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