Assignment #4: Bring
yourself to orgasm without using your fingers, hands, vibrator or other
sex toy. Record the experience in your Masturbation Journal, following
the usual guidelines. Your last submission showed much improvement—the
use of imagery and language was excellent. Keep up the good work.
Sincerely, Professor Pervert.
I click “close mail” and smile.
The Professor probably thinks this one’s going to be a challenge, but I
already came up with the answer ten years ago—back when I was in
college the first time around. Doing a “no-hands” is actually pretty
easy. You bunch up your pillow, straddle it like a lover, and work
your hips just so while you play with your nipples. It feels great,
plus you get a good core workout.
Of course,
I’ll be required to confess that I’m bringing prior experience to the
assignment, but I figure I can make up the lost points with an
extra-steamy journal entry. I was pretty inhibited at the beginning,
but the Professor’s right. I am improving.
I
stroll over to the linen closet and take out a towel. Today I have
about two hours to complete the assignment and write it up. If I don’t
have my paper in his in-box by 9 pm London time, there will be
“penalties.” Afterwards I’ll have just enough time to shower and get
to campus for my real summer school class, “The Twentieth Century
British Novel.”
I pull off my oversized T-shirt and
shimmy out of my panties. “Totally naked, above and below.” That’s
what I’ll write under “what were you wearing?” in the journal.
Next
I fold the pillow and wrap it in the towel. I always get very juicy
when I’m doing it for the Professor. I stretch out on the bed and push
the pillow between my legs, resting on my elbows to allow for good
access to my breasts, which “dangle like cones of white wisteria,
tinted tender pink at the tips.” The Professor will love that. He
specializes in the Romantic poets and is partial to natural imagery.
I
note the time on the clock above my bed, then cross my arms and begin
to caress my breasts, my right hand cupping the left tit, my left hand
stroking the right. My nipples feel soft and satiny and more sensitive
than when I’m lying on my back, my usual position for self-pleasuring.
I push my hips into the pillow, grimacing at the nubby texture of the
towel against my tender slit. Maybe this isn’t the answer after all?
Think, Tina, think. The rest will come.
It’s the Professor’s voice, smooth and deep, guiding me ever onward to new achievements.
I close my eyes and think.
A
man steps from the melting red shadows behind my eyelids and stands at
the bottom of my bed. His gaze is fixed on my naked ass. I can feel
it, as bright and hot as a spotlight. I squirm involuntarily and that
sweet, achy sensation of longing floods my belly. What is he thinking
and feeling as he watches a horny slut masturbate just for him?
I
begin to hump the pillow with slow, rhythmic thrusts. I can make out
the man’s face more clearly now--the lush, curly brown hair, the
wire-rim Russian Revolutionary glasses. He is young--only two years
older than I am and not even tenured yet--but he has enough of a snotty
academic air that I yearn to rub away at that smug composure with every
jerk of my hips. I want him so jealous of this pillow that he’ll start
begging me to let him take its place between my legs.
I
pause mid-thrust and sigh. The sensation still isn’t intense enough to
bring me off. It might work if I could use my fingers to spread my
labia and get direct friction on my clit, but of course, the assignment
specifically forbids it.
I know you have it in you, Tina. Push a little harder. Show me how naughty you are deep inside.
“Yes, Professor,” I whisper, into the air. I do want him to see me, not just my flesh, but my darker, deeper places.
The
room shifts; the morning light filtering through the curtains turns to
a harsh florescent buzz. Steel prison bars bisect the room, and my bed
becomes a cot covered with a rough, gray blanket. I’m still humping a
pillow, my bare buttocks aimed straight at the bars, but the audience
has expanded ten-fold. A carefully selected squad of prisoners has
been brought here to watch an over-sexed girl get herself off without
using her hands. It’s not clear if this is a reward or a punishment
for these hardened criminals. I know the guards are sadists. They’ve
told me that if I don’t come this way in twenty minutes, the whole crew
of correctional officers will get to fuck me on the sagging sofa in
their employee lounge in ascending order of cock size. They warned me
with a leer that the biggest one, Harry the Horse, has a dick that
would put a baseball bat to shame.
The stakes are definitely higher now.
I
rock my hips faster against the damp towel. The prisoners’ eyes bore
into my flesh. They’re bad guys, lifers. They haven’t had a woman in
decades, and their soft howls of frustration ricochet off the concrete
walls. With a fearful glance over my shoulder, I see their huge,
swollen cocks are protruding from their flies. Some pump themselves
frantically, heedless of the grinning guard. One pushes himself
through the bars, fucking the air, as if he can enter me that way if he
tries hard enough.
“Boys, you’ve got five minutes
to finish your business, then its back to your cells,” the guard
barks. Then his voice turns to sugar with a touch of poison. “You,
too, sweetheart. Five minutes or you know what we’ve got waiting for
you.”
“I’ve seen enough assholes in this joint. Make her flip over and show us her cunt,” a hoarse voice grumbles.
I hear the crack of a fist landing on flesh, a bellow of pain.
“What you see is what you get,” the guard growls.
The
men moan and grunt like beasts as they hurry to empty their balls. My
head is bursting with lewd sounds, the rasp of dick flesh being rubbed
in spit-moistened fists, the rhythmic knocking of hips against the bars
that keep me cruelly out of their reach.
One man stands back, eyes
narrowed, arms crossed, his fly firmly zipped. He is watching me, but
he’s also watching them watching me. It’s the Professor. Even in this
place, as far away from twining ivy as you can get, he’s still the one
in control.
My nipples are as hard as little pebbles now.
When I flick them with my fingers, electric jolts jump straight to my
pussy. I’m gyrating like a stripper, sliding my cunt down over the
pillow, then jerking back up, like my ass is tethered to a spring.
Though I’m usually quiet when I masturbate, I realize I’m making
sounds, too: deep grunts and harsh bellows to harmonize with the
bang-bang of the headboard against the wall. But I’m going to make it
in time. I can feel the orgasm begin to grow, a throbbing knot in my
gut. And the prisoners are right there with me. With a collective
groan, they shoot their wads through the bars, spraying my ass with a
sizzling fountain of spunk. The odor fills my nostrils, hay mixed with
something harsh and tinny, the nastiest, naughtiest smell on earth.
It’s all I need to push me over the edge. I ride the pillow like a
bucking bronco, screaming myself hoarse as I climax, each contraction
harder and sweeter than ever before.
As the spasms fade to a
flutter, I check the clock. Length of session: Twenty minutes from
start to finish. I collapse face down on the bed and listen to my
pounding heart. So far, so good, but this is just the beginning. It’s
never really over until the Professor gives me my grade.
#
“Isn’t that Professor Perkins over there? And you’ve got his table, Tina. Lucky bitch.”
Pam
and I had a lot in common. We were both education majors with a minor
in English lit; we both worked weekends at Chez Jacqueline. Of course,
she was twenty-one. I was eight years older and far too worldly-wise
to gush over an attractive young assistant professor.
“Those
must be his parents,” I said, eyeing the other members of his party: a
slim, well-dressed older woman and gray-haired guy who looked more or
less like the professor with thirty years on him. Chez Jackie’s was
the best restaurant in town and we often waited on our teachers and
their families. I was curious to see how Perkins would act when he was
off-duty. In class he was affable but no-nonsense—forget about getting
an extension on a paper from him.
To my surprise
he was positively charming in the candlelit glow of the dining room.
He remembered my name and introduced me to his folks with a jaunty,
“Tina’s without question my best student this semester.”
“I know
Pam gave you a free dessert when you said that to her last week,
Professor, but I’m a tougher nut to crack.” I grinned at his dad, who
winked back.
“Damn. Because this time it’s actually true,” Professor Perkins joined right in.
Mom
smiled, too, and did a little back-and-forth glance between her son and
me that made it clear the professor wasn’t currently attached, but Mom
was hoping he might find a nice girl soon and she might possibly be
yours truly. Which almost made me laugh out loud because I was far too
busy getting my life back together to waste time lusting after my
professor. Okay, so I did occasionally let my mind wander during
class. I’d picture the professor naked and try to guess what his cock
looked like erect. Long and slender or thick and florid? Ramrod
straight or curved to the left as any P.C. professor’s should be? Once
or twice I even imagined what it would be like to ride him and watch
his face as he came. But I did that with every professor, including
the old silver-beards and--during really boring lectures--even a few of
the women.
But I should’ve remembered that Mom always knows best.
I
was heading back to the kitchen with a tray of dirty plates when
Professor Perkins stepped out of the hallway by the restrooms.
“Excuse
me, I know you’re busy,” he stammered. “But I wanted to let you know I
turned in the final grades for your class yesterday.”
My stomach
did a somersault. Why would he look so nervous unless he had bad
news? Yet I’d gotten an “A” on the midterm and very complimentary
comments on the final paper: Your argument is tight and compelling,
the writing smooth and flowing—a true pleasure to read. The professor
smiled as if he read my thoughts. “Don’t worry, you did very well. I
mentioned it because I’m now ethically allowed to ask if you’d like to
get together for coffee or something.”
Could it be that while I was fantasizing about Professor Perkins naked,
he was returning the favor? Maybe I’d get to see what his cock looked
like after all.
“Thanks, Professor. Actually, a bunch of us usually go over to the
tapas place for a drink after work around eleven. You’re welcome to
join us tonight—if your Mom and Dad give you permission.”
He blushed--I was starting to like this shy suitor side of him--but
recovered quickly and gave me a grin. “I’m sure I can talk them into
relaxing my curfew tonight. After all, there’s no school tomorrow.
See you later, then, Tina.”
I had to admit I felt a little thrill as I watched him stride back to
his doting parents. Professor Perkins had me in his power all
semester. Now I was turning the tables.
Or so I thought.
#
Assignment
#5: Go to the woman-friendly adult store south of campus. Ask a
saleswoman for advice on anal toys. Confess your level of
experience—beginner, dabbler, veteran ready for a challenge? Purchase
the item she recommends as well as a bottle of lubricant. When you
return home, insert the toy in your anus and masturbate. Record the
experience in your Masturbation Journal, following the usual
guidelines. Your last assignment earned “A” for the journal entry,
which was nicely paced with evocative imagery. However, I gave you a
“B-“ for practical execution. The point of these exercises is for you
to attempt something you haven’t tried before. I expect you to obey
this rule in the future. If you accumulate enough demerits, it will be
necessary to discipline you appropriately. Sincerely, Professor
Pervert.
Ah,
yes, assignment #5. That’s why I’m here in this strange pose: sitting
on my bed with my back against the headboard, my legs spread wide.
It’s the only position that lets me keep the butt plug in place while I
diddle myself.
Naturally,
I bought the beginner’s size, a flesh-colored silicone gadget about the
size of my ring finger with a bulge in the middle like a swollen
knuckle. The bottom flares out into a rectangular base to keep the
device from slipping all the way inside. That’s what the butch-looking
saleswoman at the sex store explained to me. Fortunately, buying the
thing was not as embarrassing as I feared. The woman was so
nonchalant, it was like we were discussing lipstick instead of anal sex
toys. That is, except at the very end when she handed me the brown
paper bag and said, “Enjoy!” with a big grin as if she could see
exactly what I’d be doing with my purchase before the afternoon was
through. I blushed beet red and rushed out of the store.
To
be honest, I probably do make as lewd a picture as anyone could
imagine. I’m dressed in the scarlet waist cincher and thigh-hi’s I
bought for Assignment #3 which only accentuates all the bare, juicy
parts of me. The air brushes my exposed pussy like cool fingertips,
and my nipples are standing out stiff and red. Yet I can’t say I’m all
that turned on by the assignment yet. For one thing, I’m not sure I
bought the right size plug. It was definitely a challenge pushing it
inside me—I was poking the slippery, lubed-up thing around my butt
crack for a full minute--but now that it’s there, I can hardly feel
it. I’m more excited by the idea that I did this naughty thing just
for the Professor.
Not that he’s here to see me. Yet.
I
close my eyes and take a deep breath. Suddenly the summer sunlight
fades to a single green-shaded lamp glowing in the autumn dusk. I’m
sitting on a leather sofa in the same slutty get-up, legs open, asshole
impaled on a strange little silicone bowling pin. Across from me sits
the Professor in a wingback chair, flanked by tall bookcases jammed
with erudite tomes. With his eyes alone he issues the command: Touch
yourself, Tina. For me.
My
hand dips between my legs. I start to strum. My finger makes a rude
clicking sound in the wet folds, and I blush, knowing he hears and sees
it all.
“Are you enjoying this?” he asks, his voice as soft as a silk scarf trailing over naked flesh.
“Yes, Professor,” I admit shyly.
“Just
‘yes’? That’s a vague answer,” he snaps. “I want you to be specific
about what you find enjoyable. Is it that X-rated toy you shoved up
your ass so greedily or the fact I’m watching you masturbate?”
My throat constricts with shame, but I manage to croak out an answer. “Both, Professor.”
“Indeed?
I must say I’m enjoying myself as well. But I think we’re both
disappointed you bought the small one. Next time I want you to get one
of the long, fat monsters that made you cringe when you saw it on the
shelf. While you’re at it, get yourself a big dildo--with veins and a
suction cup that sticks to a chair so you can ride it. And another one
for your mouth, too. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, to be all filled
up in every empty, aching hole?”
“Yes,
Professor,” I whisper. That’s the only answer I can ever give him, but
in truth I’m not sure I agree. No plastic cock--no matter how huge or
swollen--can satisfy me as well as his hot, probing gaze.
“Shall
I send you back to the store right now to tell that dyke you’re
enjoying your timid little butt plug very much, thank you, but you
crave something bigger and nastier?”
My
heart leaps in my chest. “No, please. I’ll do anything for you here
in your office, but please don’t make me do that, Professor.”
He
laughs softly. “Your cunt muscles contract very nicely when you’re
frightened. Which gives me an idea for something we can do here to
remedy the situation. At my command, I want you to squeeze your
muscles around the toy as tightly as you can and hold it until I tell
you to release. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes, Professor,” I gasp, my buttocks slipping on the leather of the sofa, already slick with my sweat and juices.
“All right then. Squeeze.”
I
clutch the butt plug, panting softly. I’m starting to ache back there,
but the Professor only watches me squirm, silently, for what seems like
an eternity. Finally he deigns to utter the words I’m desperate to
hear.
“You may release.”
I
breathe out. An intense tingling sensation radiates from my asshole,
up through my torso, down through my shivering thighs. My jaw drops
open an involuntary moan of pleasure.
“Spread
your legs a little wider,” he orders coolly. “It makes your pussy lips
push out so I can see your hole. You’re so slick and swollen today,
Tina. I think anal play agrees with you. Once more now, squeeze….”
I grip the toy again, gritting my teeth.
“… and release.”
The
Professor is definitely on to something. My asshole’s on fire, the
flames shooting higher, licking at my throbbing clit. My finger dances
over my stiff little girl-cock sticking out shamelessly, all hard and
hungry for the Professor to see. I’m going to make it. I’m going to
come in front of him with this obscene rubber toy jammed up my ass.
“May I…have…an orgasm, Professor?” I’m too distracted by the sensations to remember if this was part of the assignment.
“Of
course, Tina, I always like to see my students bring their work to a
satisfying conclusion. I would indeed like you to come—but only at the
precise moment I give the order. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Professor.” I obediently slow my clit finger to coasting speed. But will my cunt submit as easily to his command?
“Come for me, Tina,” he tells me. “Now.”
With
a grunt, I attack my clit with frantic jabs and squeeze the toy with
all my might and—oh, god, it’s happening—a wave of burning heat fans
through my belly, erupting from my throat in a series of barking cries,
as my back bangs against the headboard and my anus milks the butt plug
in helpless, rhythmic spasms.
When
it’s over, I slide down onto the bed and pop the toy out, wrapping it
in a waiting tissue. Total time for the session: thirty-five
minutes. In my journal entry, I’ll tell the Professor about his “help”
of course, but I’m not sure words will do justice to the quality of my
orgasm—a detailed description of which is a strict requirement for each
assignment. It was definitely different. It seemed to start deeper
inside me, a secret explosion tucked back against my spine. Yet there
was something else I couldn’t quite name, a hint of exotic spice in a
familiar sweet. The only way I can really be sure I’ll get a good
grade is to try it again and take more careful notes.
I
laugh to myself. Strange how my lover is thousands of miles away, but
I’m having more and better sex than I’ve ever had in my life.
#
After
our first “date” for drinks, things moved fast with Professor Perkins.
After all, I’d already met his parents. Within the week, I saw his
cock, too. It was average in length, but thick, and it turned a lovely
rosy color when it got hard that made me think of a strawberry
popsicle, my favorite flavor.
Professor
Perkins—I was calling him Jonathan by then—was pretty good in bed,
too. At first he was slow and careful, as if he were studying my body
to get an “A” in “Tina’s Sexual Response 101.” But soon enough we were
rutting like wild animals. After the sex, we had some pretty intense
talks, too. Jonathan told me about his romance with a colleague that
didn’t survive when she left him for a job on the East Coast. I told
him why I dropped out of college the first time: to follow my
boyfriend, Devon, on his pilgrimage around the world. Our first year
together was the most magical year of my life. The next five were the
worst. It was all about Devon’s drinking until one day I realized I
was giving my life to a man who didn’t know me, who didn’t even see me
at all.
“I love to look at you,” Jonathan said, stroking my hair. “And I want to know everything about you.”
He
was certainly saying and doing all the right things. In fact, it all
seemed too good to be true. It was. A minute later, Jonathan told me
he was leaving for London the following Monday and would be gone for
six weeks to do research at the British Library.
Okay, a few dates and a few fucks didn’t really give me any claim on him, but I felt deserted by the bastard all the same.
Still
the first week apart wasn’t so bad. We emailed every day and Jonathan
hinted during a Skype call that he’d love to take me hiking around
Wordsworth’s Dove Cottage in the Lake Country—next summer perhaps.
Could a guy get more sweet and Romantic than that?
In
fact, it was my dirty mind that lead us down a darker, more twisted
trail. It all started innocently enough with a naughty dream.
I
was lying on the floor of Professor Perkins’ office wearing an
old-fashioned schoolgirl’s kilt and white blouse. The Professor
himself was stretched out on top of me, but he didn’t really have a
body. He was just a hot weight pressing me down, making my flesh feel
all tingly and melted. I couldn’t see his face either, but I felt his
hand stroking my cheek and his voice slipping into my ear. Your final
paper was so good it made my cock hard for two weeks straight.
Which,
of course, didn’t make any sense. I mean, how could a ten-page paper
on “Ode on a Grecian Urn” give anyone a boner for one minute not to
mention two weeks? However, the dream got me so turned on, I lay in
bed playing with myself and thinking about Jonathan until I had a very
wet, loud orgasm. Even after that I was still horny and missing him
terribly. That’s how I got the idea to send him a provocative email.
In
retrospect it was mild stuff. I told him about the dream and how I
“pleasured myself” when I woke up. Then I said, tongue-in-cheek, that
I was looking forward to August when I could feel his “pulsing manhood”
in my “turgid sex.”
After
I sent it, I was a little worried he’d laugh or be offended, but
instead he called and said in that low, syrupy voice guys get when
they’re shy but turned on at the same time, that he enjoyed my email
and was going to send a reply soon.
I
couldn’t restrain a giggle of triumph. Last spring I never would have
imagined I’d inspire Professor Perkins to send me an X-rated email.
But
that wasn’t quite what I got. The subject line was simply “Comments on
Your Essay.” In a formal, professor-ish tone, he told me my paper
would be stronger if I gave more context for the self-pleasuring—what I
was wearing, how long it took, and specific techniques I used to reach
satisfaction. He suggested I draw my reader into the scene through the
use of vivid detail and avoid clichés such as “pulsating manhood.” He
concluded that my work showed promise, but there was much room for
improvement.
My
face burning with embarrassment and disbelief, I fired back a reply.
“Dear Professor Pervert, I didn’t realize I was going to be graded on
my effort. Maybe you should write out the assignment with a list of
guidelines so I can do better next time?”
A few hours later, I found this in my in-box:
Assignment
#1. Spend at least an hour pleasuring yourself without bringing
yourself to orgasm. After one hour, you may enjoy a climax. You’ll be
keeping a “Masturbation Journal” which will be graded on style and
content. At the top of each entry record then time of day, length and
location of session, what you are (or are not) wearing as the session
unfolds. I’m looking for an accurate and thoughtful essay that
explores not only physical sensations, but your thoughts, feelings and
fantasies while you are masturbating. Fresh images and honesty are key
elements of the exercise. The assignment is due within four hours.
Late papers will be penalized. Sincerely, Professor Pervert.
“The
nerve!” I sputtered at the computer, shaking with anger. For a minute,
I was too worked up over his audacity to notice he’d gotten me worked
up in other ways: my panties were soaking wet.
#
After
I got an “A” for the butt plug scene, I was really looking forward to
Assignment #6, but instead I received an email as terse as an
old-fashioned telegram: “Coming home early, have to run to catch the
flight. Can I see you Saturday afternoon? J.”
In
spite of my excitement, I spent most of the morning worrying about what
I’d say when I greeted him on my doorstep. “Hey, Dr. Perkins, thanks
again for reading my kinky fantasies about doing sex shows for convicts
and sodomizing myself in your office”? Fortunately, conversation was
low on our list of welcome home activities. The instant he arrived we
were kissing and ripping off each other’s clothes and, within about a
minute, fucking like crazy.
Now
we’re twined together in the afterglow, and Jonathan is telling me how
much he missed me and how I’m even more gorgeous than he remembered.
Not that I don’t like the adoration, but it’s a bit cliche. Secretly I
find myself missing another man, with more exacting standards, who has
apparently decided to stay back in London.
As
if he’s read my thoughts, Jonathan clears his throat. “By the way, I,
um, enjoyed your essays very much. I know it would be different in
person, but I came up with some new ideas. It’s totally cool with me
if you’d rather not, but maybe some day we could…?”
My pulse jumps.
“Try Assignment Six?” I whisper.
He nods, blushing.
“I’d like that very much, Professor. In fact, I’d be up for a lesson right now.”
His
cock stirs against my thigh, and I feel a change in other parts of his
body, too—a squaring of the shoulders, a confident lift to the chin.
My heart is pounding now, with the power of it. Because I’m the one
who’s made this happen, with my words and my desire.
“Very
well, Tina, I want you to get up and stand by the bed.” His voice is
slow and smooth, just as I imagined. “No, don’t put on your robe, I
want to look at you just as you are.”
I
crawl out of bed and stand before him. I can’t meet his eyes, but I
feel them, warm and glowing on my bare flesh. I’ve never felt so
beautiful, so seen.
“You like to be watched doing naughty things, don’t you, Tina? You like to do things no good girl would ever dream of.”
“Yes, Professor,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“In fact, you want to masturbate for me right now, isn’t that correct?”
“Yes,
Professor.” I slip an unsteady hand between my legs and start to rub
my clit for him. Except this time he really is watching.
“Your
reports were excellent, but I must say I’m enjoying the live
performance. Now, for our next assignment I’ll be asking you to do
some new things that circumstances didn’t allow before. I will push
you, and stretch you, but I know you have it in you to get top grades.”
I
let out a soft moan. Images swirl through my head: my body bent over
his desk in his office on campus, the Professor behind me, probing my
ass with the lubed-up knob of his dick. Me on my knees, hands bound
behind my back as I suck and suck his strawberry popsicle prick. I
know there will be challenges, even humiliations, but any fear is lost
in a sweet, soaring hunger to learn more about all the things our
bodies and minds can do together.
“I’ll try my best, Professor. If I may say so, sir, I’m glad you’re back.”
“All
thanks to you, Tina. You are without question my most inspiring
student. Now listen carefully to my instructions. As you know, I will
take points off for sloppiness.”
The
only proper answer is to nod, obediently, but I can’t help smiling,
too. He is home, my dear Professor Pervert. I can’t wait for class to
begin.
Originally Published May 2009