The Seduction of Professor Joe Smith

My name is Deborah, Debbie for short. I am 23 years old, and a recent graduate of a large state university in Southern California. Yes, I am the perfect image of the California beach bunny, though I don't much care for lounging about in the sun or frolicking in the sand. I'm a pretty intense and serious person, somewhat shy and reserved too, or at least I used to be. But I do look good in a bikini.

I developed young. By eighth grade, I had a set of breasts most women would die for and by the time I lost my "baby fat" in high school I was, I must admit, a knock-out. I'm five feet, three inches, 110 pounds, 36D-24-30—a little top-heavy, I'm afraid, but "stacked" as the boys say.

I have always been popular with members of the opposite sex, largely because of my body. I've never had trouble getting dates and have looked forward to each new relationship with anticipation. None have worked out particularly well. I have an open attitude toward sex, cultivated by parents who never hid their joy in making love. Unlike most kids who can't image their parents ever having intercourse, I know my parents have an active sex life. They never flaunted it when I was young, or made love in front of us kids or anything, but I certainly knew what was going on behind closed doors. Nonetheless, I had not found, until recently, the act of sex itself to be that enjoyable. The boys I dated in high school and college were always interested in fondling my breasts and eagerly wanted to fuck me—perhaps too eagerly, and that may have been the problem. I wanted to be loved, not just desired.

To inspire passion, not just hormone-induced ejaculations. I slept with half a dozen of my more serious boyfriends. I loved feeling their bodies against mine, their hard pricks inside me, their bodies tense and then release. I enjoyed having them kiss and suck my breasts, finger and play with my vagina and clit, and—in a few cases—lick me with their tongues. But not one of them brought forth the screams of passion that I heard emanate from my parents bedroom when I was little and couldn't sleep or on Sunday afternoons when they went off to take a "nap." Sex was nice, but not what I hoped for.

Until about two years that is, when a new fire was awakened within me. It all started in the fall of my senior year. I had heard good things from my friends about Professor Smith, but had never taken any of his classes. Looking about for a political science course to fulfill my distribution requirements, I decided to enroll in his American foreign policy class. From the first day, I found the material exciting. Things that I occasionally read about in the newspaper now made sense. He was a great lecturer, insightful teacher, and great motivator. I wanted to understand the material. Initially reluctant because I just didn't care much about international affairs, I soon found myself deeply interested in world events.

I also found myself deeply interested in the instructor. He is not what I would describe as an especially handsome man—early 40s, I guessed, thin, balding, sort of pale, about six feet tall—but certainly not unattractive either. He was in total command of his classroom. With absolute mastery of the material, he dominated the room and captivated the attention of most of the students—certainly me. I was drawn to him for reasons I never understood, still don't. I am not normally attracted to older men, but Professor Smith was different. I started off sitting in the back of the classroom—after all, this was merely to fulfill some stupid distribution requirement. By the third week I was sitting in the front row listening intently to his lectures—and daydreaming about him at the same time. Yes, my mind would wander.

I imagined myself chatting with him over dinner, holding his attention like he held mine; kissing softly, passionately and feeling his cock swell against my body; taking him to bed and making love for hours, experiencing orgasms like I had never experienced before. I often left class exhausted, not only from concentrating on what he was saying but from the great—if entirely imaginary—sex we enjoyed together. I guess many students get crushes on their professors. This one was big time. The first real love of my life, even though it was not reciprocated, as far as I knew.

The Plan

I wanted him, but just didn't know how to get him. I gathered he was married; he occasionally illustrated complex points with examples from everyday life, including his family. I knew he had kids. Large roadblock.

Nonetheless, I set out to get his attention. I wanted to excel in his class: it was a large lecture, and it would be hard to stand out; doing well on my tests would certainly help and I studied like mad. I never thought passion could enhance learning, but it did. I also started to dress for class. I was never a sexy dresser. My tits and shapely ass got enough attention all on their own. I had never worked to enhance them, and in fact often tried to wear looser fitting clothes to hide them. Not anymore. I pulled out my tight sweaters and tee shirts and bought more. I sat erect in the front row, literally pushing my breasts into his face, or so it felt. I got more eye contact from him. I bought my first push-up bra, an entirely unnecessary contraption before, and wore it with a deep V-cut blouse. It seemed to have the desired effect, as I got even more eye contact. I started visiting his office regularly, sitting across his desk, leaning in and making sure he could catch an eye-full of my ample breasts. He started squirming in his chair. It was working, for both of us.

After almost every class and certainly every office visit, I would rush home, lock myself in my room, and shed my clothes—pretending it was he who was unbuttoning my blouse, unbuckling my belt, unzipping my skirt, undoing my bra, holding my tits and pinching my nipples. I imagined it was he who slid off my now soaked panties, laid my body out on my bed, and started to play with my pussy. He who inserted first one, then two, sometimes three fingers into my cunt. He who gently rubbed my clit, he who brought forth the orgasms I enjoyed over and over again. My roommates began to comment on my closed door and moans and groans. I didn't care. Between studying and fingering myself, I didn't have the time nor will to think about anything else.

My visits to his office became more frequent. I stopped by almost daily with some question, request, or if his door was open just to say "hi." He didn't seem to mind my interruptions. Our conversations eventually turned from the purely professional to the personal. We talked about what I might do after graduation later that year. We talked about my new interest in international affairs—and I mentioned that he had a lot to do with it, a comment that drew an embarrassed response as well as a smile. One day, I came around the desk to show him some table in some book that I pretended not to understand. I leaned over to point a column of numbers, intentionally nestling my breast up against his arm. He pulled back, at first, but as I held steady he relaxed and accepted the closeness. Over the next few weeks, I found many other reasons to cross the desk. He no longer tensed when I touched him.

Near the end of the term, I manufactured a complete scene intended to draw him out, to break down the remaining barriers between student and teacher. I walked into his office all disheveled, teary-eyed, and as upset as I could make myself appear. He immediately expressed concern, and this time closed the door for privacy—a minor victory, because it had always stayed open before—and came around to my side of the desk to sit in the chair next to me. I poured out a story about my boyfriend leaving me (a complete lie, since I hadn't even thought about another man since the beginning of the semester), and forced myself to cry even harder. I'm not a very good actress, but somehow I managed to pull this charade off. He put his arm around me, and my insides leapt for joy. I leaned into his chest, pretending to give into my unhappiness completely, relaxing against his strength, working hard to maintain the fiction of why I was throwing myself into his arms. My tits pressed firmly into his chest, his arms around my shoulders, my face against his shoulder, I was in heaven—I could literally feel my cunt growing moist. I finally pulled myself together, so to speak, and thanked him for his understanding. I stood up, said I felt much better due to his kindness, and reached up to give him a quick kiss—which could have been interpreted as gratitude, but was actually intended to communicate much more. His mouth responded to mine, we lingered longer than was appropriate for only a sign of appreciation. I had won.

The semester was soon over. I had no reason to see him anymore and my spirits began to sink. I decided to remain in town for a few days longer and to build on my recent victory. After the grades were turned in, I stopped by his office and invited him over for lunch. Telling him I was a great cook who couldn't afford to take him out to eat, I explained that I wanted to thank him for his personal attention. He accepted, and I told him to come by next Monday. I knew my roommates would have already left town for the holidays.

I spent the next days preparing. I cleaned the apartment—no easy task when living with three other girls, but I didn't want him to think I was a total pig. I planned the menu and prepared the food: good, satisfying, but light—no reason to fell sluggish and sleepy when I had other things in mind. Most important, I picked out an outfit sure to get my intentions across. Since we would not be in public, I figured there were no restraints, but I still did not want to be so brash as to meet him at the door naked or anything. I still wanted to be with him—even if only professionally if that was all that was possible—and I wanted him to be able to back out of anything sexual if he wanted. I got a new push-up bra with low-cut cups, platforms really, that showed my breasts off to their best advantage but left the nipples showing. I wore a tight tee-shirt that revealed everything, especially when I got excited, but still left a little something to the imagination. I picked out a short, skin-tight skirt. I looked hot, even if I do say so myself. I had never felt so sexy, so desirable, so aggressive. I was turning a new corner.

The Lunch

He arrived at noon, flowers in hand. What a gentleman! My young dates would often just pull up in their cars outside and honk their horns. I invited him in and showed him how students lived (well, at least the sanitized version). We ate lunch. The food was great—spinach salad, shrimp and crab-stuffed avocados, crème brulee, my mom would have been proud. It was eaten with gusto. We talked about many things, but the sexual tension was so thick I felt I could cut it with a knife. There were many awkward pauses, too many topics to avoid—like his wife and kids, people who seemed to have mysteriously disappeared from our conversations over the past month. Finally, I started to clear away the dishes. He helped, and as we entered the small kitchen we were forced into close confines.

I took the initiative. Putting the dishes down, I turned, put both arms around his neck, and kissed him fully on the lips. He immediately responded, placing his hands on the small of my back, drawing me close, almost lifting me into him. Our tongues met, danced, and we held that kiss forever. Finally, breaking the initial lock, we kissed again, and again, his mouth wandered down my neck, kissing, caressing with his lips, sending tingles down my spine. His hands started to roam across my back, my sides, my butt, tenderly squeezing and holding me to him. We slowly moved toward the living room, still locked together. Finally, his hands wandered to my breasts, my hard nipples poking into his hands, my passion now in full bloom. Slowly, he began to raise my shirt, letting his hands crawl up my skin toward my aching tits. For the first time ever, they screamed to be touched, kissed, licked, sucked. I was trembling. After an eternity, he cupped my tits, stroked my nipples, rolled them in his fingers, and they grew larger and harder than ever before, almost painfully but joyously so. He eventually pulled my tee-shirt over my head, exposing my chest fully. He dropped to his knees and took each nipple into his mouth, sucking, tasting. Shaking, I almost came, and missed falling to the floor only with the support of his hands. Never had I been this sexually aroused.

He picked me up and started toward the couch, but I told him to turn into the bedroom instead. He gently put me down on the bed. I immediately bounded up, unbuttoned his shirt, and proceeded to remove his shoes, socks, and pants. Kissing my way from his mouth down his chest, I started to pull down his shorts, freeing the most beautiful cock I'd ever seen. It wasn't huge or anything, at least not like those described in porno stories. But it was beautiful, everything I had imagined it would be. Nicely shaped, straight, with a very distinct head, and incredibly hard. I dropped to my knees, engulfed this beautiful prick, and gave it all the attention that it deserved. Taking it as deeply as I could, I sucked, then released. I moved in-and-out, tightening my lips around the base of the head, stroking his dick back-and-forth with my hand, eventually deep-throating him, a personal first and, I gathered from the look on his face, perhaps a personal best. I broke away, returned to his lips, and our passion swelled even further. He slipped off my skirt and panties and swept my dripping cunt with his finger. I melted. Catching me once again, he laid me on the bed. This time, I did not get up.

He laid down on top of me. I wrapped my legs around him. We kissed and felt each other all over. He was fascinated with my breasts. He revealed that he had noticed me almost from the first day of class, had been perpetually distracted by me during lectures, and had wanted to touch, feel, and kiss my tits for months. All the feelings I had felt for him were returned. If only we had known, months of daydreaming, fantasizing, teasing, and planning could have been avoided. After kissing each other all over, he rolled on top once again. I grabbed his cock and, after a couple of final strokes, guided it into my eager pussy. I felt each inch as it pushed into me, moving my walls apart as it progressed deep inside, sending fireworks to my brain. I gripped him with my arms, my legs, my entire being, pulling him in, giving myself to him and taking him into the core of my being. Nothing had ever prepared me for this. I moaned. I groaned. Before he had fully entered me, I came.

After another deep kiss, he began to move back-and-forth, in-and-out, making love to me with slow, deliberate strokes. I felt the tension inside building again. He slowed and moved a bit so as to suck on my tits. They had never been so sensitive. It seemed like my vagina and breasts were linked together. Each stroke below magnified the intense results of his sucking, each suck increased the fire burning in my cunt. My whole body was trembling, united by the passionate fucking I was enjoying. This was better than anything I had previously imagined. Amazingly, Joe kept up a steady pace, in-and-out, as my passion built. Each stroke went deep, stretching my skin taunt as he scraped the length of his erection along my clit. Then he pulled back to my opening, teasing me with the sensation that he might pull out completely. His head massaged my opening, sent sparks through my body, and then returned to the dark recesses and warmth of my steaming cunt. Sensing my second orgasm approaching, he picked up the pace, fucking me harder, deeper, more intensely. I felt his prick grow and then explode deep within me. I felt each spurt of cum against my cervix. Then I exploded again, knowing that I had pleased him and that he had pleased me more than I thought possible.

As we came down from our orgasms, we kissed again, and wrapped ourselves around each other. He thanked me! Holding me tight, he buried his face in my tits. Soon, his now soft dick slipped out of my cum-soaked pussy. He apologized, saying that at his age and after such passion, he could probably not match my other young studs. I kissed him tenderly and explained that no boy, regardless of how quickly he could regain an erection, had ever made me feel the way that he did, that he was the best lover I had ever had, and that no one—even my imaginary lovers—had ever moved me the way he had.

Second Courses

It was now three in the afternoon. I was dying of thirst, and went to get us drinks of cold water from the kitchen. I got up, wrapping myself in the sheet from my bed. Surprisingly, I now felt somewhat embarrassed to be naked in front of him. He got up, wrapped me in his arms and removed the sheet, telling me how beautiful I was, how amazing my body is, and how he just could not get enough of it. We walked to the kitchen together, him behind me, holding my tits in his hands, me with my hands trying to grasp his butt but really only getting his sides. Refreshed, we kissed again, and again.

He led me to the couch. Sitting me down, he knelt in front and starting kissing me from my lips down, stopping of course at my tits, which responded once again to his attention, and moving down to my stomach, just brushing the top of my pubic area. Then, he started at my feet and kissed his way up, opening my legs, licking my thighs, kissing around my pussy, and setting off new waves of sensations through my body. Finally, he licked my hole, tongued my insides, and then kissed my clit, drawing it into his mouth. Lightly flicking his tongue over the tip, he drove me to the edge, and then backed off, teasing me, playing with me. With his right hand, he pulled up on my pubic area, stretching the skin, popping my clit out of its protective hood so that it stood out like an erect penis in miniature. He started to flick his tongue across it once again. At the same time, he inserted the fingers of his left hand—I couldn't tell how many—into my cunt, twisting them in-and-out, fucking me with his hand. Complex sensations ripped through my body. The feeling of his tongue on my clit and his fingers in my cunt were incredible. He quickened the pace as my orgasm rose, sucking harder and moving his fingers more purposively until I screamed out, raised myself off the couch—with his mouth and fingers still attached—and exploded in one of the most intense orgasms known to womankind. I shook, I trembled, I came from the tips of my toes and fingers. He scooped me up in his arms, held me close, kissed me with his slimy lips. I was never so happy.

Realizing that I had to pee badly, I reluctantly extricated myself from his arms and staggered off to the bathroom. I cleaned up, freshened my makeup, applied some new perfume, and hoped that we could continue our lovemaking. He was wandering around the apartment when I returned, looking at books, the art prints on the walls, some of the photos of my roommates and me that dotted the bookshelves. I held his hand, and pointed out who was who, some of them people I had mentioned in our earlier conversations. Surprisingly, he remembered most of the names and how they were connected to my life. I confessed that there was no ex-boyfriend, that the whole emotional scene in his office was put on for the excuse of kissing him. He laughed, admired my creativity, and confessed that he was looking for a similar excuse but had not had the courage to carry out such a plan. I loved him most deeply at that moment.

Kissing once again, I held him to me. I then led him back to the bedroom, pushed him down, and made love to his cock with my mouth. It came back to life, returning to its engorged state, standing proud like a flagpole on the fourth of July. This time, I wanted to be in control. Shifting him around, I lowered my cunt onto his prick, slowly pushing it in a millimeter at a time, then pulling all the way out, then repeating the process over again. The feelings were even more intense than before.