[MF] Back when I was a PhD student, I turned a recently undergrad into my sex slave, and taught her to love being spanked.

A girl—no, now woman, unequivocally, though she’s still a girl to me, with some of those endearing habits left over from childhood that most of us, the unlucky ones, lose when we (supposedly) mature: in her case, biting her lip and casting her beautiful dark eyes to the ceiling as she considered a posed question—a woman kneels before me, her hands bound, her pert breasts thrust forward, the position revealing the contours of her ribs.

“Sir,” she whispers. “Do whatever you want to me.” I reach out and run my hand through her hair, black as pitch, dropping down to one breast as I pinch her nipple and begin to undo my belt.

How did we get here? Let me back up.

I was a PhD candidate in comparative literature a top university, one which was in the news a few years ago for student protests, and which continues to be in the news on occasion. During the tumult of the protests, many of my colleagues noted class attendance dwindling—not that they particularly minded, since most of us are farther left than even our most sincere little radicals.

My class, for seniors writing theses, remained well attended, however. My secret was the same secret that led to record setting enrollments in previous years: sex. Any seniors who wanted to write theses on sexuality in literature? Sign up for the “Literature and Sexuality Senior Colloquium.” Genius.

If you’ve never read The Story of O—well, I recommend it. For academics, it’s easy to teach because students love to talk about it. And for Priya, my best student, it seemed to spark an interest she didn’t realize she had.

“I was thinking of changing my thesis topic,” she told me one afternoon after class, over coffee, while we discussed her initial proposal, which focused on oral histories of sex workers. “Something…”

And then she paused, bit her lip. She’s a petite girl, Indian-American, majoring in English and Biology, the latter to keep the possibility of med school alive.

“Something…” I offered.

“About BDSM. I really liked The Story of O. And I was thinking…” Here, she laid out a fairly clever thesis topic, reading female empowerment into narratives of sexual submission. I OK’d the project and she was off.

It happened so gradually, I barely noticed it. I was attracted to her, naturally, but I was attracted to many of my female students and so the noise blocked it out—like most red-blooded male academics, I’d gotten used to being around attractive, smart, driven young people revealing their vulnerabilities. I began meeting with Priya bi-weekly, and then weekly, chatting about her paper, about her other classes, about her on-campus activism. At one point, I noticed my hand on hers. She was talking excitedly about a protest. I delicately removed my hand and she glanced down at it, and then at me—I couldn’t read the look on her face.

“Sorry,” I offered lamely.

“No, it’s okay,” she replied, a little too quickly.

“You know it’s not.”

“But it feels okay.”

“And yet, it’s still not.”

Another time, I forget exactly when, I mentioned something that clued her in to the fact that I had personal BDSM experience—something about after-care, something that set her eyes shining.

“So, you’ve… Done, like, scenes and stuff?”

“Priya, we shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“But it’s what my thesis is about. You have to talk to me about it.”

“But not about my own, personal…” I paused. Digging myself into a hole. “Interests.”

She grinned. “Are you a dom or a sub or a switch? You’re a dom. I can tell.”

I shut that conversation down pretty fast too. She wrote her thesis, graduated summa, and I was proud of her.

It was a month or two before I saw her again: I was riding my bike to the library, where I like to camp out in the summer months to work, since my apartment has no air conditioning, when I saw her in smart business dress, leading a group of prospective students on a tour. We waved and later, I saw the same group again in the library. She flashed another smile my way and, an hour later, found me again. Sans prospies.

It turned out, she had a job at the admissions office. A full time job. Would I like to get lunch with her? I would.

Over lunch, our hands found each other again. She invited me over for dinner that evening and I took her up on the offer.

In the dark of her bedroom after our first night together, her curled up in the crook of my arm, her breath ragged after our fucking, she asked me to be her dom.

“I’ve just read so much about it, and it sounds like… What I’ve always wanted,” she whispered. “And I feel like what I’ve always wanted—it’s been someone like you.”

I was quiet for a while. Of course, I wanted it. Who wouldn’t? Priya was gorgeous. She was a joy to be around, sweet and considerate, with a sassy edge that came with intimacy. She was smart as a whip, able to see through my bullshit in class when none of the other students could, giving me a raised eyebrow: our secret signal.

“Why don’t we ease into it, try a few things, and see if you like it,” I finally answered, whispering huskily into her ear as my hand ran down her smooth belly.

“Yes… What should I call you?”

“Sir, for now. Yellow for slow down, red for stop—does that work for you?”

“That works,” she said, eagerly. I ordered her out of bed, told her to turn on the lights. She obeyed immediately.

“Good girl. Squat down. Touch yourself.”

Again, she obeyed: lowering herself into the awkward position, she slid a hand down and began to rub her bare pussy, spreading her dark lips open to reveal her pinkness.

“Like this, Sir?”

“Good. And don’t you dare think you’re going to cum any time soon.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I watched her for a minute, our eyes locked as she touched herself, gasping and whimpering softly. I had already made her cum once and I was surprised at how fast she orgasmed.

“Touch your tits,” I ordered.

She nodded, biting her lip, and ran a hand up to her breasts, stroking them softly.

“Not like that. Grope them.”

She obeyed, digging her fingers into her flesh, whimpering. She was a natural, tugging at her brown nipples, shuddering in pain and pleasure.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes, Sir. I’ve always liked it… rough.”

“How rough?”

She didn’t answer for a second, moaning.

“How rough?” I demanded again.

“Really rough,” she choked out.

“Good,” I replied. I strode over to her, laying my hands on her for the first time since we had begun. I took her by the hair, pulling hard.

“Like this?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What do you like to be called?”

“Anything, Sir. Something dirty.”

Gripping her hard by the hair, forcing her head back, almost causing her to lose her balance, I lowered my lips to her ear.

“You never fooled me, Priya. I always knew you wanted to be my slut.”

She let out a cry and began to shudder. I knew she was cumming. I slid my fingers around her throat, letting them rest there and putting only a small amount of pressure on her—just enough to let her know that I was in charge, but not so much that she wouldn’t be able to use her safe words. I held her face looking at mine as she came, her pretty features contorting in ecstasy.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she whimpered pathetically as she finished.

“On the bed. Hands and knees.”

She obeyed as I went to my jeans, and slid my belt out of the loops. I heard her breathing, ragged and hungry as I approached her leaking body, the scent of her pussy heavy in the air as I ran my belt over her thighs and up to her plump little ass.

“Is this a red or a yellow for you, do you think?” I asked.

“No. No, I don’t think so, Sir.”

“Good. Because tears aren’t a safe word.”

“I know, Sir.”

“Count for me.”

I struck her rear softly, hearing the moans of disappointment, before amping up my blows—not to the point that I would leave lasting welts, but enough that her butt visibly swelled under the rain of slaps. She cried out with each blow, adding in the number at the end. We stopped at sixteen—eight on each cheek. She was trembling very slightly as I took hold of her hips.

“How was that?”

“Wonderful, Sir.”

She groaned as I slid my cock into her for the second time that night. Whereas before, I had looked her in the eyes and kissed her slowly as we fucked, now I began to pound her, grabbing her by the hair from behind as I rode her. She squealed; I knew she had roommates and our first time, she had even asked me to be quiet so they wouldn’t hear us. Now, there was no way they couldn’t hear.

Finally, I pulled out of her. I pulled her by her hair back onto the floor, flinging her like a rag doll as I pressed my slick cock between her lips, forcing her to taste her own juices as she began to obediently suck me. With a groan, I came in her mouth and she swallowed it with a smile.

Afterwards, I held her close—after-care, there it was again—and she curled herself up against my chest, burying her face in my chest hair.

“I loved that,” she whispered. “It felt like scratching an itch I’ve had for a long time.”

So, that summer, we continued to see one another. We continued our play sessions, nearly every single day, and at the end of the summer, she had accepted a job across the country working at a start up. We broke up then, so to speak—it was her first real job out of college, in a new city, and I had no illusions about the new people and experiences she might want to meet and have. But we still keep in touch—she seems to have a boyfriend now, and from the way she looks at him—in photographs, on late nights when I’m facebook stalking her—I know what they’re doing…

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/yd851o/mf_back_when_i_was_a_phd_student_i_turned_a