It was a continuous pattern with me, I had a hunger to be educated after such a long holiday.
Although, by second semester that hunger exchanged, and I longed for a holiday.
My mind is like that, I ebb and flow between all and nothing.
For instance, I used to read often, but now the motivation isn’t there as much after reading research papers so often.
Now when I do read for leisure, it’s something from under my bed after my roommate goes out for a date or some party.
Though I don’t think it would constitutes reading to most people.
Usually, every semester my mind picks a professor that I’m going to crush over. Last semester’s wasn’t that good, but he had his moments with poor dad jokes in the middle of class.
My online perusing and stalking led me to deduce he was a family man, and he had a nice jawline, well at least if you didn’t look too close.
But his ‘almost’ strong jaw muscles certainly came in handy in my imagination. If I’m being honest, his personality was pulling most of the weight though.
Cheryl, my roommate, seemed to major in dating, as I never once saw her study and she was sparingly in the room.
I’m genuinely not sure what she really studies. I must admit, I’m jealous. She radiates confidence, and is very sought after.
I mean even I drool a bit talking to her, though she wouldn’t notice.
I think I’m more subtle in my approach, which I suppose doesn’t catch the attention of a lot of horny 20-something year old guys. I’m okay without them noticing though, I just wouldn’t mind the occasional discrete dicking.
I major in psychology, though that doesn’t help me understand said dicks beyond what they want me to act like in bed, not that I had much experience with that.
I gave my ex a few blowjobs here and there, and we had sex, but he struggled keeping it up.
Nothing against the guy, he was lovely, but he stopped wanting sex, he was too nervous.
Plus he didn’t go down, I was only sixteen, and was way too shy to ask.
We’re still friends, but I don’t think about him like that anymore.
Well, I guess maybe if I was desperate enough I’d let him try again, but he never got me to where I wanted to go, so I don’t really see the point.
My first day of second semester, I arrived to my elective creative writing class. Which, if I’m being honest, was picked just because I heard it was a class with no exams, and everyone typically passed.
However, the professor was also cute, which I swear I did not know when picking the class.
Although, I will absolutely shout, “my captain, my captain!” If he wants to recreate that scene, or any other movies he’d like to recreate, like any.
He had a style that I would expect of a literature professor.
A grey sweater complimenting his tan pants, which were ornamented with a brown leather belt that held those pants tight enough to leave little to my imagination to fill.
I was sitting six rows back, but I could tell he had a nice face.
He had dark brown hair, and a rugged beard that looked welcoming when he smiled.
Oh, And his glasses were very stylish too.
I guess he oozed hotness, and I couldn’t be the only woman thinking this right now.
I’m not a pervert in public by any means, I rarely sexualise people, but this man was being sexualised right now by many women.
Then he suggested that we read whatever book we would like to read this semester, and to write a report on whether the book portrays the male-gaze or the female-gaze, or both, I swear he was just saying, “I’m God’s gift to women.”
Professor Portnay’s following lecture was on the female gaze, as he spoke to the issue of how even female writers fall into the trap of perpetuating the male perspective in pop-culture, and how the best works of fiction explore both gazes as a thematic device.
I thought this was ironic, coming from a man hired to teach literature.
They still own the world, I suppose.
Yeah, he’s hot, and oozes his brand of feminism all over the floor, but he expects his female students to do their womanly duty and mop up his oozed manly ‘feminism’ from the floor when his done showing off.
As my mind ebbs from his attractiveness and then flows to calling out his bullshit, I’m reminded that I don’t really care about this class, it’s just meant to be a bit of fun.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/11h1g38/the_professors_tease_slow_burn_fm_ff_age_20s_40s
As such, I had decided at the third class that I would sit at the front of the class so that he could see my expression of his bullshit.
I was having a confident day, so I dressed a little better this time around.
Maybe I subconsciously wanted to test whether he truly relinquished his male gaze, and therefore test whether he has a right to speak on this.
Look, I thought I looked pretty fucking hot, and his eyes did cross mine a few times, though it was nothing to throw the gavel down over.
He was perfect, from this distance.
And if anything, I was the one gazing over his body.
And damn, I was so thankful for that tight belt.
By the fourth class, I had actually begun to listen to him.
I had been reading more seriously again, and he also illustrated some really valid points about what’s lacking in the literary world.
That’s not to say my mind wouldn’t wander to the fantasy of him pulling me aside after class, but I’d pull myself back.
However, this time I wanted to test him, and play mean.
So, in my subtlest manner, when I saw him looking in my direction, sitting at the front row, I would uncross my legs for him. Baring a red lacy thong I bought with my confidence yesterday, well that and twenty-five dollars.
Yes, I treated myself a little bit, but I had no one to show it off to, not that I needed a man for that.
Albeit, my skirt was loose enough to show him and no one else, I have some pride!
I was subtle. He was subtle.
Though he saw it, and I saw him look again, but less subtle the second time. Then he turned to write down some characteristics of the male gaze and the female gaze on the board.
When he turned back, I noticed the slightest outline running down his leg.
Well I’m pretty sure that wasn’t there before, was it?
I felt butterflies in my stomach, I felt like that was for me, unless he’s into chalk.
I think he liked what he saw.
At the same time, I felt like he was full of shit, and it was unprofessional of him to look, like is that what I’m paying for T this institution?
Though the butterflies didn’t listen to my logic, I still retain the right to be a little disgusted in him, and men.
Sitting in the front row for the fifth class, I realised his eyes on me a lot more, as though he was hoping I’d perform my trick for him again.
My mind rattled, ‘typical misogynist expecting women to help him with his future wanking material.’
As though he’d go home and fuck his wife whilst thinking about my twenty year old body draped in lingerie bought just for his eyes.
Just to get his dick ready for the tightest woman he’s had in years.
As though women are bred for his pleasure.
Then he’d realise he was looking in my direction and divert to the opposing direction for the same awkward length of time to avoid suspicion. Unless there was a woman with better panties over there, or maybe some chalk.
After his eyes looked at mine for the fifth time, I decided I’d give him what he wants.
With my crossed legs I simply and slowly brushed my top thigh down my bottom leg, and spread my legs subtly for a few seconds to feed the masquerading animal.
The pervert soaked it up, I think he forgot he was teaching a class for a second.
He didn’t even turn away to hide how much he liked what he saw.
Maybe he forgot.
We all forget things when we’re embarrassed, sort of like how I forgot to wear underwear underneath my skirt this morning.
I don’t think anyone knew why he stopped his lecture, but I know teaching this class is the highlight of his academic day.
At my room, I felt like I couldn’t sleep, but I couldn’t get up and watch tv either.
It was a small room, and the one night Cheryl decides to stay-in and sleep, is the one night I’d love to stay up.
I’ve been so confident recently, and with that I’m pent-up, and I need some alone time.
Cheryl is definitely asleep, but I can’t.
I have more pride than that, and it’s probably assault to do that with another person in the room, and I’m not about that shit.
But I can feel how wet I am on my thigh, and I can’t sleep.
My mind flickers to images of my professor using his fingers to write love letters on my clit.
Fuck that sounds cheesy, but I’m genuinely thinking of him writing poems to me on my clit with such coordination that I can hear the words and his breath in my ear.
I decide to get up, get changed and go to the library to work on my creative writing final assignment.
I shouldn’t be lingering in this.
I feel guilty for what I did in the last class, like I’m one of these girls that everyone says, “she was asking for it” when something bad finally happens.
I’m playing with fire, skating on thin ice, and whatever else you want to call it.
Maybe I am ‘asking for it’, and I deserve everything I get.
I’ve gone through my whole life trying not to be an object, or a hole for some man, and here I am playing with a likely to be married man’s desires and getting a sexual thrill from it.
I’m only twenty, and this is too much power to put in a woman’s body.
We were told to write a poem or a short story, and I made a hybrid of the two called “fuck You Mr. patriarchy.”
It wasn’t hard to write, it came out of me quickly, as though my muse had done all the work.
However, I channeled my reluctance to further play with my muse anymore.
After an hour at the library writing it,
I knew I should go back to my room and get some sleep.
Again, I couldn’t.
Lying there sleepless, I felt so much tension over my body, as though someone placed a vibrator right beside the part of my mind that activates pleasure.
My stomach was tight, and my pelvis wanted to thrust.
I thought it would be okay if I grabbed my top pillow and put it between my thighs.
That’s not masturbating, I just need to release some pressure.
I looked at Cheryl while I moved the pillow, so as not to wake her.
She was facing me, but had her eyes shut.
The pressure was so nice, so I began to gently grind on the pillow like a private boarding schoolgirl.
Grinding isn’t really masturbating though.
I looked over at her face to check she wasn’t awake.
I realised that many guys wish they were in my position right now, and I sort of enjoy the luxury.
She was hot, and I didn’t know how I felt about women completely, so I guess I was also testing the waters, if I’m being honest.
But I wasn’t masturbating, or using my fingers or anything.
She looked gorgeous with her blonde bed-hair that only I would have seen, and the seamless underwear she wore accentuated her hips.
The side fat on her stomach and thighs, along with the slight stretch marks on her hips I hadn’t noticed, because I’m sure she would hide these things in daylight.
These were the things most likely to make me climax for a woman.
The things considered imperfect seemed so beautiful on her real skin, to touch and feel every element of her body would unveil the braille of her womanhood.
The slight indication around her underwear that she trims, but doesn’t shave it all. To which I’m sure has surprised the men she has been with, I wonder if this nonconformity was a turn-on to them, like it is for me.
I grind a little deeper, as I fold the pillow in half to put more pressure on my vagina.
I edged myself closer and closer, but it wasn’t happening.
I need to cum, but I can’t.
Maybe I don’t actually like women that much after all, I thought.
Maybe I just want to like them.
Until Cheryl slowly opened her eyes.
She looked shocked, and if I was anywhere else in the process I would’ve pretended to be doing something else, but the when she looked at me I was already plummeting over the edge.
Falling into her wide pupils as she gazed from her bed at me with a judgmental, teasing smile that made me convulse and let out an embarrassing moan so loud that it would’ve been heard down the hall.
I held my mouth so as not to repeat my vocal performance.
She looked at me, a shaking mess, as I quivered, “I’m so sorry.”
She said, “well…are you done?”
I smirked awkwardly.
“Okay well, goodnight then” Cheryl punctuated with a judgmental laugh.
My heart was pounding in my chest, I don’t know what she meant.
Is she okay with this?
Is she so liberal that she is okay with me masturbating whilst she is asleep?
Like is this just an empowering female orgasm or something? Or am I now a creep to be avoided?
Usually Cheryl is gone by the time I wake up, and I’d really hoped today was no different, but it was.
She was sitting at our small table staring at me in an inquisitive way.
“So do you like me or something?” She asked.
“I’m sorry, about last night, I was looking at you for a second to make sure I didn’t wake you. I shouldn’t have been…”
She stopped me,
“Don’t be sorry. I just didn’t know whether I could do that. It’s been hard with you always being here.” Cheryl stated.
“Yeah, I usually wait for you to go out before I do any of that.” I nervously stated.
Then out of nowhere Cheryl looks at me confidently, and proudly says,
“I’ve never made someone cum just by looking at them before.”
I look down in my absolute embarrassing agony, as though I’ve shown the very part of me that ‘was asking for it.’
Cheryl continues to stare at this part of my soul through my eyes and says,
“It’s my turn next time.”
I look at her in shock, is she serious?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
To which she answers,
“I want you to lay on your bed and look into my eyes while I masturbate.”
Cheryl gets up from the table, and applies her slight red lipstick, and heads to the door, but before leaving she looks over her shoulder at me and smiles,
“Okay, see you later” She casually says.
As I was in line to submit my poem to professor Portnay, I had second thoughts in the fear of failing or being questioned. But we were encouraged to write whatever was on our minds.
Well, I certainly didn’t have time to update it to my new thoughts.
So, I begrudgingly submitted it, as one of the most daring things I’ve ever written.
And it read:
“It must ache to know that I’ll never touch you.
To be stuck in a dream that tightens every screw, as your body begs for my touch down there.
Does the dream ache most when you’re awake,
Or when you awake to nobody there?
Out, then in and then out of consciousness.
Half awake, the screws keep tightening but they never break, does every tighten gives a more intense ache?
Does it tighten up further than your stomach?
Tensing through your legs all the way to your toes?
I bet your body’s begging you to let your pride go, let it explode when you catch my eye or my lips from your pedestal.
Your mind is punishing you with all it’s pleasure, you dirty whore.
Your pants brushing your legs gives you the worst tease ever.
Does the wind from my open window makes your pants tighten?
Which of my fingers could rub the ache within?
The screws restrain you like you’re locked to a hoist.
How would it feel to straddle you?
Could I tighten enough to forever be your lock, and make you all mine.
To move forward,
The patriarchy I climb.”
As hesitant as I was to put this in the submission box, I was more hesitant to go back to my room.
What if she’s there?
Like what should I say, “Hi”?
Or would I say, “do you want me to watch you masturbate now?”
Maybe it wouldn’t matter what I said.
I’m not even sure if I’m comfortable with this, I mean, last night was the first time I came to a woman.
That doesn’t mean I want to go down on one, or even make-out with one.
What if one thing led to another and she wants it?
I think I want it, but I don’t know right now.
We were told to write a poem or a short story, and I made a hybrid of the two called “fuck You Mr. patriarchy.”
It wasn’t hard to write, it came out of me quickly, as though my muse had done all the work.
However, I channeled my reluctance to further play with my muse anymore.
After an hour at the library writing it,
I knew I should go back to my room and get some sleep.
Again, I couldn’t.
Lying there sleepless, I felt so much tension over my body, as though someone placed a vibrator right beside the part of my mind that activates pleasure.
My stomach was tight, and my pelvis wanted to thrust.
I thought it would be okay if I grabbed my top pillow and put it between my thighs.
That’s not masturbating, I just need to release some pressure.
I looked at Cheryl while I moved the pillow, so as not to wake her.
She was facing me, but had her eyes shut.
The pressure was so nice, so I began to gently grind on the pillow like a private boarding schoolgirl.
Grinding isn’t really masturbating though.
I looked over at her face to check she wasn’t awake.
I realised that many guys wish they were in my position right now, and I sort of enjoy the luxury.
She was hot, and I didn’t know how I felt about women completely, so I guess I was also testing the waters, if I’m being honest.
But I wasn’t masturbating, or using my fingers or anything.
She looked gorgeous with her blonde bed-hair that only I would have seen, and the seamless underwear she wore accentuated her hips.
The side fat on her stomach and thighs, along with the slight stretch marks on her hips I hadn’t noticed, because I’m sure she would hide these things in daylight.
These were the things most likely to make me climax for a woman.
The things considered imperfect seemed so beautiful on her real skin, to touch and feel every element of her body would unveil the braille of her womanhood.
The slight indication around her underwear that she trims, but doesn’t shave it all. To which I’m sure has surprised the men she has been with, I wonder if this nonconformity was a turn-on to them, like it is for me.
I grind a little deeper, as I fold the pillow in half to put more pressure on my vagina.
I edged myself closer and closer, but it wasn’t happening.
I need to cum, but I can’t.
Maybe I don’t actually like women that much after all, I thought.
Maybe I just want to like them.
Until Cheryl slowly opened her eyes.
She looked shocked, and if I was anywhere else in the process I would’ve pretended to be doing something else, but the when she looked at me I was already plummeting over the edge.
Falling into her wide pupils as she gazed from her bed at me with a judgmental, teasing smile that made me convulse and let out an embarrassing moan so loud that it would’ve been heard down the hall.
I held my mouth so as not to repeat my vocal performance.
She looked at me, a shaking mess, as I quivered, “I’m so sorry.”
She said, “well…are you done?”
I smirked awkwardly.
“Okay well, goodnight then” Cheryl punctuated with a judgmental laugh.
My heart was pounding in my chest, I don’t know what she meant.
Is she okay with this?
Is she so liberal that she is okay with me masturbating whilst she is asleep?
Like is this just an empowering female orgasm or something? Or am I now a creep to be avoided?
Usually Cheryl is gone by the time I wake up, and I’d really hoped today was no different, but it was.
She was sitting at our small table staring at me in an inquisitive way.
“So do you like me or something?” She asked.
“I’m sorry, about last night, I was looking at you for a second to make sure I didn’t wake you. I shouldn’t have been…”
She stopped me,
“Don’t be sorry. I just didn’t know whether I could do that. It’s been hard with you always being here.” Cheryl stated.
“Yeah, I usually wait for you to go out before I do any of that.” I nervously stated.
Then out of nowhere Cheryl looks at me confidently, and proudly says,
“I’ve never made someone cum just by looking at them before.”
I look down in my absolute embarrassing agony, as though I’ve shown the very part of me that ‘was asking for it.’
Cheryl continues to stare at this part of my soul through my eyes and says,
“It’s my turn next time.”
I look at her in shock, is she serious?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
To which she answers,
“I want you to lay on your bed and look into my eyes while I masturbate.”
Cheryl gets up from the table, and applies her slight red lipstick, and heads to the door, but before leaving she looks over her shoulder at me and smiles,
“Okay, see you later” She casually says.
As I was in line to submit my poem to professor Portnay, I had second thoughts in the fear of failing or being questioned. But we were encouraged to write whatever was on our minds.
Well, I certainly didn’t have time to update it to my new thoughts.
So, I begrudgingly submitted it, as one of the most daring things I’ve ever written.
And it read:
“It must ache to know that I’ll never touch you.
To be stuck in a dream that tightens every screw, as your body begs for my touch down there.
Does the dream ache most when you’re awake,
Or when you awake to nobody there?
Out, then in and then out of consciousness.
Half awake, the screws keep tightening but they never break, does every tighten gives a more intense ache?
Does it tighten up further than your stomach?
Tensing through your legs all the way to your toes?
I bet your body’s begging you to let your pride go, let it explode when you catch my eye or my lips from your pedestal.
Your mind is punishing you with all it’s pleasure, you dirty whore.
Your pants brushing your legs gives you the worst tease ever.
Does the wind from my open window makes your pants tighten?
Which of my fingers could rub the ache within?
The screws restrain you like you’re locked to a hoist.
How would it feel to straddle you?
Could I tighten enough to forever be your lock, and make you all mine.
To move forward,
The patriarchy I climb.”
As hesitant as I was to put this in the submission box, I was more hesitant to go back to my room.
What if she’s there?
Like what should I say, “Hi”?
Or would I say, “do you want me to watch you masturbate now?”
Maybe it wouldn’t matter what I said.
I’m not even sure if I’m comfortable with this, I mean, last night was the first time I came to a woman.
That doesn’t mean I want to go down on one, or even make-out with one.
What if one thing led to another and she wants it?
I think I want it, but I don’t know right now.
After a few hours of avoidance around campus, I went back to my room.
Cheryl was on her bed reading a magazine, she barely noticed me.
I walked over to my bed, laid down, and played on my phone for a bit.
I remembered that one thing I haven’t done yet is stalk my professor on social media, which is odd of me.
I suppose I’ve been too obsessed with teasing him in real life, I stopped caring about what his life outside of that torture looks like.
Despite my expertise though, I was unable to find anything about him.
I can see it now,
‘stereotypical literature professor is too archaic to have social media.’
I can find nothing but photo of him on LinkedIn, which also looks hot.
Cheryl looks over at me,
“What you doing?” She asks.
I almost lie, as I usually would, but I decide not to for some reason.
“Stalking one of my attractive professors.”
Her amusement is like a magnet to my bed, and she starts heading over and lays next to me, making this much more awkward.
“Ohhh he’s hot!” Cheryl yells.
Cheryl then multiplies the awkwardness,
“I’d probably lick his ass.”
“Are you serious?!” I exclaim in disgust.
I mean, I’m not kink-shaming, but a man’s ass to me isn’t the most appealing thing to lick.
“Yeah, haven’t you ever done that before?” She asks in a judging way that makes it sound like I’ve said something disgusting.
“No. I haven’t, a man’s ass is usually pretty bushy and I don’t know.” I try and justify myself.
“Ahhh so you’ve kicked a woman’s ass then.” Cheryl inquisitions.
“I haven’t licked any.” I try to retain my original level of judgment.
“Well have you fucked?” Cheryl hits the judgment ball back to my court.
“I don’t see why I need to answer that.” I argue.
Cheryl gets up off my bed and moves to her own.
Everything is silent besides the tension in the room.
“What do you want to do?” Cheryl asks, and then adds,
“And don’t lie, just say what you want.”
I respond with honesty,
“I want my professor to try and fuck me” but then before I can stop myself, I add,
“And I want you to fuck me while he watches.”
Cheryl smirks, and walks over to the table and puts a chair in-front of our bed.
“Imagine he is sitting here, watching you intently. So much so, that you’re self-conscious about what he’s looking at.” She says in a teasing raspy voice.
And then adds,
“Well…what are you waiting for? He wants you naked. He wants you to put a show on for him. He’s a man after all.”
I slowly pull my skirt down to my ankles, showing a pair of panties he hasn’t seen yet. Cheryl is on her bed also watching, and my heart is pounding so hard.
“Makes his cock hard” Cheryl whispers.
I throw my skirt on the floor and position myself so that he has a front-view of my vagina.
I pull my panties to my ankles and start rubbing up-and-down from my vagina to my clit.
“Tell him how you want to suck his cock.” Cheryl begs for horny details.
“I’m going to lick from from your balls to the tip of your cock until you’re throbbing. Then I’m going to suck more cum out of your balls than you’ve given your wife in your entire relationship.”
“He likes that” Cheryl says,
And then she adds,
“Tell him how he has to lick your pussy before you’ll let him cum that hard.”
As I play with myself, I tell him,
“Lick around it very slowly until I’m gyrating, and then suck on my labia until I’m dripping onto my thighs. Then change between licking and sucking my clit until I cum like a good student. And then I’ll let you cum.”
I see Cheryl get up from her bed and walk over to me.
Without saying anything, she looks at me, and gets on her knees and obliges me.
She looks up and watches my expression as she prolongs my pleasurable torture until my hips have a seismic shift. Then she focuses on my clit like it’s a spring her tongue is flicking back-and-forth.
She looks at me and says,
“He wants me to lick your asshole”
she turns me over onto my knees and slowly licks up and down between my ass cheeks. Simultaneously, she places two fingers in my vagina and puts pressure on my g-spot, which I’ve never done before. With her tongue in my ass, she starts rapidly moving her wrist up and down. Within seconds I feel a wet release pump out of me, as my stomach convulses so much it almost cramps.
“What was that” I say, knowing that I just squirted for the first time, but feeling bad about it.
“It’s okay, don’t worry.” Cheryl stated.
She looked at me and smiled.
I’d never felt that relief, and I ask her,
“What do you want me to do?”
She looks at me and says, “look into my eyes and don’t look away.”
I do as she says. As she goes over to her bed and gets her vibrator out, and takes her clothes off. She presses the head of the vibrator between her beautiful pubes,
and begins to slowly vibrate her labia and looks at me, giving unwavering eye contact.
My instinct is to look away for at least a second, but I thought that would be selfish of me, she likes this. I also want to explore her nakedness, but I follow her instructions.
Her expressions ebb and flow between pleasure and aching, and wanting to cum, but she never lets go of my eyes.
She walks over to me, and straddles me so that the vibrator is in the middle of her clit and my vagina, held by our pressure.
As she starts to cum she grabs the vibrator and moves up to my face, moving her face right on mine and staring deep into my eyes.
She starts to shake, but doesn’t get lost in it, she makes me watch her eyes longing into mine.
And as she’s convulsing, I kiss her and put my hand on her pussy, so as to not make it too sensitive, but to also get all of her orgasm out.
We lay there in our tantalising mess for the rest of the night….
(To be continued)
just a tip, using separate comments for each chapter is bad formating. But the story was well written and grammatically sound!
Hey guys, sorry for continuing the story in the comments. You will need to start from P1 in the comments and work to P4.
Hope you like it 😊
!updateme