Undergraduate or graduate school pussy wanted

[The_Soloist]

I am a professor. My students at home are out of bounds. You are not my student.

I would like to enliven my days (and perchance my nights) with dirty correspondence — text messages, e-mails, possibly some Google Hangouts or Skype sessions — with a young, highly sexual, biddable, beddable woman. I am [42 now]. I have a kinky, dominant streak.

If you like what you read below, please PM.

 

[The_Soloist]

I am traveling. I am in a visitor's office at the university I am visiting. I chat with my Ph.D. student back home over Skype. I think of you concealed under my desk. I kick off my shoes and pull off my socks and press my bare foot against your naked cunt. The toes wiggle over your pussy lips. I have you in a crouch, licking my feet. You fellate me as I talk about my work. I am fingering those tits. Your hand is buried in your cunt. (You may come, but you must do it silently.)

I lean back in the office chair and hook one leg around your back. You suck me just beyond reach of the camera. My hands guide you as you service my erection. I have you pay special attention to the balls. A fist in your hair holds my glans deep in your throat.

I wonder how silently I can come.

Brave students are invited to PM.

 

[The_Soloist]

I don't know which I prefer: the odor of old books or the scent of a cunt after orgasm.

 

[The_Soloist]

Office hours are profitably spent reading aloud. Sit on the couch. Just move that pile of papers onto the floor. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. Think of their cadence and what the words mean. Yes, that's my hand on your thigh. It's a fair weather day and a delightfully short skirt. I like the silhouette in your panties. Read, my dear.

 

[The_Soloist]

Among the essays I graded this week, yours was clearly the best. It is well written. There are original ideas supported by textual references. The thesis is minutely argued. Your prose has the same grace and elegance as its author. Considering the plagiarized crap and half-literate drivel that I usually read, these efforts are extraordinary.

There is no grade on the essay. "See me," I scrawled on the last page. And so you see me. We chat over coffee about what is written, and I tell you how you can expand on these concepts and maybe get a small article out of it into a journal, which is more than a mere "A" in a spreadsheet. I invite you to stop by my office for further conversations.

Some weeks after grades have been submitted, you're bent over my desk. Your jeans are pulled down to the knees, pink thong panties with them. I am in your cunt. I am pulling your hair. There are bite marks on your shoulders. The clap of pelvis against buttocks and your exultant gasps are both barely drowned out by Maria Callas on iTunes. Your vagina has already convulsed around my penis repeatedly. It will again. I am holding back the eruption of my balls by a prodigious act of willpower. The thought of my come leaking from your pussy when you step out of my office is the idea that precipitates the event of my orgasm.

 

[The_Soloist]

There's a small museum on campus. I want you to excavate the shortest skirt you own from the recesses of your closet. In my company on a date, underwear is forbidden to you. I want access.

Aside from the obvious age difference, we look like any other couple. We hold hands, converse about culture, and exchange private whispers. Sometimes, we nuzzle and briefly kiss. Out of eye shot, we surreptitiously touch. You feel for the erection in my pants. I slip a hand under the waistband of your skirt. The fingers reach. My cock presses up against your ass while we stop to admire a painting. In an untraveled room, I might rub the juncture of your legs. You will go to your knees and extract my cock from the fly and suck. Perhaps the museum guard watches us over CCTV.

 

[The_Soloist]

Exam week is upon us. Oral exams are my favorite.

 

[The_Soloist]

What? I am a college professor. What's that you say? You want a kinky high school teacher instead? OK. The schoolgirl fantasy was, at some point, chiseled into the cranium of every heterosexual male schoolboy.

I am thinking of you going down to your knees, holding your hands out, palms facing up, for the discipline of a ruler. Then you will sit in the student desks, your legs spread wide enough apart for me to see up the skirt, while you write out pages and pages of lines. I am a dirty cunt. I am a whorish slut. But I won't masturbate during class. I imagine you bent over the desk afterwards, holding on to the far side, while that far too short schoolgirl skirt is flipped up to reveal your buttocks, a slip of g-string between them, the bright white of it barely concealing your pussy. I will bring the switch over the fleshy part of your arse and over your thighs as you count out the fifty strokes one by one.

You're a bad girl. You will be a good one.

Once I have given you the beating your recalcitrance has merited, I will kiss the skin that I have made red. My tongue will soothe the ache a little. My lips will tease the soft folds of your pussy and encourage your wetness along. I will thread my tongue past the lips and lick your cunt and clit. I want your juices coating my face, running down my chin, along my neck. I want to prime you for fucking.

 

[bustybabe12315]

hmmm, this sounds like something i would really enjoy!

 

[summerlovez]

I had a few trysts with a number of TAs and professors in college. Add me on YIM, sir?

 

[bubbleYumm]

Great title!

 

[The_Soloist]

You may deserve a spanking because you seek punishment and correction for your many transgressions. You may desire a spanking because you are young and need this discipline in your life. You may want a spanking because, despite protestations, you revel in the pain. You may recognize that a spanking can be a gate into subspace.

I want you to wear a skirt. I intend merely to flip it up and pull your knickers down partway so that the motion of your thighs is constrained. You will settle over my lap. The loose hair that falls to ground obscures your vision. The blood rushes to your head at once. Your face is redder than your ass to start. That will change.

We will decide on a number, and I will spank you that many times. You will be squirming. Your legs may kick. You will count the blows aloud for me.

I like your ass. I like how it gives. The spanking makes a loud clap. It is followed by the sounds you make — a gasp, a grunt, an obscene exclamation — and then the number you pronounce through your gritted teeth. Your flesh absorbs the impact of my hand. I run my fingers over the rump between blows. I like how the buttocks curves and bends. The motion of my palm over your skin in taut circles achieves multiple purposes. First of all, it heats up the skin. Secondly, it soothes the ache — though, sometimes, it makes you hurt more. It's also misdirection. I don't always hit you where I have massaged. There's a hitch in your breathing. The skin darkens. The muscles beneath are firm. I run my index finger through the crease of your ass.

As the spanking progresses, there's a moment of surrender when you release the tension within and give yourself over to the act. This is my favorite part.

There will be marks. Tomorrow, you will know that you were spanked today.

I touch your pussy. It's a contrasting touch, soft. It heightens the endorphin rush. The fingers brush lightly over the swollen labia. Do you feel my erection? I want a wet spot on my jeans from the arousal in your cunt.

How will you thank me when we finish?

 

[Thedeciever69]

This entire thread has been a turn on. I am very hard. Keep going!

 

[The_Soloist]

The lecture halls are empty at night. I know that one of our graduate students watches pornography on the big screen on weekends. His thesis committee sniggers about it. The indiscreet child is away at a conference this week.

I will fuck you on the big table in front of the blackboard that spans the front of the room. You are on hands and knees. The structure sways beneath our weight. The perspiration on your back reflects the light. I smell you. The noises of sex fill the cavernous space. You are so tight inside. I use yellow chalk to inscribe the word SLUT on your shoulders. We leave great wet spots — my semen, your juices — on the table. It will dry before the custodial staff arrive in the morning.

 

[The_Soloist]

Ordinary sex, even when extraordinary, can become boring. Good old fashioned fucking feels incredible, of course. It may also be the least interesting act in history. Yes, sure, the snugness and wetness of a cunt are amazing sensations to experience, there is the usual catalog of positional variations to essay, and I like your body. Learning the ins and outs of you in the beginning exhausts our nights comprehensively. The orgasm of a pussy and within a pussy are epiphanies. Circles close. Colors turn. Cycles complete. I like how my come drips down your thigh.

Part of what appeals about your submission is the eternal newness of the act, the sense of pushing past one set of boundaries and discovering the next ones, of inventing fresh things to do with you and to you, of exploring, creating, collaborating. You're more than three holes and a pair of breasts. You're a singular intelligence in possession of the innumerable thoughts that fill a dirty mind. Some things won't work. Others will, spectacularly. We don't always know which possibilities will succeed until we try. I want the novelty. You crave it, too. That's why you are here. That's why you exist. You're my slut. I want you to be.

 

[LadyVer]

Geeze. Just sayin. Bored on Lit. Nothin personal.

 

[The_Soloist]

The smoking blonde outside my window: does the way she taps the end of her cigarette unconsciously mimic the way she taps her clit when she is alone?

 

[The_Soloist]

You're sitting there with your legs crossed. Your arms knot over your chest as you rebuff the sixth dude to hit on you since you have been here tonight. The whisky glass on the table is empty. You drink it neat just like you should. The gray top reveals a generous amount of cleavage. One of the bra straps peeks out at the shoulder.

The room is hot. The sweat beads on your forehead and breasts. Your feet are unconsciously tapping to the concussive bass. Your hair sways at the shoulder. The cut of the fabric flatters your curves. From across the room, I had noticed your ass earlier. The cloth is black. Nearly see-through at bottom, it offers veiled suggestions above.

You look down at your phone.

You are one of my former students. You sat in the front row in the big lecture hall. I remember those legs stepping through the tiny denim skirts you preferred in warmer weather. I also remember what you sometimes didn't wear. It was distracting to lecture when presented with that view.

 

[The_Soloist]

We went out to celebrate the Turning in of the Grades, that ritual which marks the official end of the semester. (Graduation exercises are a later formality. I never go.) I am the professor, the guy with tenure and a salary, which, though low by comparison to the private sector, comprises a fair wage for my labors. Our graduate students aren't so fortunate; they may never be. I bought dinner and the first round at the pub before beating my retreat. The revels continued in my absence.

A week, two weeks later, I noticed her at the coffee house next to the museum. One of my teaching assistants — the cute one — favors jeans that hug her every curve. The brightly colored tops she likes offer generous glimpses, too, but I prefer legs and ass to tits. She wears thongs or goes commando because with clothing that close fitting, I ought to see lines if she didn't. I joined her with my grande cappuccino, and we chatted amiably about her research. It will make for a nice thesis.

After that, I saw her everywhere — at seminars, at the grocery store, at the Beethoven recital in the music department, at the pub. We talked about old movies over beers when I surprised myself by asking her on a date. She came home with me. We drank wine, then whisky while watching films from La Nouvelle Vague. I put some jazz on the record player.

The stirring in my loins rode into her backside. I whispered in her ear and cupped her breasts and allowed my crossed hands to follow her flanks down to her hips. She backed herself into my embrace while I loosened her belt and popped the button on her jeans. My hand slipped inside, the zipper parting against the back, which made a visible bulge under denim. Reaching behind me, she gripped my ass and pushed my body at hers. My touch worked into her panties, the fingertips floating over the smoothness of her pussy. The lips were puffy. Her wetness endowed them with a sticky texture. She spun her pelvis against my palm while I let my index finger get sucked up into the vortex down to the knuckle. Thumb against her clit, I kissed her neck where it met her shoulder.

We fucked on the wooden floor, our clothing in a heap, to 5 by Monk by 5. She has spent nearly every night that followed at my apartment, in my bedroom, cunt tight around my cock. None of our colleagues know.

 

[The_Soloist]

In the rare book room, I wear gloves so that the sweat from my fingers doesn't damage the centuries old printed incunabula. We are unlikely to be disturbed here. In the rare book room, I wear gloves in order to ease the passage of my fist into a eager young cunt, which is unused to having a hand inside.

 

[Sexy_Me0508]

We went out to celebrate the Turning in of the Grades, that ritual which marks the official end of the semester. (Graduation exercises are a later formality. I never go.) I am the professor, the guy with tenure and a salary, which, though low by comparison to the private sector, comprises a fair wage for my labors. Our graduate students aren't so fortunate; they may never be. I bought dinner and the first round at the pub before beating my retreat. The revels continued in my absence.

A week, two weeks later, I noticed her at the coffee house next to the museum. One of my teaching assistants — the cute one — favors jeans that hug her every curve. The brightly colored tops she likes offer generous glimpses, too, but I prefer legs and ass to tits. She wears thongs or goes commando because with clothing that close fitting, I ought to see lines if she didn't. I joined her with my grande cappuccino, and we chatted amiably about her research. It will make for a nice thesis.

After that, I saw her everywhere — at seminars, at the grocery store, at the Beethoven recital in the music department, at the pub. We talked about old movies over beers, when I surprised myself by asking her on a date. She came home with me. We drank wine, then whisky while watching films from La Nouvelle Vague. I put some jazz on the record player.

The stirring in my loins rode into her backside. I whispered in her ear and cupped her breasts and allowed my crossed hands to follow her flanks down to her hips. She backed herself into my embrace while I loosened her belt and popped the button on her jeans. My hand slipped inside, the zipper parting against the back, which made a visible bulge under denim. Reaching behind me, she gripped my ass and pushed my body at hers. My touch worked into her panties, the fingertips floating over the smoothness of her pussy. The lips were puffy. Her wetness endowed them with a sticky texture. She spun her pelvis against my palm while I let my index finger get sucked up into the vortex down to the knuckle. Thumb against her clit, I kissed her neck where it met her shoulder.

We fucked on the wooden floor, our clothing in a heap, to 5 by Monk by 5. She has spent nearly every night that followed at my apartment, in my bedroom, cunt tight around my cock. None of our colleagues know.

Loved that!!!

 

[Wide_eyed_Indulgence]

This is wonderfully written and very arousing. More please.

 

[hunnyblonde]

Oh. Holy. Fuck.

*click* Subscribe.

 

[The_Soloist]

My lover teases me. Her dress barely hides the bottoms of her bottom when she stands up straight, and when she bends, the fabric rides right up. It's a tight fitting, black sleeveless number that scoops over her breasts. She shows a bit too much skin to be entirely professional. My department is hosting a conference. She is a graduating senior who is helping out.

It is amusing to see colleagues — in some cases, friends of decades standing, the people with whom I went to graduate school — ogle her. Most of them do it shamelessly. So many of us are lecherous. We are no longer young, though not quite old. These are the years when the first marriages begin to fail. At the wine and cocktail reception, I keep an eye on her while I mingle. She has her admirers. She gets hit on often, and not always by men.

I see her duck out a back door during the welcoming speeches. I follow.

She smiles when she sees me. I take the cardboard box of folders from her and place it on the ground. I have her pressed up against the wall. Her lips part for my tongue. My hands fondle her breasts through the rayon as the kisses ratchet up in intensity. I hear polite applause outside for the speaker, and then the dean starts his entirely useless remarks in a soporific voice. Hiking up her dress, I drag the panties to the side and squeeze two fingers into her cunt. Her breathing becomes shallow as I drive the fingers rapidly in and out. She kisses me hard to muffle her noises. Her passage becomes pulpy. She is dripping.

We hear applause again. The rustling movement of people on the other side of the double doors at the end of the corridor and the din of voices prevents us from continuing. I extract my fingers from her body and touch them to her mouth. She licks my hand clean.

Her cheeks are flushed. She adjusts her dress and collects the box from the floor. Her ass sways at me as my eyes chase her down the hallway. I will have her bent over from behind in that dress. To commence, I will admire from below those long, graceful legs rising to that delicious cunt. I will lick an orgasm from her pussy. Then I will spank her buttocks until they are red like maple leaves in autumn. Finally, I will fuck her. I will do this tonight while my colleagues are drinking at the bar at the hotel.

 

[The_Soloist]

It's useful to have a key to the roof. I am there on occasion with a six pack of beer in the afternoon, a lawn chair, a portable stereo, and my grading. The alcohol is vital to the process. Students are stupid. Not all of them. Not all the time. But many and often. I need a drink.

It's useful to have a key to the roof. I am there on occasion with a graduate student in the mid-evening, when it's dark, and campus is mostly empty. She sucks me. Her saliva evaporates from my cock and cools the glans. I have her pressed up against the shiny funnel looking thing. I tug at the chain that connects the clamps on each of her nipples. I like the whimpers she makes. A scent of arousal rises from her cunt. We're naked in public, but unobserved. She presents for me, and I take her anus. Her agony and ecstasy are shouted from the rooftop.