She knew from the minute he walked in that it was going to be one of those days. All the signs were there: the stern, determined gait; the tense, steel-like jaw. He was not going to be easy on her today. And she hadn't helped matters by defying him. His instructions were clear but it wasn't as if she'd had much of a choice. She squirmed in her seat, felt the blush cut across her cheek and lowered her gaze. Best not to make things worse.
It was all there the first time she met him. She was in the second semester of her junior year and had elected to take a film appreciation class instead of the usual women's studies bullshit. All the feminist crap was wearing thin on her. She'd reluctantly agreed to take on the women's studies minor to appease her advisor. You know the kind - failed hippie who now published overly dramatic poetry in local literary magazines and felt the need to "nurture" raw talent. She really needed to re-think her choice.
So when she walked into his class, she was prepared to zone out and spend 90 minutes outlining the premise of her next erotic short story. This time she was thinking of pairing an older woman with a former student who attended the class reunion to finally fuck his Physics teacher. And in the middle of a scene where Dean was bending Mrs. Farber over a chair in the faculty lounge, she felt a strange sense of foreboding. The air was almost still and it seemed like the entire class had gone silent because of it. She didn't think to look up from her notebook because had she done that she'd notice that he was standing right in front of her.
"Ms. McKinney? Is there something so much more interesting than my lecture?"
Her mouth went dry. "Uh, no Mr. Finn. I'm here."
"You may be here but are you paying attention, Ms. McKinney?
She could feel the wetness begin to saturate the middle panel of her panties. Two months ago, she had no idea that she'd become his pet. That's what she imagined he called her anyway. She felt like a puppet with strings attached to her nipples and clit instead of her arms and legs. But they never actually spoke or saw each other outside of the classroom. He just ruled her with his intense black eyes, the click of his shoes on the floor and the instructions he emailed her nightly. Instructions that'd made her come more times than she could count.
The first of what he called "requests" came the day after she wore that tight black skirt that rode up when she slid into her chair.
"Ms. McKinney. For tomorrow's class I'd like for you to participate more in the discussion. Your perspective on the last reading was enlightening and I think that your insight would contribute greatly to your fellow students' understanding of the text. I also request that you slump a little further down in your chair and spread your legs wider so that I can see your cunt. And don't wear panties."
She rubbed herself raw that night, coming in wave upon wave of vivid imagery. She imagined him between her thighs, dragging his tongue through her slit slowly and meticulously. He'd stop at her clit and circle the hard bud with such force that she'd flood his mouth with her come. She was so embarrassed by how breathless and turned on she was fantasizing about him this way. Then she'd stick her fingers in her pussy and come three more times.
The next day she sat in the front row directly in front of his desk, just as he'd instructed. She slid into her chair and relaxed her legs so that they fell open slightly. Enough so that he could stare at her bare pussy (per his instructions) while they watched Goodfellas and marveled at the genius of Martin Scorsese's play on light and dark in the film. The light of the film projector reflected perfectly off of her slick pussy lips.
