her face was a 
little paler than before. Nerves, I assumed. I wondered 
if I looked pale too, since I was feeling a touch of 
nervousness myself. I wanted to prolong the suspense, 
so I decided to ignore her signals a little longer, and 
said to her, "Ok, let's try again," and gave her 
another problem to work. 

She looked like she was unsure what she wanted to do, 
and started to say something, but picked up her pencil 
and began to work. As she leaned forward I once more 
gazed down her blouse. The view was much clearer now. 
Her breasts were indeed smallish, perhaps a B-cup, but 
she made up in quality whatever might be lacking in 
quantity. I could see practically down to her nipples.

As she wrote, she rested her left arm on the table, and 
after a few moments she did a most extraordinary thing. 
She casually hooked her free thumb loosely over the 
fourth button of her blouse, the topmost one that was 
still buttoned. After a few more seconds, and with the 
same studied casualness, she then leaned back just 
slightly, so that her thumb stretched the blouse fairly 
tight. I watched avidly. She was giving me a clear view 
of her breasts. 

With the lamp repositioned now, in fact, I couldn't 
have seen more if she had chosen to take her top 
entirely off. Her breasts were completely free from the 
fabric of the blouse, supported only by their own 
adequate muscle structure. I kept silent, afraid to say 
anything that might break the spell and cause her to 
cover up again. I studied her nipples. 

They were generally in proportion to her breasts, 
although possibly a little smaller than average, and 
they were a nice medium brown, with a clear definition 
of where they started and where they stopped. She would 
turn heads in a crowd if she were to wear a see-through 
blouse. I looked at her face. She was trying hard to 
look like she was focused on her work.

I wondered if she could possibly think I wasn't sizing 
her up. No way. Her purpose was clear. I could make 
whatever move I wanted.

My breathing was noticeable now, at least to me. I 
hoped she didn't notice, because I wanted to appear in 
complete control of myself. The view of her breasts was 
even more exciting to me than I had expected, and I was 
no longer sure I wanted to tell her no. I decided to 
correct a mistake she was making in her math, and to 
get her attention I lightly touched her right hand. "I 
can show you the right technique," I said, and as I 
took the pencil from her I made sure to touch her hand 
just an instant too long. It felt good to touch her 
soft skin, and I wanted more. 

She looked up at me, and I smiled at her to try to make 
her feel at ease. She dropped her gaze back down. I saw 
her sneak a quick glance down her blouse, and she took 
her thumb out and straightened slightly to let the 
blouse resume its normal shape. She tried to do it 
casually, but her cheeks flushed just a bit to give her 
away. I guessed that she had miscalculated just how 
exposed she had been. She wanted to have me see her 
attributes, yes, but not really flaunt them. Well, she 
had flaunted them. I wondered what she would do next if 
I didn't make some sort of move.

I showed her the way to get the right answer to the 
problem, and gave her another to work on. She picked up 
her pencil, looked like she was going to try again, 
then put it down and looked at me. "What can I do to 
get a B in your class?" she asked. "We've been through 
this already. What do you have in mind?" I responded. I 
thought we were finally getting to the heart of the 
matter.

She looked back down, and said quietly, "W-whatever it 
takes." She put her palms on the chair beside her upper 
legs, forcing her knees together, and held her arms 
stiff. Her blouse, its sides being pushed together by 
her upper arms, billowed a bit and exposed her upper 
chest, although I couldn't see as far down as before. 

"Do you have something in mind?" I repeated. 

"I dunno," she mumbled. I waited, probably for only 15 
seconds, but it seemed like longer. She said nothing 
more. Undoubtedly she felt that she had laid her cards 
on the table, and it was up to me to accept or reject 
her offer. But there was no actual offer to discuss 
yet, and even though her intentions were very clear, 
her implied offer was not nearly acceptable. It would 
still require some care to get her to admit what she 
was here for. Apparently the next move was mine. 

I swallowed, and began.

"Listen, let me, uh, ask you something. I hope I'm not 
jumping to any conclusions here, and I apologize in 
advance if I am. But your actions tonight have been 
very, uh, unclear. Someone watching you tonight might, 
you know, get the idea you are trying to interest me in 
a deal, where I give you a B in the course, in exchange 
for some, uh, personal favors tonight. Sex, that is." 

No answer. 

"Is that what you are trying to propose?" Even though I 
was sure I had made all the correct inferences, I still 
felt a thrill as I asked her, for this was the moment 
of truth. No other moment would be as risky, after 
this.

After an interminable wait of maybe five seconds, her 
lips parted and she said, "I guess so." I could barely 
make out her words, she spoke them so softly and 
indistinctly. 

She could not look at me, at odds with herself, 
obviously pulled in too many directions for her to take 
any decisive action. She was clearly not happy that 
this moment had arrived, yet it was also clear that she 
had decided for herself that this was the only way open 
to her. I wanted to prolong this.

This was not how I had envisioned it going. The few 
times I've had girls come on to me, it was always with 
this big ego thing on their part, like they knew they 
could make me do what they wanted just by tempting me. 
Like with Caryn; she had been pretty cool toward me the 
first semester I met her, until suddenly she warmed up 
and got me to ask her out. I figured Amy would be that 
way too. Instead, it was almost like she figured I'd 
turn her down. Like, for once I really and truly had 
the upper hand in this.

"Well." I reached my arm behind her, putting my hand on 
her far shoulder, lightly rubbing the area near her 
spine with my thumb. I paused a few more seconds. "This 
comes as a surprise." Not exactly a truthful statement, 
but what the hell. "Are you a virgin?" I had to know. 

She gave half a shake of her head to mean no. "You 
certainly are a nice woman, and very attractive. But 
there are a couple of things the matter with what you 
propose." Technically, what I had proposed. All she had 
done was show me her tits, but let's not quibble. I 
watched as she looked up at me. 

As expected, she had a slightly perplexed look on her 
face, which was quickly replaced by a more numb look as 
she concluded that she was being turned down. "I think 
I'd better leave," she said, starting to get up. I 
didn't want her to leave; the constant erection I'd had 
for the last forty-five minutes felt good, and I didn't 
want it to stop. "No, uh, wait, listen to what I have 
to say." She sat back down and looked again at her 
knees.

I continued to lightly stroke her back. Even through 
her blouse, it felt very good to me. "First, it 
wouldn't be, uh, fair to the other students in the 
class. They are all working to earn their grade, and it 
isn't fair to let someone get the same grade without, 
you know, working for it." 

She replied, "but I have been working, so hard." 

This was the first sign of any inclination to assert 
herself, but I cut her off with a gesture of my hand. 
"Second, you seem to have somewhat overestimated the 
value of your services. If I were selling a passing 
grade for cash, which by the way I am not, how much do 
you think I would charge?" 

"I dunno," she said dully. A real Shakespeare, this 
girl.

I labored to keep my tone even; I tried to avoid the 
"ums" and "you knows" that would give away my own 
nervousness. A definite plan was forming in my mind. "A 
minimum of $2000. There are a lot of risks involved in 
such an deal, and anyone would be foolish to take that 
risk unless there was a lot to be gained. On the other 
hand, I could go downtown tonight and find a girl to 
sleep with me for $50." 

For that price, I'd probably get myself a good case of 
the clap, but now was not the time for a lesson in 
either microeconomics or medicine. "Now, tell me, what 
do you think you could do for me in bed tonight that 
would be worth $2000?" Amy was silent, humiliated. 
"Right," I said, taunting her slightly. 

"I want to go now," she repeated.

I realized we had reached a crisis point. An unstable 
equilibrium. I wanted to keep the level of excitement 
exactly where it was right there, but that wasn't going 
to be possible. She was ready to walk out. I could 
either let things simmer down and let her go, or go 
through with what she and I had both been hinting at. I 
reached my decision. For once, I said to myself, I 
wasn't going to be wishy-washy.

"Now," I pressed on, turning my chair slightly to face 
her, and removing my hand from her back and placing it 
on her knee instead, "if you were serious about all 
this, here is what you would be proposing. You would 
offer to come to my apartment every week; today's 
Thursday, let's say every Thursday night." 

She looked up, startled by my sudden nuance, though she 
continued to look straight ahead and not at me. In a 
way, I was as startled as she was by what I was saying. 
I didn't know what her reaction would be to this, but I 
told myself that I could pass it off as just 
hypothetical if she objected. Another adrenalin surge 
in my system made it difficult, but I continued to 
maintain a slow, gentle and rather formal tone to my 
voice. 

"While you were here, you would submit to anything I 
asked of you. Do you know what I mean by submit?" She 
nodded. I decided to be specific anyway. "It means that 
you would do whatever I say, without question, without 
dissent, and without hesitation. I would not cause 
actual physical injury, but aside from that you would 
have no right to refuse whatever I asked. If you did 
refuse a single demand, the deal would be cancelled. 
Understood?" 

Amy nodded again. This was going better than I had 
imagined. I had to be careful not to spoil things by 
going too fast, but it looked like Amy had real 
potential as a slave. I wished I knew what exactly to 
do with one. I waited for Amy's reaction. She still 
didn't look up, but said OK and again started to get 
up.

"Wait a minute," I interrupted, my hand touching her on 
the thigh to indicate she should sit back down. "I'm 
just saying what kind of a deal you should be 
proposing. I didn't say that I would accept." 

The oldest negotiating trick in the book: make them 
think they've agreed to a deal, then hold up. 

"Now, there's not many weeks left in the quarter. I'm 
not sure that you could do enough to earn your grade. 
So part of the deal would have to be that I might 
invite one or two friends over to visit on Thursday 
nights. You would be required to submit to them just 
the same as you submit to me. I can't tell you in 
advance what those demands would be, because I frankly 
don't know what they might want. If you refuse their 
demands, the deal would be over. Do you follow me?"

Amy looked down and swallowed hard but said nothing. 
After all my hours of indecision, I was amazed at how 
smoothly I was coming up with these details, and in 
fact how smooth my voice was. It was like I was 
delivering a lecture to a class. Most of the ideas I 
described were ones I had briefly thought about during 
the day, but they had not been fleshed out until the 
moment I spoke. I decided I was comfortable with what I 
was saying, and greatly hoped that Amy would be too. Of 
course, if she bridled at this point, I could still say 
I was just speaking hypothetically, trying to explain 
to her why all this was wrong.

"There are six weeks remaining in the quarter, counting 
tonight, plus one week to turn in grades. If you were 
to perform your end of this deal, then my part of the 
deal would be to give you the grade you need in this 
class." 

Amy still said nothing, her hands wedged under her 
thighs, her eyes focused on her knees. "Now, you may 
think this is a good deal, since you know what you'd be 
getting out of it, a good grade. But I have no idea of 
the quality of what I'd be getting in return." That was 
a lie. I'd seen her tits. 

I paused a few moments to let her think about what I'd 
said, as well as to decide whether I really wanted to 
say what I was about to say. "I want to see what you've 
got to offer." I reached over and swiveled her chair to 
face mine directly. Again, I paused to see what she 
might say in response to all this. She continued to 
study her knees, bracing herself with her arms against 
the sides of the chair, and said nothing.

My heart pounding, I said, "If this is what you want, 
take off your blouse now, please." I thought saying 
please was a nice touch, though it sounded odd in the 
context of everything else I had said. I realized that 
this was a big step: if she complied, I could no longer 
maintain the fiction that I was speaking 
hypothetically. 

After a second's hesitation, she unbuttoned the fourth 
button, then the fifth, finally the sixth, and opened 
the blouse to let me view. My peek down her blouse had 
not misled me, and the view I was now witnessing was 
truly inspiring. Her breasts, though somewhat small, 
were perfectly symmetrical and perfectly supported. Her 
smooth nipples were an even, deep, bronze all over, 
with no variation in color, and no moles or veins or 
hairs or other imperfections. Simply perfect. 

I spread my legs slightly, reached forward and did the 
same to hers, and moved so our chairs were touching. I 
slid the blouse down her arms, took it from her waist 
and placed it on the table, then reached forward and 
placed my fingers on her back, my palms on her ribs and 
my thumbs on her nipples.

As I rubbed the tips of her breasts, I resumed my 
monologue. Her nipples stiffened slightly, though maybe 
not as much as other women I've known. 

"There are a few more details to be worked out before 
we agree to a deal. You will continue to attend classes 
and take the exams. This is partly to keep from 
arousing suspicion, but also is for your own 
protection. That way, you are free to cancel the deal 
at any time, and I will grade you fairly if you do. So 
you should try to keep up with the class work, and if 
you feel you can get your grade legitimately, you can 
still do that. You can view your deal with me as 
insurance." 

She sat quietly as I rolled her nipples.

"Naturally, you will not tell anyone of our 
arrangement, and you will act natural when around me in 
class or afterwards." I had already figured out how to 
further insure her discretion. "You will come here 
every week without fail. If your bike breaks down, you 
will have to figure out a way to get here. If it is 
raining, you will have to figure out a way to get here. 
If you are having your period, you must come anyway and 
I will decide what to do. If you are sick, you must 
come anyway and I will decide what to do. If your 
grandmother dies, you must come anyway and I will 
decide whether you can go to the funeral. If you fail 
to show up one time, the deal is over. I want to be 
sure you understand this." 

Amy nodded.

I asked, "are you on the Pill?" She shook her head no. 
"That's OK," I said. What I had in mind for her 
wouldn't require very much birth control. I continued 
rubbing her breasts. "Your breasts are very beautiful." 

After a few seconds, Amy mumbled "thank you." 

I then added, "most women would be moaning with 
pleasure from having their nipples tickled." I paused, 
gauging her reaction, and she said nothing, but quietly 
murmured, "Mmmmm..." I was pleased. 

If she would put up with personal criticism in an 
intimate situation like this, she might well be open to 
most anything I might suggest. Her reaction also 
indicated that she would allow me to arbitrate the 
standards of feminine response. I made a mental note of 
that for later, and decided to let her know that her 
response so far had been insufficient.

"Perhaps you are the kind of woman who needs to have 
her nipples sucked in order to get turned on." When she 
still said nothing, I asked her to stand up. I craned 
my neck and she bent toward me slightly as I brought 
her right breast to my mouth. 

I took her nipple in, at first lightly swirling it with 
my tongue, then sucking it gently, and finally sucking 
it rather hard. She began moaning right away, just as I 
figured she might, and when I first sucked hard she 
made an odd little sound, sort of a cross between a 
grunt and a chirp, and I eased up for a moment in case 
I was hurting her, but she didn't flinch when I resumed 
sucking hard. 

She began stroking the back of my head, and I repeated 
the process with her other breast. Her nipples were 
still only partially erect, but she was moaning so I 
didn't worry about it. Either she was getting good and 
turned on, which was good, or else she was faking for 
my benefit, which was better, at least for my purposes.

I stopped sucking, and told her to sit down. "I think 
you'll be very satisfactory. I've been doing all the 
talking for a while. Is there anything you think I 
should know?" She shook her head and quietly said no. 
"Then I'd like you to tell me in your own words your 
interpretation of our arrangement, and if we understand 
each other then I think we can proceed." I waited for 
her to speak.

She hesitated, then said, "I will come here every 
Thursday night..."

I stopped her, and told her to look at me when she 
spoke. 

She restarted, "I'll come every Thursday, and do what 
you want. If you want, um, to have friends, I will, um, 
do what they want too. If I don't, the deal is off. If 
I do, you will give me an A." 

I think a little of my eloquence got lost in the 
translation, but she had the gist of it. I had to keep 
from chuckling at her change of the grade from a B to 
an A, but I couldn't let it pass without some comment. 
"I think the grade we had discussed was a B, but under 
the circumstances I suppose I can go along with what 
you want. This arrangement will continue until I turn 
in the final grades for the class. If that's agreeable 
to you then we have a deal."

Amy looked down, then evidently decided that she still 
was required to look at me. She brought her eyes back 
up but had trouble maintaining eye contact. I waited, 
wondering if she would volunteer anything. As usual, 
she said nothing, so I said, "OK, I'd like you to go to 
my bedroom, the first door on the left, take off your 
clothes and get on the bed. I will join you in a 
minute."

I went to the bathroom to get the K-Y and a couple of 
condoms, and just like in a poorly written movie I 
found myself looking in the mirror. I thought, "proud 
of yourself?" No backing out now. I felt guilt, but 
reasoned that we were both going to get what we wanted. 
Beside, she needed major help with her self-esteem, and 
right now maybe just totally giving herself to a man 
was what she needed. That's the kind of logic a horny 
man sometimes resorts to. While in the bathroom I 
decided to try to pee, but couldn't. 

The erection I was sporting probably had something to 
do with that. No pee, just a couple of drops of seminal 
fluid oozed out. No matter, I didn't really need to, 
and in a few minutes it wouldn't be much of a priority. 
I heard the bedsprings briefly squeak in the other 
room. Obedient girl. I wondered if, in spite of all my 
caution, I was letting myself get set up in some sort 
of con game. But I didn't see how, since I was so sure 
I had her pegged correctly. If this was a con, it was 
an all-time great one.

I went to the closet to get my Polaroid (the 35mm would 
be better, but I wanted the discretion that instant 
photography offers), and checked that the safety lock 
on the front door was set. It wasn't, and I set it. Why 
hadn't I thought of that earlier? Mighty funny photos 
someone waiting outside the door could have come in and 
taken three minutes ago. This thought made me chuckle 
at myself, and reinforced my conviction that no nasty 
surprises were in store for me.

It's a good thing there's no history of cardiac trouble 
in my family, because once again my heart started 
pounding hard as I walked toward the bedroom. I strode 
in, and as I expected Amy was lying naked, on her back, 
on top of my bed. She had turned on the nightstand 
light, at its lowest setting, so my view was only dim. 
I hadn't even speculated on how she would look from the 
waist down, I had been so preoccupied with her top, but 
she was no disappointment. 

Her legs were together, so I couldn't have seen 
everything even if the light had been brighter, but her 
pubic hair was soft looking. The hair only reached a 
couple of inches above her pubic bone, maybe less, and 
I imagined that she could wear the most revealing 
bathing suits with confidence. Or maybe she just kept 
it trimmed. I was looking forward to studying this 
matter.

I put my paraphernalia on the dresser at the foot of 
the bed, guessing that she would not see what I had 
brought in. She raised herself slightly onto her 
elbows, spread her legs maybe an inch, and looked at 
me, apparently waiting for me to start the ceremonies. 
Ever passive. I walked over to the nightstand next to 
the bed, turned up the light to its brightest level, 
and went back to the wall switch and turned on the 
ceiling light.

The light was harsh, but I wanted a good look. I could 
see that her pubic hair was about the same medium brown 
as the hair on her head, or maybe even lighter. They 
say pubic hair is always darker, but I'm not sure 
that's such a hard and fast rule. At least it wasn't 
with Amy. Maybe it only seemed lighter because it was 
so sparse and fine.

I spoke. "Um, I think you are getting a little ahead of 
the game, Amy. Sit up, and get into a kneeling 
position." 

She complied, and folded her hands in her lap. I told 
her to spread her legs, and she did a little bit. Then 
I told her to take her finger and rub her cunt until 
she had permission to stop. She hesitated, and I asked 
her if I needed to show her how. She shook her head and 
began doing as she was told. I wondered if her 
hesitation was due to the nature of the request, or due 
to the fact I had said cunt. I didn't care, as long as 
she went along. This was my chance to have things my 
way.

I quickly undressed in front of her, taking off my 
underpants last. See, it had been worth checking that 
they were clean. She watched me as I undressed, and 
kept her eyes on my penis as it bobbed when it came 
free, but her face was expressionless and I assumed she 
was watching only because she thought I expected her 
to. I asked, "Are you getting turned on?" and she said 
yes. 

I probed, "Are you turned on by your finger, or from 
watching me?" 

She replied, "both..."

I felt like I was playing a game of twenty questions, 
but decided that now was not the moment to ask her to 
elaborate. As near as I could see, or hear, her pussy 
was still pretty dry, so I didn't put much stock in her 
answer anyway. "Of course, you were already pretty hot, 
from having me play with your boobs, huh?" 

"Um hmm." 

I wanted her to remember her dining room lesson. I'm no 
student of psychology, but it seemed like the right 
approach, to keep hammering away at her insecurities.

I joined her on the bed, also kneeling, and shifted 
around until we were facing knee to knee. I put my hand 
on her hand as it moved around her cunt, and after half 
a minute told her that she could stop. "I like to be 
with a woman when she's good and hot," I lied. Well, I 
mean, I like a hot woman, but I lied in implying that I 
thought this one was hot yet. "You'll have to keep it 
in control, though, and not let your lust get in the 
way of what I want." 

I took her face in my hands, leaned forward, and 
pressed my lips to hers. Her lips parted, and I tasted 
her tongue. She reached up and put her hands behind my 
head, and rocked her head gently back and forth to add 
passion to her kiss. Simulated passion, of course.

After a little of this, I pulled back and said, "Here, 
I want you to put your hand here," and put her right 
hand on my left thigh, "And this hand here," and put 
her other hand on my right thigh. I resumed kissing 
her, and she began massaging my legs. 

I broke away again and said, "No, just rest your hands 
there," and went back to kissing her. I didn't have any 
handcuffs, and didn't know anything about bondage 
anyway, but this might be the next best thing, to see 
if she would keep herself immobilized on my command. 
Keeping one hand behind her head while I kissed her, I 
used my other hand to begin playing with her nipples 
again, first one, then the other, back and forth. I 
heard her go "mmm" as we kissed. She had learned her 
lesson well.

I put my hands on her cheeks and pulled her face away 
from mine, tilting her head downward, and began lightly 
pushing her head, prepared to add more pressure if 
needed. She allowed me to push her down until the top 
of her head was around my chest, then resisted, as if 
she only then realized what I was intending. "I have 
something else I'd like you to kiss," I said. 

I let her shift her weight slightly, then resume 
pressing, this time a little harder. She let herself be 
folded down until her mouth was near my penis. I then 
put my hands on her hands, so as to remind her not to 
move them from my thighs. She started kissing the tip 
of my cock without further instruction, not too 
accurately since neither she nor I was doing anything 
to hold it steady. 

After a half minute of love pecks, I told her to kiss 
it all over.

She shifted her weight again and kissed it up and down 
the shaft. I let her do this for another minute, then 
told her, "now go back and just kiss the top of it." I 
used my right hand to steady my penis, and she seemed 
to understand, and passively resist, what was about to 
happen. In spite of the fact that moments earlier she 
had had her mouth next to the tip, she now kissed all 
around under the head of my cock but not squarely on 
top. 

I put my other hand under her chin to lift her head 
slightly so that she was kissing the tip in spite of 
herself. Then I slipped a finger between her lips and 
separated them. She pretended not to catch on to what I 
had in mind, which was fine since I was perfectly 
willing to be explicit. Slowly I worked my finger 
between her teeth, and thereupon pushed down on her 
lower jaw to indicate she should open her mouth. She 
didn't comply quickly, but she didn't actively resist 
either.

When I had half of the head of my cock in her open 
mouth, I stated, "this is getting you more and more 
turned on, isn't it?" She nodded slightly and said "um 
hmm". "Go ahead then," I said, and pushed downward on 
the back of her head. She allowed the head of my cock 
to slide in, and I let her stop there.

She didn't seem to have any clear idea of what to do at 
this juncture. Despite all my fantasizing about her 
during the evening, I hadn't stopped to consider 
whether she'd be any good at this. From what I could 
tell, this might be her first time doing it. I reminded 
myself to take it real slowly, since the last thing I 
needed was to make her gag. On the other hand, she 
probably didn't know where to draw the line, so if I 
was patient enough I could probably get her to perform 
some amount of deep throat if she was capable of it.

I tried to figure out a way to let her know what to do, 
without accusing her of not knowing. Besides, she 
surely knew, at least in theory, and just needed to be 
encouraged to start. "Does it turn you on to suck it?" 
was the best I could come up with. Her reply of "Uum 
hmm," was equally unimaginative, although you could 
make allowances for the fact that it's difficult to be 
eloquent when there's someone's cock in her mouth. 

She began giving a little more action. 

"Watch out for your teeth," I cautioned as she began to 
scrape rather than tease. I'd let her do it her own way 
for a while before trying to instruct her. Not that I 
was such an expert. My only expertise was as a 
recipient, and even that was awfully limited.

In my highly aroused state, she didn't have to be a 
trained expert to quickly bring me to a pre-orgasmic 
peak anyway, and I wanted to make this last. So I 
periodically took my cock out of her mouth, touching 
her nose and cheek with it, then putting it back in. 
"You're very good," I told her. What the hey, give her 
a little encouragement. "Your tongue is so good," I 
added, hoping she would take the hint and ease up on 
the teeth a little. I repeated this process of putting 
it in, taking it out. Each time, I put it in a little 
deeper than before, although still not even halfway. 
There was plenty of time, and hurrying it could only 
spoil things.

After a few minutes of this, I pulled out again and sat 
there watching her. She waited for a bit to see what I 
was going to do next, and when I didn't do anything 
immediately she looked up at me. I placed my hands on 
hers, which were still rooted to their spot on my 
thighs, and asked her, "What do you call this?", and 
she paused before replying thickly, "oral sex." 

"No," I corrected, pointing to my penis, "what do you 
call this thing you are sucking?" 

"Your thing, uh, your penis." She said the word like it 
was a foreign term. 

"That's just the medical term. You surely call it 
something when you are talking with your girlfriends? A 
dick, a cock, a prick, a pecker?"

She thought for a moment, straightened her back 
somewhat to face me, then shyly returned my smile and 
said, "S-some of the girls in the dorm call it a cock." 

"If you didn't call it that, what would you call it, a 
dick, or a prick, or a pecker?" 

"A dick, I guess." There was just a hint of 
flirtatiousness in her voice. 

"You don't like to call it a prick or a pecker?" 

"No." I waited to see if she would elaborate. She said, 
"that's what gross guys call it."

"Or gross girls?"

"Yeah." 

"OK then," I said, "from now on you are NOT to call it 
a penis or a dick or a cock. When you want to suck it, 
you say 'may I please suck your pecker', or 'may I 
please suck your prick'. Go ahead, try it now for me."

The smile disappeared from her face. "May I please suck 
your p-pecker?" she asked in a wooden voice, the word 
seeming to stick in her throat. "Yes you may," I 
replied cheerfully. As she bent back down and fit it 
into her mouth again, I added, "and by the way, I've 
changed my mind. You are not to refer to it as a pecker 
anymore either. Only the word 'prick' will be 
acceptable." 

She made no sound, other than the soft slurping and 
smacking associated with the act she was performing on 
me, but my guess was that she would remember to use the 
right vocabulary. She would remember who was boss. I 
pushed her head as far down on my cock as she could 
comfortably take it, which was still only about 
halfway.

A man has a chance to be introspective when he is being 
given head. I pondered the change in my personality 
that night. Or rather, the side of my personality I was 
allowing to come forward. Never during my time with 
Caryn had I tried to dominate her the way I was 
beginning to dominate Amy. Caryn was not the type of 
woman to be dominated. And the few women I had dated 
since the divorce, well, I was always trying to be 
gentlemanly with them, so I never approached them in 
this way. It never even occurred to me to do so. It was 
different with Amy. 

Her needs were straightforward: a good grade. If 
somehow I insulted her and she walked out, so what? She 
wasn't going to cause any trouble, I judged. I could 
allow myself to be more free with her than I ever had 
been with a woman before. Whether or not it was a 
"good" side of me, it was a side I enjoyed. For once, I 
was getting things my own way.

I suddenly realized I had better pull out or I would 
come right then.

Because, I had other plans for where my load of sperm 
was going to go.

"That's enough of that for now. You are very good, and 
later I'd like to teach you a few tricks you may not 
know. But now, how would you like a nice backrub?" Amy 
straightened up partway, looked at me, and said, 
"sure." I wouldn't say she exactly lit up at the 
notion, but her relief was evident. Probably because 
she was getting tired, and also because she figured 
that receiving a backrub was safe. She had gotten away 
cheap and hadn't had to let me come in her mouth.

She turned around and lay on her stomach, with her head 
on the pillow, and I straddled her thighs, poking my 
penis at the crevice between her legs just under her 
buns. I began massaging her shoulders, and as I leaned 
forward I allowed my penis to probe the spot it was at. 
Amy kept her legs together, not tightly, but enough so 
my penis didn't get very far. That was OK; I just 
wanted her to know it was there, and wonder what I had 
in mind.

I give pretty good backrubs, you know, and I didn't 
spare the effort with her. After a while I said, "I 
don't know if you deserve such special treatment, Amy. 
Our deal was that I'd give you an A if you took care of 
me, and here I am taking care of you."

"Do you want me to rub your back now?" 

"No, that won't be necessary. Lie still." 

I got off of the bed and went to the dresser, and as I 
put on a condom I continued, "Pull your knees up under 
your tummy." 

She did as she was told, her head on the pillow at the 
head of the bed, facing away from me. She was lying on 
the bed all folded up like an accordion. I picked up 
the tube of K-Y. I asked her, "are you ready for me to 
fuck your cunt?" 

She said, yes and I told her, "Lift your bottom in the 
air, so I can see it. Higher." 

She complied; she was ready for me to penetrate her.

I walked back over to the bed. "Now spread your knees 
apart a little. No, a little more, so your cunt is wide 
open for me." I climbed onto the bed behind her, opened 
the tube, and applied some jelly to the condom. I asked 
her again, "do you want me to fuck you now?" 

"Yes." 

"When you speak to me you must show your respect and 
call me sir." I waited, but she didn't say anything, so 
I repeated, "Do you want me to fuck you now?!"

"Yes, sir." My heart again was pounding. She was 
letting me dominate her. 

"Tell me what you want me to do." 

"F-Fuck me, sir." 

"When you ask me to do something for you, you must say 
please. Ask me again." 

"Please fuck me, sir." 

"Is your cunt wide open for me?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Tell me." 

"My cunt is wide open for you, sir." 

"Tell me how I should do it." 

Silence. 

"Tell me what you want me to put, and where." 

"Your pri-i-ick in my cunt." 

"Say it with respect." 

"Please put your prick in my cunt, sir." 

I rubbed some jelly on her asshole. Before she could 
react, I had pulled her bottom down a little bit and 
forced the head of my cock into her ass.

"I don't know if you've ever had this done to you 
before. If not, my best advice is to remain as still as 
possible." I adjusted my stance, and pushed in, pulled 
out a little, pushed in again. "It may hurt a little, 
but it'll only hurt worse if you try to move. I'll try 
to be careful." I continued to work my way in, two 
millimeters forward and one millimeter back. 

This was only my second time for this, and doubtless 
her first, but for a couple of neophytes we weren't 
doing too bad. Besides, even her incompetent attempt at 
a blowjob had gotten me to the point that this didn't 
have to take too long. I was in nearly halfway. "Try to 
relax and let me do the work. You've got a real nice 
asshole; we'll have to do this, uh, more, uh, uh..."

If there's anything more ridiculous looking or sounding 
than a person having an orgasm, I'd like to know of it. 
Or maybe I wouldn't. Anyway, there's no point in 
describing the next few seconds, except to say that I 
was overly ready for it and it was a major relief. I 
hadn't even worked up a sweat in the process. I 
withdrew and, grabbing a wad of Kleenex, gingerly 
removed the condom and wiped her butt clean. I had 
finally found something imperfect about Amy: her butt-
hole was poopy inside like anybody else's!

I checked her bottom for any traces of blood, but she 
was fine. I didn't figure I could have hurt her, since 
I hadn't had to get at all rambunctious. I rolled her 
over onto her side, and lay down beside her, facing 
her. There were tears on her cheeks again, but I 
pretended I didn't notice. "How was that?" I asked with 
mock politeness. 

"I don't really like that," she said. 

"Well, you did just fine. We won't have to do that all 
the time when you are here." I had been very hard on 
her mentally, and it seemed that now was a time to 
loosen up a little and acknowledge her feelings. But 
only a little, at least yet. I had something I needed 
to do first. I got out of bed and stood up.

"I'm going to take your picture." 

Amy rolled slightly so that her face was buried in the 
bedspread. 

"I know you intend to keep your part of our bargain, 
and not cause any trouble. But I need some protection 
in case you were to change your mind after you got your 
A. You know what I mean?" I went to the dresser, and 
picked up the camera. 

Amy didn't move. 

"Come on, I'm not going to show them to anybody. 
They'll just be for me." 

I stepped by the side of the bed, and rolled Amy onto 
her back. "Why do you want to be so mean to me?" she 
asked through her tears. "I'm not being mean, I'm just 
making you live up to your end of the bargain. Do you 
want to just forget the whole thing?" 

She didn't say anything, just sniffled a little; her 
nose was running. She was crying a lot more than I 
expected. I handed her a Kleenex, and she blew her 
nose. I had been harder on her than I had realized, and 
there was some risk in offering her an easy way out. 
But if she stayed through this and came back for more 
next week, I knew I would have an obedient partner for 
the rest of the quarter. 

She was silent. 

"OK then, prop yourself up on your elbows." 

She did and I went back to the end of the bed and 
pointed the camera at her. She turned her head away 
just before I snapped the shutter. The photo came out, 
and I set it on the dresser to develop. "Pull your 
knees up and spread your legs." 

More tears, but she obeyed. This was my first clear 
look at all of her pussy, but I was preoccupied with 
taking a good photo before she changed her mind. "Look 
over here." The camera clicked and whirred again. "OK, 
that's all." I stood by the dresser and watched the 
photos develop, and Amy lay back down on her back, her 
knees still up.

"I'm going to keep them in a safe place, so don't 
bother having someone break in and try to steal them. 
No one has to see them as long as you keep quiet about 
this." The pictures were ready. The focus wasn't sharp, 
Amy's eyes were red and her hair I now noticed was a 
mess. Not what I'd send to Playboy, but I now had my 
insurance policy.

I sat down at the foot of the bed and looked at her. "I 
need to go pee," she said. I nodded, and she got up and 
waddled out the door. Geez, maybe I had hurt her butt 
after all.

I heard her blow her nose again, and then it was 
several minutes before I heard the toilet flush. I sat 
on the bed and waited. I'd offer her something to drink 
when she got back, but no reason to get something now. 
So I just sat and monitored the state of my penis. Its 
erection was disappearing, but it was not going 
completely back to its un-aroused state either. It 
could be coaxed. I wasn't eighteen anymore, and twice 
in one night was probably going to be about all I could 
comfortably muster. Anything more than that would have 
to be for her sake, and I was pretty sure that twice 
would be more than she wanted anyway.

She still hadn't come back, and I was worried that 
maybe something was the matter. I debated whether to 
let her have her privacy or to check that she was all 
right. Finally I heard the sink faucet. She let it run 
for almost a minute. Another round of nose blowing, the 
sound of the bathroom door opening, the faint sound of 
her bare feet on the hallway carpet. 

She came back into the bedroom and sat on the side of 
the bed, rather than at the foot of the bed by me. She 
was walking much more easily now, and I felt reassured 
that I hadn't injured her. You could still tell she had 
been crying, but she was much more composed. She had 
carefully rearranged her hair into something resembling 
its customary perfect order, tied back with the clip. 
She picked up her underpants and started to put them 
back on, but I told her not to.

"Would you like something to drink?" I offered. 

She mumbled no.

"Come on, some pop, or I've got some beer, or would you 
like something stronger?" I figured that giving liquor 
to a minor would be rather inconsequential, at this 
point. ("I realize, your honor, that sodomizing an 
unwilling woman is not worthy of the court's attention, 
but I intend to prove to the court that the defendant 
gave my client a BEER!") 

She said nothing, so I got up and went to the kitchen. 
I decided to just give her soda pop, rather than 
anything alcoholic. She'd been through a lot, and might 
resent it if she thought I was trying to lower her 
inhibitions further with drink.

Maybe I was being overly cautious again, but I didn't 
know her well, and some people are hung up about 
alcohol. I chuckled at the thought of trying to guess 
what she might be capable of with lowered inhibitions. 
Would my heretofore untested sexual creativity be up to 
the challenge?

I returned to the bedroom with two glasses of pop, and 
sat on the middle of the bed, next to Amy, who had 
moved there during my brief absence. She cautiously 
sniffed her drink, took a sip, then took a longer 
swallow. Her demeanor became a little less gloomy. Did 
she interpret the non-alcoholic drink as a little peace 
offering? We both sat naked, legs folded Indian style, 
in the middle of my bed, drinking Seven Ups. "I'm sorry 
if you thought I was being mean." 

"Well, I was expecting one thing, and then you did 
that, and it hurt and you didn't care." 

"I didn't hear you say anything. Does it still hurt?" 

"A little." 

"Well, if it still hurts tomorrow you should go see the 
doctor at the campus clinic. You don't have to tell him 
about us. Just tell him that you and your boyfriend 
were experimenting."

"I think I'll be all right." The shame of telling 
anything to the doctor would give her plenty of 
motivation to recover quickly on her own.

I wanted to continue in that vein. "I wasn't trying to 
be mean, you know. I just let you know what I wanted. 
Our agreement is that you do what I want when you are 
here. Well, I wanted you to suck my prick, then I 
wanted to fuck you in the ass, then I wanted to take 
your picture. You did everything just the way I wanted. 
You were just doing what you agreed to, and you did 
just fine." 

I put my right arm around her back, and I was 
delighted, and maybe just slightly amazed, that she 
snuggled a little bit next to me.

I asked her about her boyfriend. "Yeah, his name is 
Mark. He's really nice. He's in the marching band." And 
I suppose she's a cheerleader. How Norman Rockwell. She 
told me more about him. It was the first topic we'd hit 
upon that she seemed to open up about. 

I made all the amateur pop-psych inferences you might 
expect, especially in light of her activities with me 
tonight. I wondered if Mark knew how far he could take 
her if he wanted. I was pretty sure she was new to this 
tonight. "Do you love him?" I asked. 

"Yes, our parents want us to wait until after school to 
get married, but I want to do it now." I told her I 
thought her parents were probably right.

Is he a good lover, I asked after a while. She was 
opening up to me nicely. "We've only done it twice. One 
time we were alone in his parents' cabin all afternoon, 
and he got kind of, you know, insistent. I should have 
stopped him. But he was lying on top of me, and kind of 
slipped my panties off and did it. That was when he 
told me he loved me." 

Oh, puhleeze, gimme a break. 

"One other time we were taking a walk in the woods, and 
we sat down in this place away from the path, and we 
were kissing, and I was, you know..." She placed her 
hand on my thigh and brought it up toward my cock 
briefly. 

"Playing with his prick?" 

"Yeah, and he said he couldn't wait. I didn't want to 
do it out in the open like that, but he said I 
shouldn't do that to him and then not, you know, help 
him out. I wanted to wait until we got back and then 
I'd, you know. I shouldn't have started rubbing him 
there, in the woods, I guess. He started lying on top 
of me like the other time, and..." Her voice faded. 

Real nice move, "Mark". Sounds like rape to me, Stud.

I asked, "So you don't usually have a physical 
relationship with him?" 

"Oh, you mean like do I make him wait forever? I know a 
guy can't go forever without, you know, um. I do that 
for him when he needs it, um, when we are alone, you 
know?" 

I was not totally clear what she meant, although I had 
sort of the idea, and felt an erection coming on. No 
way to cross my legs to hide it this time, like back in 
my office earlier that day. (Had it only been that 
afternoon?) Besides, why should I want to? "What do you 
mean?" I said flirtatiously. 

She smiled and cast her eyes downward and almost 
giggled, "You know." 

"What?" I teased back, and held her closer. 

She looked into my eyes. "I use my hand on him." 

"What? I thought just guys knew about that." 

She giggled charmingly. "You see what's happening to my 
prick?" 

"It's getting bigger. Didn't you already, um...?" Could 
a pretty nineteen year old be so ignorant of male 
anatomy and habits? 

"Sure. Doesn't mean I wouldn't like to go again. How 
about if you show me how you do it to Mark." I'd let 
her be in charge for a while; she was starting to have 
a little fun. She took hold of my cock at the base and 
gave it a squeeze. My semi-erection fleshed out almost 
immediately. I tilted my head and her mouth met mine. 

We kissed wetly for a while, and we slowly reclined 
ourselves until we were lying down. She continued to 
knead my cock very satisfactorily. I slipped my arm out 
from under her back, and got on top, straddling her 
waist. She tugged and squeezed at my cock as I bent 
down and resumed kissing her. This went on for a total 
of about five minutes, when I disconnected from her 
mouth and straightened my back. 

"You do that very well," I said, truthfully for once. 

"Aren't I doing it right?" she asked, looking 
inquisitively into my eyes. 

"Couldn't be better. Why?" 

"You still didn't, um..." 

Quite a picture I was getting of old Markie. Rapist, 
premature ejaculator, sousaphone player.

"Come? Well, this is my second time tonight, after all. 
How about if I show you something Mark would like?" 

Amy smiled and said suspiciously, "Whaaat?" I

 slid up her body until my knees were under her 
armpits. "Most men like a good blowjob. Let me show you 
how I like it, so you can finish what you started when 
you were sucking me before." I put my thumb on her 
chin, and she opened immediately. I put my cock in her 
mouth about as far as I had previously, and let her 
close around it. 

She rubbed her tongue as best she could, given the 
limitations of space inside. I slowly drew my cock out, 
slid it back in, then back out entirely, and let it 
dangle above her waiting mouth. "You know what's the 
secret of a great blowjob?" 

She closed her mouth and shook her head. "Sucking. 
Nothing complicated. Just suck it as I pull it out, 
then open up and let me put it in again, over and over. 
The deeper you can take it in, the better." 

"But it's alre..." she started, as I pushed back in.

She tried, and while I can't say the results were 
perfect, she showed a definite improvement. I pushed to 
the back of her throat each time, and each time pulled 
out slightly less far. 

I was pushing, trying to see if she could take it all 
the way. The thought of Needle-dick the Bug-fucker 
suddenly came to mind, and I envied him. But my tool 
was no bigger than the guys in those movies, less than 
some, so I knew it could be done. "Urghh!" came the 
sound below me, and I realized I'd hit her gag reflex.

I pulled out.

"Whoops! Sorry. You all right?" 

"Yeah. But it's back all the way. It made me gag." 

I was going to have to give her some hints, which I 
didn't have. I took a guess, based on something I'd 
heard. "It's not that hard. The key is to use a 
swallowing motion. Here, let me put it back in, and 
don't exactly suck, just try and pretend you are 
drinking a glass of water." 

A glass of water while flat on her back, right. I 
pushed, and got another gag reflex in reply. "It's OK, 
just relax and try again." I put it back in, a smidgen 
less far, and let her take a couple of practice 
swallows. 

"Swallow hard. Pretend it's a really big glass of 
water." Linda Lovelace would have cringed, or probably 
just laughed, at my feeble advice. She swallowed once, 
and on the second swallow I glided my cock inward. It 
went a little further than before, then she gagged. 
Again I pulled out. I didn't need her vomiting on me.

I ran to the kitchen and got another bottle of pop, 
pondering whether some liquor would be better. No, 
probably not. I brought the pop to her, said, "Take a 
sip," and lay on the bed on my back, my cock standing 
up like a statue. "Here, maybe it'll be easier if you 
are on top. Get on top of me, and rest on your elbows 
on the bed."

Without a lot of enthusiasm, she complied. "If you can 
get the hang of this, Mark will love you forever. Hold 
my prick with your hand, and put it in your mouth." 

She slid my cock into her mouth again, as far as it 
would go. 

"Now start swallowing, and see if you can get it 
deeper." 

I lightly put my hand on the back of her head, not to 
push but just to offer encouragement. She tried again. 
She bobbed her head down as she made a swallowing 
noise, then tried to raise back up. 

My hand stopped her. "No, don't take it out. Just keep 
trying." 

She bobbed down again as she swallowed, backed off, 
bobbed again, backed off, again. After half a minute of 
this I raised my head slightly to have a look. She was 
not really getting any more of it in. "That's pretty 
good," I falsely complimented her, "can you just keep 
it in now?" 

As she bobbed downward, I increased the pressure on her 
head, and she did not try to back off. 

Suddenly she started struggling, and I let her pull 
out. "I can't breathe," she panted. "Oh, yeah, sorry. 
That was great. Do that again." She took a few breaths 
and began again. It was not actually deep throat, but 
it wasn't bad. I let her up when she needed to. After a 
couple of deep breaths, she went at it again, this time 
more quickly. "Now see if you can suck it," I 
suggested. She moved her throat muscles slightly but 
after a few seconds had to come up for air.

"You're great. That's just fine." 

She cycled through three more times, going down, coming 
back up for air. I decided to switch positions again. 
"Now, how about if you lie back down and see if you can 
keep doing it that way." 

She got down, and I remounted her face. I don't know 
that it was so much the dominance of the position, as 
it was a matter of plumbing. It just felt nicer 
pointing down into her than up.

I placed her hands on my butt, poked my penis part way 
into her mouth, and let her set the pace. "Let go of my 
butt when you need to breathe." I humped gently, and 
she made what sucking motion she could. When she let go 
of my butt, I pulled out and let her catch her breath. 
She really was not making much progress in taking me 
deep, but by this time I didn't really care. "I think 
one more of those and I'll come. Are you ready?" 

She took me back into her mouth, I felt myself go past 
the point of no return (orgasmically speaking), and 
began to ejaculate. As the first spurt came, I began 
pulling out, to let her taste what she was getting. I 
stayed in her mouth until the spasms stopped, then told 
her "swallow what you've got so far, and suck hard to 
get the last few drops." She did that, and I slowly 
withdrew.

I collapsed beside her. She was making a funny little 
swallowing sound, evidently unfamiliar with and 
unprepared for the aftertaste. I turned her head toward 
me, and kissed her soundly.

"I hope you'll remember how you did that. That was 
great." The word great was getting trite, but I didn't 
care. I slipped my arm under her neck and cuddled her. 
"That was your first time, wasn't it?" 

"Um hmm," she cooed. 

"Well, remember to always swallow all the come you get. 
It's good for you. Lots of protein. You sure are a good 
learner," I added. "If you applied your learning 
talents to math, you'd be getting an A+ and I would 
never have found out about this particular talent you 
have." She didn't reply, and I mentally chided myself 
for being insensitive about her difficulties in my 
class.

We lay there for a while, I stroking her hair, and then 
she said, "Can I ask you, um, a question?" 

"What?" 

"Are you gay?" Huh? Here I was lying in bed naked with 
a beautiful woman, basking in the afterglow of my 
second orgasm, and she wonders if I like boys? 

"Whaddaya mean, gay?" 

"Well," she said, "you've been with me all night and 
haven't wanted to make love to me." 

My oh my, what a narrow view of sex she had. Either 
that, or I was a real Hugh Hefner, mister sexual 
sophisticate. Of course, she had a bit of a point; the 
things she and I had done so far I could have done with 
a guy. Still, I rationalized that it's not what you do 
so much as whom you do it with; I didn't care to 
explore that line of thought much further. I was 
surprised at the familiar tone she was taking with me. 
I wondered if I needed to nip that in the bud.

I removed my arm from under her and sat up. "Look," I 
lectured, "I'm not your boyfriend. I'm not gonna be 
your boyfriend. Get that straight. Don't go trying to 
fall in love with me. It doesn't matter to you whether 
I am gay, straight, or do it with poodles. When you are 
here, you have only one goal, and that is to be the 
biggest slut you can be. Our deal is, each week, you 
will do what I ask of you, no more and no less. 
Understand me?" 

She smiled and said yes she did. 

I asked, "So, you want me to fuck you?" 

She said casually, "If you want to." 

"Then ask me." 

"Make love to me." 

"I don't make love, I fuck. Ask again." 

She hesitated, the foul word sticking in her throat. 
"Fuck me." 

"What do you call me?" 

"Sir." "Ask me again, with respect." 

"Would you please fuck me, sir." But there was a 
sarcastic edge to her voice, which I had not heard from 
her before. She was testing me.

I got up and walked to the bedroom door. "All right, if 
you are going to take that tone, our agreement is over. 
You think this is all some sort of damn joke? 'Would 
you please fuck me, sir'." I mimicked her vocal 
inflection. "If you are going to have that attitude, 
put your damn clothes on right now and go the hell 
home. I'm going to the other room, and if you still 
want your grade you had better come out and beg me to 
fuck you. With respect." And I went to the dining room 
and sat at the table where we had been studying.

I didn't expect to have to wait long, and she didn't 
disappoint. She followed me out of the bedroom with a 
worried look on her face. "Would you please..." "Hold 
it. Come here." I stood up. She came over and I pulled 
her close to me and put my hand on her shoulders.

"If you are going to beg, get down on your knees." 

She sank to her knees, and I pushed firmly as she went. 
"All right. Go ahead." 

"Would you please fuck me, sir?" She had the desired 
tone of humility. I decided to press the advantage. 

"Is that how you beg? That's asking. I don't believe 
you want it. Look at me when you speak." 

She looked up, and darned if she didn't fold her hands 
like she was praying. "Sir, um, I humbly beg you to 
please fuck me. Um, I am sorry if I, um, displeased 
you." 

She left out the part about her being a miserable 
servant and all that, but I think my point had been 
made. "Now, as you can see, my prick is not hard. Think 
about what you'd like to do to remedy that, to get me 
ready, and be sure to ask me with respect."

END
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 65