That time I, an otherwise responsible and upstanding professor, fucked my student during senior week right before her college graduation, made her choke on my cock, and turned her into my sex slave for a summer. It was her idea. I swear. [MF]

(A warning: this is a long story, character-heavy, and I’ve had to divide it into two parts. I hope this makes it all the more satisfying in the end, but if you’re short on time, you might want to save this one for another time, or at least skip to the end or the next installment, which is basically all smut: [https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/uxppuo/that_time_i_an_otherwise_responsible_and/](https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/uxppuo/that_time_i_an_otherwise_responsible_and/))

“I love eating pussy,” Taylor declared, smirking at me from across the empty seminar room. “I love the taste and I fucking love the way it smells.” She leaned forward, resting her chin on both hands, letting her cleavage show. “Like at the end of the night when you’re kind of sweaty and you’re so fucking horny and everyone just wants to be touched.”

My cock was rock-hard, as usual, but I held my ground. I shuffled some papers, checked my email in order to delete yet another Insomnia Cookies coupon, and double-checked that I had a water bottle. Anything to cool my body’s undeniable, and undeniably inconvenient, passion for the twenty-year old sitting in front of me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied.

“Yes, you fucking do,” she growled. We stared each other down for another few moments until the others—Taylor’s classmates, my students—filed into the room.

Let me back up. I know what you’re thinking—this is one of those “Dear Penthouse, I never thought it’d happen to me…” stories, and to some extent, it is, but I think it’s a whole lot more too.

I’ll set the stage. I finished my PhD a few years back, and the first, and only, job I was offered was a visiting assistant professorship at a small, prestigious women’s college in the Northeast. Yes, yes, I know this already sounds contrived, but let me assure you, this college, for the most part, is not sexy—at least to most straight men. As several of my colleagues joked, the student body was comprised of only two types of girl: queers or lesbians, who decried anything stinking of straight white male culture to a greater or lesser degree (something I’m not wholly unsympathetic too, in spite of my nigh-religious devotion to the Boston Red Sox), and girls who seemed determined to remain in a permanent state of childhood, watching Disney movies and having tea parties, and acting shocked whenever the topic of sex came up in any circumstance.

Taylor was firmly in the former camp. I first met her when I caught her smoking on the toilet in one of the bathrooms (all were unisex): picture this—a tanned, muscular little squirt all of eighteen, a freshman, with her legs spread and her healthy bush fully on display as she took drags off a joint and fired off texts to her friends. Her hair was cut boyishly short, and she had a nose ring. Her rugby shorts were down around her ankles and she looked up at me, sheepish, as we both tried to calculate who was in trouble.

“Next time you’re going to light up in the bathroom, at least lock the stall,” I scowled, seizing the initiative and rapping my knuckles against the door.

“H-hey!” she squealed indignantly, and I heard the hoisting of shorts and the flushing of a toilet as I turned away, demonstrating my contempt. “You’re supposed to knock, you know.”

“Not if I see smoke coming out of a stall.” She hurried out of the bathroom and began to wash her hands. It was autumn, the first week of classes, and she was clearly one of those kids who, when faced with the laxity of a college schedule, goes to pieces. Fierce grey bags had formed under her eyes. I saw now that her hair was greasy and unwashed, and she smelled distinctly of sweat.

Still, I wasn’t about to prosecute the case. I washed my own hands and I was about to leave when I saw her waiting for me, biting her lip—actually, a truly adorable sight for how much of a mess she was. Her eyes were red and watery, in no small part due to the weed, but she also genuinely seemed like she might cry.

“Am I in trouble?” she breathed, little more than a pathetic whisper.

“I’d say so, yes,” I grunted. She winced, as if expecting a blow, and I sighed. “But I’ll let you off the hook if you take a shower when you get back to your dorm and go to sleep early tonight.”

She let out a sigh she’d obviously been holding in.

“And while you’re at it, make sure you eat a decent dinner. Something with vegetables. Not just tendies and fries.”

She looked me over suspiciously. “How did you know I’ve only been eating chicken tenders and fries?”

“Because every first-year goes through a period of only eating chicken tenders and fries. Now,” and here I made a show of checking my watch. “Get to class.”

She scampered off, and I dilly-dallied, pleased that the girl was no longer my problem, that I had foisted her off on some, I don’t know, indigenous queerx gender studies professor or whatever. Well, reader, I’m sure you can predict who I found sitting in the front row of my next class, chatting without a care with anyone who came by. When we locked eyes, she offered me a sheepish smile, as if in apology.

Now, in keeping with the tradition of employing vaguely pompous men to teach at vaguely prestigious Northeastern girls’ colleges (Nabokov, they called him), I teach a foreign literature, and occasionally the language, but more often a selection of works in more or less unfaithful translation, to an audience who treats the class like a kind of literary tourism. Not a few of my students gushed, by the end of the course, that they were so enthralled with our readings that they’d convinced their parents to whisk them away to the foreign land, whose language I speak natively but whose shores refuse my presence for myriad reasons historical and VISAcal. Others took the class for a writing credit, and rhapsodized about the experience of learning to write better English by reading translations.

Not Taylor. No, reader, we’ll get to the intricacies of Taylor’s anatomy, her sexual predilections, the way she grunted and wailed like a bitch in heat, but first you must know that she was an absolutely god-awful writer—of academic prose, of emails, even, I would later discover, of relatively simple text messages. Math and science posed little challenge to her, but I admit that when I first got ahold of her, I even wondered if she could really—well—read.

Most students find themselves disappointed by their first papers, but Taylor was apocalyptic. I always brace myself for a bit of push back from students on bad grades, but I wasn’t expecting complete and total submission and contrition.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed in my office. “I just did it all at the last minute and I know I’m a better writer than this, really, I’ll do anything, please don’t fail me—”

It went on like this for several minutes before she tired herself out and accepted my gift of the untouched iced-coffee and salted chocolate chip cookie I had purchased for myself as a mid-afternoon treat—anything to shut her up and give me a chance to talk. I assured her that she wouldn’t fail, that there was nothing so egregious in the paper that we couldn’t fix it (doubtful, perhaps), and so on. Once she had finished my snack, she came around behind my desk to sit next to me and we began to go through the paper line by line, discussing what she had written, why she had written it, and how it could be made better.

This became the first of our weekly tutorials; of all my students, the only one who showed up to office hours with any consistency was Taylor, and I bore witness to her struggles that first semester. She seemed to struggle in every class, even the ones she had a natural aptitude for, and also socially—our tutorials invariably began with a recounting of the previous weekend’s drama and betrayals, all played out with a rotating cast of friends who were, simultaneously, Taylor’s roommates, lovers, teammates, and castmates—she insisted on playing rugby and doing theater at the same time, which helped account for how little she slept.

“…and she’s mad because she thinks we were exclusive, but we were definitely not, and besides, if we were exclusive, then how the fuck can she justify sleeping with her ex-boyfriend over fall break?”

In other words, Taylor was the campus slut.

“You know,” I said, thoughtfully. “I’m probably not the most appropriate person to talk to about this.”

Taylor shrugged. “I know. But you already saw my pussy so, like, whatever, right? Anyway—”

I cleared my throat. “I mean, I think this kind of crosses the boundary of professionalism, doesn’t it? And wouldn’t you feel more comfortable talking to someone your age about this?”

“No way. You’re always, like, calm and shit when I come to you sobbing. It’s so nice.” Suddenly, she became bashful, as if she’d revealed her hand and now needed to cover it up. “Don’t tell me you’re getting turned on listening to this stuff?”

“I assure you, I am not.” That wasn’t totally a lie—often, Taylor’s stories of college lesbian orgies were a bit too incoherent to actual titillate. But sometimes, she managed to push my buttons, if only inadvertently.

“You like it,” she teased, leaning forward, across my desk. “You like thinking about me getting eaten out and doing all sorts of nasty shit, don’t you?” Then, she sniffed the air and brought her face close to mine: “Shit, your cologne is dope. What is it? I wanna’ wear it.”

I told her the brand. “It’s a men’s cologne.”

She became heated: “You think I don’t know that? I can wear whatever I want. It’s the twenty-first century and the patriarchy—”

I cut her off, coolly: “I meant so you’d know where to find it at Sephora. There’s a small men’s section in the back.”

She blushed, retreated. “Right. Thanks. Well, I like it. Is it weird if I wear it too?” Then she grinned, too wide, canines glistening (the week prior, we’d had a delicate conversation about the continued importance of brushing our teeth, even in college). “It’ll be kind of like we fucked and you left your scent on me.”

“No,” I said. “It won’t be like that at all. It will be like a normal thing, a thing where you bought the same kind of cologne as I wear, and that’s all.”

Correcting Taylor’s essays, meanwhile, was an exercise in patience for me, and humiliation for her. The first time we went over one, she cried no fewer than eighteen separate times, and then thanked me profusely, hysterically, and asked if we could go over every one of her writing assignments like that. She would flush and stammer whenever I asked her a question and shrink under my gaze, squirming in her seat next to me, until finally she could articulate why a particular point was illogical, or a line poorly constructed.

“You make me feel so little when you do this,” she squealed, once, and not unhappily.

Even as her work in my class improved, she continued to struggle in the rest of her school life. She’d begun taking a cocktail of diet pills and other drugs under the influence of her theater friends, which caused her to wither and, ultimately, sprain her knee badly while playing rugby. In pain, she began taking a few too many pain killers, and perhaps something harder, until I intervened and suggested, as gently and firmly as possible, that we both take a walk over to the counseling center that afternoon instead of our tutorial. I had, in fact, asked a friend over there to set aside some time for Taylor and Taylor, weary and beaten down, agreed. I stayed with her for the first few minutes as my friend, a social worker I’d known back in Boston, discussed the center’s resources, and then politely absented myself once Taylor began to go into her problems.

The long and short of it was that we got Taylor into regular therapy, and on a prescription for anti-depressants which, because it came through the college health service, she wouldn’t need to explain to her parents. She seemed to be out the woods by the time Thanksgiving rolled around, and early the next semester, when we had one final tutorial to go over her term paper from the previous semester before the new one started, she barely cried at all. She was far more eager to tell me about visiting her family for Christmas, seeing her old friends from high school, and going on a short vacation to the Caribbean. I, meanwhile, prepared for the future pandemic without even realizing it by wearing the same pair of sweatpants for three days straight while watching true crime documentaries and ‘90s anime. To each their own.

“By the way,” she said, just as I saw her off. The dorms had opened only the day before and other students were still arriving on campus. She dug into her bag (a rather nice designer one; for all of her tomboy punk chic, occasional hints of her background shown through) and thrust an awkwardly wrapped bundle in my face. “You can open it,” she said, more an order than an invitation.

I found five rather hideous cookies, bundled in plastic and tied off with a red ribbon.

“I made cookies with my roommate last night and I thought, like, since I ate your cookie that one time, this could be your Christmas present, since you helped me out so much.” I started to thank her but she cut me off, blushing and awkward: “Anyway, bye!”

Once she was gone, I unwrapped a cookie and took a bite. Reader, how could anything taste so awful and be so sweet?

I expected that I was done with Taylor, that I would see her occasionally on campus, maybe take in a girls’ rugby game or a queer production of Macbeth, and that would be it, but in fact Taylor took almost every class I offered. In some ways, it was a blessing. She was popular enough that she could rustle up a decent enrollment for me if I wanted, and she adamantly refused to let discussion flag, offering her opinion even when the material was clearly over her head.

In other ways, it was less so. We fell back into our pattern of tutorials, which I didn’t mind and which Taylor seemed to both dread and adore. Unfortunately, this familiarity led to a certain slackness on my part. In particular, I remember once jumping up from my desk to find a book that Taylor had expressed interest in, not remembering the rather diverse garden of pornographic tabs I had curated for myself to sample once Taylor was gone. She sat herself in front of my community as I descended from my bookshelves, my triumphant expression changed to one of horror as I recognized the look of glorious fascination on Taylor’s face.

“You. Are. So. Nasty!” she squealed.

I buried my face in my hands.

“Taylor, please.”

“’Analized Teens’?” she read off. “’College Gang Bang’? Holy shit—this ‘Assylum’ page is sick.”

“Taylor,” I tried again. “It was very unprofessional of me to have those up at work. I’m going to close them immediately.”

“You jack off in here?” she asked. She grinned. “I bet you do. Do you ever do it after I’m here? Do you, like, sniff my chair and stuff?”

“Look, most people watch porn, at least sometimes, and most people masturbate. I don’t think it’s that interesting.”

“I think it’s interesting!” Taylor cried. “I love masturbating. I do it, like, every day. I can’t fall asleep if I don’t cum.”

I sighed, sinking into the chair Taylor had just occupied, across from my desk. “Look, this would be a very different conversation if I weren’t your teacher, but I really need to ask you to drop it.”

“I have a better idea,” she said. “How about you fuck me?”

I stared at her and she seemed to crumble under the weight of what she just said.

“Don’t make it weird,” she scowled. “I mean, you like me, don’t you? You wouldn’t help me out so much if you didn’t?”

“Helping you out is my job.”

“But, like, you really help me out. You let me cry and yell at you. Not even my parents do that.” She sniffled; this must have brought up some feelings. “But anyway, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I like you a lot. I think you like me a lot. We’re both consenting adults. Why can’t we just have sex? You can even do me like these girls. You can be rough with me.”

“Taylor—”

“I’ve never been with a guy. But I think I’d like it, if it’s you. I bet you’d make me feel all small and, like, vulnerable. I like that.”

“Come on, Taylor.”

“You can do pretty much whatever you want to me. I’ve always kind of wanted to suck a dick. And I like putting stuff in my butt too—I have a cute little butt plug, you know. I could, like, be your sex slave.”

“That’s obviously not happening.”

Now it was her turn to sigh.

“It’s really just ‘cause I’m your student? If, theoretically, and I’m just talking theoretically, I weren’t, then would you fuck me?”

“In that situation, which does not currently obtain, yes, I would, Taylor—are you satisfied?”

“No,” she said with another sigh. She started a video playing and I heard pained sounds of slapping flesh. “But I will be.”

I assumed that Taylor’s crush would fade before too long, and even as she continued to tease me, using any chance we got alone to tell me about a sexual conquest—the yearly crop of new first-year girls presented her with a veritable smorgasbord.

“Priya’s nipples are so cute,” Taylor told me in a low voice, over coffee, ostensibly discussing her application to a prestigious study abroad program. “She loves it when you bite them. I think she came just from playing with her nipples. I can’t believe she’s eighteen—she’s adorable.”

I held my tongue, staring stony-faced at the mediocre essay Taylor had prepared for the scholarship.

“She was so embarrassed when I licked her asshole, she almost started crying. But then she wanted to do it to me—fuck, that felt amazing. Her little tongue all up on me. I really wish you’d been there. I bet you could have just fucked my ass then and there.” And then, in a sing-song voice, she added: “I only have three semesters left.”

It’s a tired observation that time speeds up, the older you get, and even though I was only in my early thirties, it seemed like the first four years of my time at the college had gone by in record time. I’d had a few relationships, mostly with nurses at the nearby hospital, but nothing that lasted, and most of my time was taken up by teaching, finishing my first book, and goofing off—little different from how I had spent my years as a graduate student.

Once senior week rolled around, and the campus became the domain of a small squad of bold and perpetually intoxicated twenty-two year-olds, I did my best to stay away, working from home. Not that this discouraged Taylor.

“Hey,” I heard from my kitchen, and then came the click of pebbles striking the window. I saw Taylor, perched effortlessly atop her bike, a tote-bag slung over her arm and a bottle of wine peeking out. She’d really grown into herself—somewhere along the way, she learned to balance rugby and theater and school, and while I don’t think she really excelled at any one of them, she seemed happy, she seemed to have loads of friends, and she seemed excited about the future after college.

Her style had even gotten a bit more elegant over the years. She wore make up occasionally, no longer knee jerk allergic to it, and she even expanded her wardrobe beyond Sublime t-shirts, athletic shorts, and Doc Martens. In fact, that evening, I was treated to the most stunning evolution yet.

“Notice anything different?” she asked, really, demanded, when I ushered her into my back yard with two wine glasses. She wore a sleeveless, mid-riff baring pale blue top with no bra, as evinced by the imprint of her pierced nipples, and a scandalously short skirt that reminded me of the pastel skirts briefly and overwhelming popular during one of the summers of my youth.

“I admit, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a skirt.”

“Ding-ding-ding-ding!” She hoisted a leg up and planted a besandaled foot on my backyard café table. “And check this out—I got waxed! Hurt like a mother. I went into town to get it done. It feels super weird. Wanna’ feel?”

She caught my hand and drew it over her bare thigh, past the tan line where her paler flesh began. “Eh? Pretty nice, huh?”

“Oh, Taylor.”

“I even did my pits,” she said, and held up an arm. Where I was used to catching glimpses of tangle hair, I now saw only bare, goose-pimpled skin, punctuated by a few moles.

I poured the wine and heaped her plate with pasta. She always had an appetite and considering the scent of sweat clinging to her—not unpleasant, on her at least—I guessed that she’d been riding her bike around town running errands and getting ready for her family to arrive for graduation that weekend. We toasted, and sipped the wine—it was fine, a fairly cheap bottle of red, but not exactly appropriate for the pasta. I mentioned something about that and she teased me, and then I explained how to pair wine and food and she quieted down, actually seeming to be listening.

“Of course you know all about wine,” she said, when I had finished my spiel.

“What do you mean of course?”

“I mean, you just know something about everything.” The sun was setting and my back yard was dipping into cool-green darkness and mist. “So, I’ve basically already graduated and everything…”

“You graduate Monday,” I pointed out. It was Thursday.

“But my grades are submitted! So I’m not your student anymore!” She stared at me, imploring, somehow making her hazel eyes even larger. “So, like… What are we waiting for? I mean, I’m not waiting for anything. Except you.”

“Why don’t we wait till you’ve graduated? Just so it’s official?”

“But—but—” and for a moment I thought she might actually cry. “I got waxed for you! That shit hurt! And not in the fun way.”

She made a good point. Administratively, she wasn’t my student anymore. I had submitted her final grade for the last course of mine she would ever be in, had held her hand through editing her senior thesis, and even if she overslept and missed graduation, she would simply receive her diploma in the mail.

“In that case,” I said. “Show me.”

Her eyes widened. “Here?”

“It’s getting dark and my neighbors are out of town.” I leaned back and took a sip of wine. “You’ve been so eager the last few years—strip.”

She took a deep breath and nodded.

“Okay. Yes. I will.” She stood before me, suddenly shy, uncertain of how to start, and then hooked her fingertips under her top and slid it off. Her tits, healthy, perky globes set atop her lean, muscular chest, gave happy bounces as they were liberated, and she ran her hands over them, letting her nipples peek through her fingers.

“You like pierced nipples, right?” she asked, breathless.

“Love ‘em.”

“I love you.” Then, she squealed and covered her face. “Sorry, I’m nervous. I’m a wreck.”

“We can stop.”

“Oh, fuck no. Don’t even think about it. Just—put up with me, okay?” She eased down her skirt, dropping it around her ankles and stepped out of it. She kicked off her sandals and stood before me in her panties, a translucent red thong that seemed like more of an afterthought. It rolled up into almost nothing when she traced them down her thighs and stood before me, clearly unsure of what to do with her hands—should she rest them on her lean belly, tanned like most of her body and with just a hint of abs, or should they go behind her back, letting her stick out her pert tits, or should she modestly cover the hairless mound and slit attracting my attention in the dark.

“What now?” she asked. “I’m kind of sweaty. Maybe I should take a shower. I wanna’ be clean for you.”

“I’ll let you shower in a minute. Come closer. I don’t mind if you’re a little sweaty. You’re always a little sweaty.”

“Rude.” She bit her lip and took a step closer. “Are you hard?”

“Why don’t you find out?”

With an ever-so-slightly trembling hand, she reached out and found my crotch. She let out a little yelp and recoiled before replanting her palm on my bulge.

“You’re, like, super hard. Are you always this hard for me?”

“Pretty much.” She reached down, between her own legs, and snorted.

“Yeah, I’m super wet. I’ve been wet all day, thinking about you. I get wet pretty much as soon as I see you. Or think about you. You must think I’m a mess.”

“Taylor, you know I adore you.”

I pulled her close, onto my lap, so she straddled me, and we kissed, for the first time, tasting wine and pasta on her mouth as she hummed and moaned into the kiss, suckling and biting at my lips and chin and down my neck. I ran my hands over her body, tense muscles contained within the softest flesh imaginable, and found her breasts, crushing them beneath my fingertips, tugging at her piercings, eliciting whimpers from her lips.

I suppose, at this point, I might finally offer some hints as to what I look like. I pass pretty easily between academia and powerlifting gyms—up until the pandemic, I, ahem, worshipped at the temple of iron pretty regularly, and served as the main instructor of the college karate club, and I had the burly build of someone who does all that and also really likes tacos, with the thick, reddish beard to match. And tattoos—always a source of fascination for the girls, most of whom had never seen ink more complicated than a single cursive “Breathe” inscribed on a friend’s older sister’s wrist during a study abroad trip. Anyway.

“I’m all yours,” she whispered. “You can do whatever you want with me.” She paused. “I mean, not anything. But almost anything.”

I explained, quickly, the traffic light system—if she needed me to stop, for any reason, she could say “red light.” If she wanted me to slow down or go easier, she could say “yellow light.” And if I thought she were in trouble, and perhaps unable or unwilling to vocalize it, I could ask “green light?” and give her an opportunity to evaluate her needs.

“Wow, that’s such a good system,” she mused, balancing atop my lap as I traced my hands down her belly, and then around her hips to cup her firm ass.

She let out a groan as I spread her cheeks and traced my finger around the delicate, puckered flesh of her backhole, feeling it wink at my finger, as if inviting me inside. I continued my explorations, sliding down to find the hot, slick flesh that was my ultimate goal. As soon as I ran my fingers over her slit, Taylor let out a groan.

“Finally!” she cried. “Oh, by the way, I have an IUD so, like, we’re totally good.”

“I know you have an IUD. I picked you up from the health center after you got it put in because you were cramping so hard.”

She gave me a sheepish smile. “That’s right. You’re the best.” She gave me a big kiss as I explored her cunt, letting her hole drip onto my palm, and rubbing her juices back into her sloppy mound. I found her clit, proudly erect in her delicate hood, and when I flicked it, ever so gently, Taylor shuddered.

“Holy fuck,” she groaned. “I’ve wanted you to do that for so long.” I continued my slow, gentle assault on her clit, and she held onto me, kissing and suckling my neck. I was sure she’d leave a hickey, and I was privately glad that my academic regalia would hide it, as she’d seized on my collar bone as her favorite target.

“I’m gonna’ cum,” she whimpered. “Babe, I’m gonna’ cum.” I didn’t relent; in fact, I slid a finger inside of her, into her impossibly tight slit, just in time to feel her muscles contract hard, squeezing me as she exploded, moaning and almost sobbing into me.

As she came down from her high, I licked some of her juices off my fingers—musky, pleasantly mushroom-y and salty. I pressed my fingers to her lips and she eagerly sucked them, taking my fingers as deep into her mouth as she could, even gagging on them when I pushed them back into her throat. Once my fingers had been appropriately de-pussied, I slid my hand around her throat, applying gentle pressure. She held onto me, looking me in the eye, all but daring me to go harder.

“Do you like that?” I asked. She choked out a yes, and I squeezed harder, letting her face turn colors, kissing her as she trembled, and finally releasing her to gasp in my arms.

“Fuck, that was hot,” was her conclusion.

By now, my cock was absolutely aching and so I eased her off my lap.

“You’ve never had a cock before, mm?”

“I mean, I gave my prom date a hand job when I was eighteen,” she said with a giggle. “But I didn’t really know what else to do. I mean, I knew, but I wasn’t that into it.”

“Get on your knees in front of me. Show me what you know now.”

“Hell yeah,” she whispered, and slid down between my legs. She unzipped me, and gave a pleased little yelp when my cock bounced out of my boxers. “Shit, it’s so wet. Did you, like, cum already?”

“That’s just precum. It means I’m super turned on.”

“Right, right.” She ran her fingers along the shaft, testing the weight of my balls with her fingers, playing with the soft, stretchy flesh. She squeezed the head, swirled her finger around the tip, and gathered some precum onto her finger to taste. “Mm—it’s salty!”

With that, she took me into her mouth. She was awkward, of course—this was her first blow job—but she made up for it with enthusiasm, eagerly bobbing her head, swirling her tongue around me, drooling onto my shaft. Even though she used more teeth than I would have liked, I was overall pleased with her performance.

“I’m going to gag you now,” I informed her, and placed a hand behind her head, running my fingers through her hair till I could dig my fingers into her scalp. “How does that sound?”

“Fucking awesome.” I showed her how to tap out if her mouth was full, and told her to pace herself and take breaks if she needed. She listened to me seriously, still slowly jacking my cock. “Don’t worry—I looked up that porn you like. I know what you’re going to do to me.”

With that, I stood up, my cock more or less level with her face. Gripping her by the scalp, I forced her face onto my dick, and pressed it hard into her mouth, into her throat. I felt the resistance of her gag reflex, felt her instinctively try to push me away before she mastered her own impulses and pulled me closer, forcing her mouth onto my cock. Spit dribbling down her lips, she bobbed her head more or less in time with my thrusts, now little more than a toy for my cock. She kept looking up at me, eyes red, tears dribbling down her cheeks, and my god, but she was gorgeous in that moment, gagging and choking as I fucked her face.

There was no way I was going to last. I buried my cock in her throat, feeling it slip even deeper than before, down into her throat, her nose buried in my pubic hair, and I unloaded, my cock spasming as I literally injected my seed into her throat. She had no choice but to swallow it and I felt her throat working overtime, trying to swallow around the thick, fleshy intruder as cum flooded her.

Finally, I slid out of her mouth and let her collapse, gagging and coughing, a mess of spit, cum, and tears. I knelt before her, gathering her up in my arms.

“You did very well,” I cooed.

“I loved that,” she gasped in between coughs. “I loved making you cum. I loved tasting it.”

As soon as she composed herself, I ordered her up onto the table. She quickly moved out plates and lay down, chest up—the metaphor was obvious. She was the next course.

(Next part: [https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/uxppuo/that_time_i_an_otherwise_responsible_and/](https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/uxppuo/that_time_i_an_otherwise_responsible_and/))

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/uxpc08/that_time_i_an_otherwise_responsible_and