[MF] I’m a college professor and during the first few weeks of the Pandemic, one of my students needed a place to stay. She insisted on paying me back with her body, and I started off by whipping her ass, fucking it, and making her my sex slave.

Geeta arched her back and let out a groan–one so loud, I was sure the rest of the neighborhood would hear her. Her asshole, virgin until a few moments ago, stretched lewdly around my cock. Her moans became hoarse and then, strangled–sobs of pain and pleasure.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course,” she whimpered. My hands slid down her body, slick with sweat, gripping her breasts and then her tits as I drove into her tightness.

“This is how I’m going to pay rent, right?”

~

All right. Let me back up.

Before you think this was actually some sort of anal-for-housing arrangement (2022, am I right?), allow me to offer some context.

My first semester teaching at a certain prestigious girls-only liberal arts college was autumn 2019. I was remarkably optimistic back then: I had just finished my dissertation, I had found a tenure track job in my field, and, residual Trumpism aside, it seemed like the ghosts of 2016 might finally be fading. How wrong I was, obviously.

But that first semester was a joy–a stressful, complicated, sleep-deprived joy. I was teaching three classes–a survey of English poetry (which I really had no business teaching), a basic composition course for students working on the basics of college essays, and a loosely defined class on “literature and sexuality” which I was more or less able to populate with readings I wanted to teach.

Now, regarding this school: a friend and colleague of mine, an alumna of the school from ten or fifteen years prior, had advised me that it drew two kinds of students: lesbians (of which she was one), and girls who wanted to have tea parties and watch Disney movies. I quickly found out that she’d omitted one more category of student: kids who were fleeing conservative backgrounds, and had managed to convince their parents to let them attend this otherwise bleeding heart liberal college because it was single gender.

These students, I found out, hit the ground running, ready to let their freak flags fly and eager to make East Coast connections and avoid a future in whatever meth-addled chunk of Wal-Mart corporate housing they’d arrived from.

Geeta was one of those girls, and doubly so–not only was she ecstatic to get out of the distant Phoenix suburb where her father, a doctor, ran a hospital department, she was overjoyed to have some distance from her conservative South Indian Catholic upbringing, which she described as “medieval Europe, but with spices.”

A lapsed Catholic myself, I was more than sympathetic to her plight. She came to my first office hours of the semester–of my tenure-track teaching career–to discuss the assigned reading, by yet another lapsed Catholic, forming the third in our unholy trio.

I can still see her, just as she was at eighteen: quite tiny at barely five feet tall, with long curly hair and purple highlights, and clearly still figuring out what her style would be without parental intervention–she wore a tight, cropped t-shirt, and no bra, so that her nipples jutted out proudly on her full tits, just above a soft, dark brown tummy where a ball of gauze indicated that a naval piercing hadn’t turned out as she’d planned. When the AC in my office became too much for her, she pulled a Hogwarts sweatshirt out of her bag.”

My mom got it for me,” she said before I could say anything–which I hadn’t planned on. “She loves Harry Potter and she thinks I do too, still. I really need to get a new sweatshirt.”

“It’s fine to like Harry Potter, you know,” I said, assuming she was referring to any number of J.K. Rowling’s twitter-borne revelations.

“I’m more interested in serious literature, now,” she said, in what I supposed was meant to be a very scholarly tone of voice but came out sounding almost ironic. Her dark eyes searched mine, and she leaned forward. “I plan on being a very serious student.”

“That’s good to hear, Geeta.” I leaned back in my chair. Though she sat across my desk, the rather confined quarters of my office meant that we weren’t far away from one another at all, and I was glad that I had left the door to my chambers open a crack.

“I mean, very serious. I want to be a writer, and I want to have all sorts of experiences and write about them.”

Oh, sweetheart. I wasn’t about to say anything to dissuade her, even as she inched closer to me.

“There are some experiences I haven’t had yet,” she continued.

“Well, I don’t see why you can’t write about them anyway. Use your imagination, draw on other sources–all writers, even the ones who write what they know, have to use their imaginations.” We ended the meeting with an agreement, reluctantly extracted from me, that she could bring me her short stories to read and offer feedback on. It was fully outside of my responsibilities as her professor, but I felt a certain amount of affection for her already, thought I might be able to offer some decent advice, and, frankly, I thought she was cute as hell. The cringey things she said, thinking them very deep and serious, only made her more adorable.

Her short stories were all terrible, of course. Many involved the sexual awakening of a college girl from a conservative background. Often with her professor. Not infrequently, they veered into the realm of erotica, and even downright smut. Far be it from me to judge, of course.

“Geeta, you know these will be very controversial, if you try to publish them,” I said once, gently, by way of feedback for a cycle of stories that involved an Arab-American girl being raped during office hours by her literature professor and then developing a sado-masochistic relationship with him, which ultimately cures her of her suicidal tendencies by offering an outlet for the trauma of her conservative upbringing.

“I don’t mind,” she said, flippantly flipping her hair back–her stylistic experimentation continued and she had shaved off a chunk of her curls, leaving a very dramatic and lopsided mass to bounce around whenever she moved her head. “I’m used to being chastised.”

Against my better judgment, I helped her prepare one of her stories to submit to a campus literary magazine. It involved a professor, but I encouraged her to edit out the explicit sex. Imagine my surprise when she emailed me to let me know it had been accepted–with the sex edited back in, no less. By now, Geeta was no longer technically my student–it was January 2020, and she’d finished my course (with an A, of course–she was, in fact, a very, very good student), and when the story was published on campus in February, it caused quite a stir.

My students that semester informed me that literally everyone had read it–Geeta had published it anonymously for some reason–and no one could agree if it was a fantasy or a condemnation of the patriarchy or something in between. The literature department took a similar stance. Much to my amusement, I learned that at least three other male professors in the department thought they might be the model for the professor character, whose exploits were, they insisted, substantially embellished.

March 2020, of course, killed that minor scandal and pushed it far from everyone’s minds. I admit, as things shut down around campus and around the world over spring break, I found myself slightly, maddeningly, giddy: finally, some peace and quiet! I had been working sixty hour weeks, preparing articles and manuscripts and conference papers in addition to my regular teaching and administrative load, and suddenly, no one expected much of anything from me. I ordered a used copy of Fallout 4, a few bottles of nice scotch, and I was fully prepared to waste the next few months locked down in the house I rented just off campus when I received an email from Geeta. Subject line: Spare room?

~

Geeta, it turned out, hadn’t gone home for spring break. She guessed, probably correctly, that if she went home, she wouldn’t leave that conservative black hole for at least half a year or more–despite her ambition to become a serious writer, she was pre-med, and focused on virology, following in the footsteps of her father, who agreed with her assessment of the pandemic’s potential course and concurred that it would be a better idea for her to stay on the East Coast where the hospitals and supply chains were better. I found myself quite admiring the family’s levelheadedness, in spite of Geeta’s deceptions.

She had told her parents that she was staying with a wealthy friend whose lived not far from campus; now, she needed to find that friend.

“I’m obviously sympathetic, Geeta, but you have to know this isn’t appropriate.”

“I’m not your student anymore, and you’re not my professor,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but you know how it’ll look.”

“Is that your only objection? How it’ll look?”

We were sitting in my kitchen, drinking coffee. We both wore the uniform of the early pandemic–sweat pants and sweatshirts. The Hogwarts sweatshirt, by the way, had returned.

“That’s definitely my biggest objection. This is clearly a once-in-a-lifetime international emergency, so I don’t mind you staying with me if you don’t have anywhere else to go but–“She seized on this immediately as a “yes.”

“I’ll be so sneaky–no one will know I’m here. I’ll use a VPN when I connect to Zoom so it looks like I’m somewhere else. I won’t tell any of my friends about it. I brought everything from my dorm room so I can make a room here look like it’s my bedroom.”

I sighed and poured myself another cup of coffee.

“As for rent–”

“Oh, don’t bother. I’m obviously not going to ask anything of you.”

“But I have to compensate you–somehow.” She bit her lip and I knew what she was going to suggest before she said it. “I have only one thing I can give you.”

“Oh, Geeta, no.”

“My body.”

I snorted into my coffee.

“What?” she cried hotly. “How are you not interested? I know you’re not gay. I know you don’t have a girlfriend. Look, I know–I know my stories are bad–so why do you put up with them if you don’t want to fuck me?”

“Geeta, that would be incredibly inappropriate.”

“How? Why? The world is ending. What does it matter? My freshman year of college is ruined and I don’t know if I’ll even be able to stay here. Why can’t we have some fun?”

“You should really find someone your own age.”

“You’re not that much older than me. And, if you haven’t noticed, I go to a girls’ school. And let me tell you, I tried–a lot–to like girls–but I just really want dick.” She collapsed into her arms on the table, almost upsetting her coffee. I thought she was crying for a moment but then she sighed and composed herself. “I apologize. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“It’s fine. Why don’t you get settled in and take a nap?”

Once she had set herself to the task of organizing her own space–I had a small sunroom on the second floor of the house that we dragged a chaise lounge into to use as a bed–I had a few free moments to think.

It was taking all my willpower, under the current circumstances, not to give in to Geeta’s suggestion. I couldn’t deny that I was fiercely attracted to her, and if her short stories were any indication, we shared the same sexual proclivities. Except for a few app hook ups, I’d barely had any sexual contact since taking the job, and having an eager, willing, warm little body to take out the stresses of the beginning pandemic on sounded like heaven.

And she had a point.

She wasn’t my student anymore, at least on paper, though I continued to offer her literary mentorship. Considering the demands of her pre-med schedule, she was unlikely to ever take another one of my classes. We were both consenting adults.

And, again–this could very well be the end of the world.

I made my way upstairs and found her in the middle of arranging some books in the sunroom: some Georges Bataille, Michel Foucault, and the entire Harry Potter series in paperback. She jumped when I came up behind her and said her name, pulling her into my arms.”You know, if you’re going to be staying here, you’re going to have to follow my rules.”

I felt her literally trembling in my arms as she twisted around to look at me, her dark eyes glimmering with tears, a smile colonizing her face.

“Of course,” she stuttered out. “Your house, your rules. I’ll do my best to follow them and if I mess up, you’ll have to…” And here, her voice got quiet: “Punish me.”

“That’s a good girl. Your first rule is that you should be naked unless I tell you otherwise, or unless you have to be on a video call.”

She nodded eagerly.

“I think that’s a great rule.” I cocked my head at her, quizzically, and she made a little yelping sound, her confidence suddenly. “Oh, of course. Um–here.”

She started to strip, working quickly, almost too excited to be naked in front of me: her sweatshirt came off, discarded on the chaise, revealing her bare chest: her breasts, almost too big for her frame, and her puffy, wide nipples, so dark that they looked to be the color of red wine. I saw that her belly button was finally pierced properly as she bent over to slide down her sweatpants and panties in one motion.

That left her just in socks. Hopping on one foot, she stripped off one and then the other.

“How’s this–sir? What would you like me to call you?”

“What feels right to you to call me?”

“Sir… Master…” She swallowed visibly. “Daddy.””Any of those are fine with me. I’m going to inspect you now, Geeta. I’m going to touch you whenever I want and use you however I want, from now on–you agree to that, don’t you?”

“Oh my god, do I ever.”

I ran my fingers over her cheeks, over her lips, letting her suckle at my fingertips before trailing wet little lines of spit down over her throat. She took a sharp intake of breath when I did that, and I tightened my grip. She squirmed, even though I wasn’t really choking her, biting her lip to restrain the smile.

“Now,” I said, continuing my descent as I traced my fingers over her tits. I cupped them, feeling their weight, their warmth, savoring the way her nipples hardened under my touch and the way she pressed her chest into my hands. “Your safeword is Hogwarts. If you need me to stop, you’ll say that, do you understand?”

“Oh, fuck you–youch!” she squealed as I slapped her breast and caught one of her nipples between my fingers, twisting hard. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Bend over. You clearly need more discipline in your life.”

“I agree, sir,” she whispered breathlessly. She braced herself against the chaise lounge and I saw her squirm as she heard my taking off my belt.

“Count these out. I’ll decide when you’ve had enough.”

“Yes, si–ouch! That’s one, Master.” The first strike caught her by surprise, sending ripples through her plump, brown ass. I struck the other cheek and she squealed again. “Two.”

Now, I paused to spread her ass cheeks, a dripping pink pussy, framed by dark, almost black lips glistening back at me, and the tangled flesh of her asshole winking at me. All of it framed by fine, dark hair.

“I can wax it all off, Daddy,” she whimpered when she felt my fingers sliding over her pubic hair.

“I’ll decide later how I want you groomed,” I informed her. “For now, you’re quite beautiful down here.”

“Th-thank you, sir,” she murmured, only to break into a yelp when I whipped her again. All in all, she took twenty lashings before I decided she’d had enough. Her breathing was growing heavier, her groans huskier and more demanding. I could see swollen welts forming on her ass and lower back and I ran a finger delicately along the raised flesh, eliciting a soft whimper from her lips.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked.

She hesitated. Finally, she gave an mm-hmm of confirmation.

“Good. It’s important that you enjoy your discipline. Show me how wet you’ve gotten.”

And she did–gripping her thighs, now visibly more swollen and plump than when we had began, she spread herself as wide as she good.

“Permission to speak, sir?”

“You don’t need to ask permission to speak. I like hearing what you have to say.”

She giggled, letting herself be girlish for once.

“Um, I’ve fantasized about this. For a long time. Getting whipped by you. I knew you were into this stuff based on the feedback you gave me for my stories. That you’ve been a Master before…”

“And you wanted some of that for yourself?” I ran my fingers along her ass cheeks, over the outline of her wet, glistening slit before pressing a finger into her wetness.

“Yes, sir. So much.” She gasped. “You’re the first person to touch me there. Besides myself. You know what I mean.”

“Have you ever been kissed?”

“Huh?”

“You know. A kiss, Geeta.”

“Not even that,” she said, her voice wistful. “I was such a nerd in high school–I didn’t even go to prom.”

“Unlike now, when you’re not a nerd?”

“Exactly. I’m cool now. Look–I’m getting fingered by my professor. That’s hot girl shit.”

I laughed and caught her by the hair, pulled her back and forced her to stand up. She looked at me longingly, hungrily, and I claimed her lips, tasting the coffee still clinging to the plump, moist flesh, tasting her tongue, tasting whatever was left of her innocence.

I didn’t kiss her so much as devour her.

“You should be careful,” I whispered, savagely, between kisses.

“Why?”

“Because I might use you so hard I break you.”

“That just gave me butterflies in my tummy,” she whispered, draping her arms around my shoulders. “You can do anything to me.”

My fingers were still inside of her and I slid them out, trailed a line of pussy over her cheeks to her lips, making her suckle hard.

“Get down on your knees.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered. She knelt and, hesitating for a moment, decided to take initiative. She slid down my sweatpants–that uniform of the early pandemic–and then my boxers and stifled a gasp.

“Don’t act so surprised. I’m not even that big.”

“It’s just, it’s the first one I’ve seen in person,” she murmured. Geeta placed her hands on either side of my cock, gripping the shaft and stroking it awkwardly. Clearly, we would need to work on this. “It’s gorgeous. It’s so–thick. And pink.” She pinched the head hard and giggled when it sprang back into place. “May I, um… Use my mouth, Master?”

“You may.”

Starting at the base of my cock, she licked, teasing and lapping at my shaft. She dribbled spit over me, letting it run along my cock before sliding it into her mouth, making absolutely adorable little gagging noises. I felt her teeth scrape my cock and grunted, sliding a hand behind her head and pushing her down.

When I felt some resistance, I let go and allowed her to slide off my cock, panting.

“I want to take it all.”

“You’ll need to work at it.”

“I can do it. I want to gag and choke for you.”

“Then show me. Choke yourself on my cock.”

She bit her lip and nodded. First giving the tip of my cock a kiss, she gorged herself on it, taking it deep, till tears ran down her cheeks and and sputtered and grunted and gagged. She slid off it a few inches and then plunged down onto it again, her wet little mouth hole jacking me off.

It wasn’t the best blow job I’d ever gotten. Not by a long shot. But it was certainly the most enjoyable–seeing how badly she wanted to serve me, how willing she was to make herself uncomfortable–that was more erotic than anything else she could have done for me. She was fully crying onto my cock when I finally came, and she clamped her lips tight around me, swallowing everything I gave her.

“Fuck,” she whispered when she sat back, panting. She wiped her eyes and took a few deep breaths. “I really need to practice that. I tried, before–I’d try to train my gag reflex–but it was really hard.”

“You’ll get plenty of practice, baby girl,” I whispered back, pulling her into my arms for a kiss. I could taste my cum on her lips.

“Good. I loved tasting you, sir. I really like the way your cum tastes. And smells. And everything.” Geeta let out something that was halfway between a sob and a giggle. “I’m, like, drunk on you right now. I feel so silly.”

I felt a smirk forming on my lips. I figured, at the time, that we had all of three months at most to try everything we wanted. Little did I know how long the pandemic would go on…

“Spread your legs for me,” I ordered. She swallowed hard and sat down, leaning back and holding her thighs open. Girl cum dripped down her inner thighs and I got a pleasant whiff of her musky scent. “You’re in heat. Like a wild animal.”

“Honestly, I have been for so long… I felt ashamed for how horny I’d get.” I sat next to her and then eased her onto my lap so I could cup her breasts, slide my hand down to her wet mound and tease her tender lips.

“And what would you do?”

“Oh my god, it’s so embarrassing.”

My fingers found her clit. She let out a strangled cry of delight and buried her face in my neck.

“Tell me, Geeta.” I leaned in and whispered in her ear: “You’re my little slut, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she whimpered. “Okay, so, I do actually kind of like Harry Potter–”

“I’m shocked. Shocked!”

“Oh, shut up! I grew out of it, but I still, you know… Post online and stuff. Read fan fiction. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. You’re going to think I’m such a baby.” She took a deep breath. “Sometimes, I read the nasty slash I can find. That’s, uh, two guys–”

“I know what slash is, Geeta.”

“And when they get to the anal, I take a make up brush or a hairbrush something and put a little coconut oil on the handle and push it up my ass and I fuck myself while I read and pretend I’m getting fucked like that. I literally am going to die now, good bye.”

I snorted. “So, you like it in the ass?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“And if I sent you to get the coconut oil from my kitchen cabinet–”

“My ass is all yours, Sir,” she confirmed. “I would be honored to give you my anal virginity.”

“Second cabinet on the left, above the stove.”

Obediently, she hopped off my lap. She winced, suddenly. “Ooh, the whipping is starting to ache.”

“Good. I want you to feel it while you’re in class next week.”

She gave me the sweetest grin possible. “Me too. Oh, and by the way, in case you were wondering–yes to birth control; I’ve had an IUD since the week I turned 18.” With that, she was off, her ass wiggling as she scampered out of the room.

I had this to look forward to as well, then–and here I had been wondering if I dared cum inside her pussy, and risk trekking to CVS for Plan B. I heard her rustling around in the kitchen and a few minutes later, she came back with the jar of Trader Joe’s coconut oil.

“Way to send me to get something on the highest shelf in the kitchen. I had to climb on your counter to get it.” She popped open the coconut oil and scooped some of the pale white goop out onto her fingers. “I love using this for lube because it makes everything smell and taste so good afterwards.”

“Do you suck your brushes after they’ve been in your ass?”

Geeta closed her fingers around my cock, mushing the solidified coconut oil onto my shaft.

“Maybe. Sometimes. When I’m curious.”

“You’re really determined to be a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

She nodded, very serious. “I know it’s really hot if I girl sucks something that’s just been in her ass. And it’s all my body, so it’s not that gross, really. It’s just about being ready to be of us, however you want.”

The cool oil rapidly melted on my cock, turning clear and leaving me glistening and smelling vaguely like a Tiki drink. I made her bend over on the couch and selected a wad of oil to press into her ass. She winced as my fingers dug in, and pressed her hips back, taking them to the knuckle as the oil melted.

Finally, she was ready. She slid back onto my lap and, wrapping her legs around me, reached down to guide my cock into her ass as I held her cheeks.

“Ow,” she whimpered. “You’re bigger than my brushes.”

She was exquisitely tight. I guided her down my cock slowly, unable to resist smiling as the grimace of pain and pleasure distorted her adorable face.

“You’re ripping me apart,” she whispered. “I’m gonna’ die.” She let go of my cock and reached for my neck, digging her nails into my shoulders.

“Touch your cunt,” I ordered. “I expect you to cum while you’re on my cock.”

“Yes, sir.” She took a deep breath and slid a hand down to her pussy. Letting out a long, low moan as she touched herself, she shuddered. “Holy shit, I’m so close already. I love feeling you inside my ass, sir.”

I took one of her breasts into my mouth, suckling hard on the swollen nipple and then biting down as I sank her further onto my cock. She let out a throaty shriek, and for a moment I thought I had gone too far.

“Sir,” she gasped. “Do that again–please–please, bite me all over.”

Who was I to disagree with her request? I dug my teeth into her breast again, into her nipple, and she wailed, shuddering in my arms. Now, she was bouncing up and down on my cock, her fingers a blur as she frantically jilled her slit.

“I’m so close,” she whispered. “If you bite me one more time, I just might–”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I sank my teeth into her other breasts and she all but exploded in my arms, crying and panting. I felt her muscles spasm around my cock, letting her slide further down, down to the hilt, every inch of my shaft buried in her guts.

Now, I guided her movements, bouncing her on my cock, as though using her body as toy to jack myself off. Her moans had become pathetic pants, and her fingers still lazily teased her pussy–at least twice more, smaller orgasms cut through her and she shuddered in my arms, a sweaty little coconut slicked mess of needy girlflesh.

Finally, I was getting close. I buried myself in her one last time, clapped my lips onto hers, and unloaded myself inside of her. She moaned into the kiss, holding me tight, kissing me back as hard as she could, her muscles gripping my cock, all but milking it into her tightness.

In the afterglow, she leaned against me, panting.

“I hope that covers my rent for today, sir,” she said, finally, after a few minutes. It was nearly twilight now and even though I was getting hungry, all I wanted to eat was her.

“That’s a good start,” I said, my voice teasing.

“Just a start?” Her voice was giddy. “That’s fine. There’s more where that came from, Daddy…”

“We’ll have to make the most of it while you’re living here. They’re saying things will open back up in a month once we flatten the curve.”

Geeta snorted. For once, I felt like the naive one.

“The Spanish Flu lasted at least two and a half years. This one might be longer.” She leaned her head against my neck once more. “As long as I’m here, I almost don’t mind.”

~

So ends the first installment of my time with Geeta during the first few months of the pandemic. When I have time to write more, I’ll continue. I hope you enjoyed!

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/y7fb5n/mf_im_a_college_professor_and_during_the_first