Going to college was the end of innocence three years ago. Leaving mum and dad to go live on my own in the big city, leaving most of my friends who did not want to move so far away from their valley, leaving the comfort of high school to the wild world, leaving my high school sweet heart who blamed me for leaving to meet real grown up boys!
I'm Cassandre, my parents named me that way with reference to Ronsard, the famous French poet, and that was three years ago, when I joined University and started becoming who I am today. I am what one usually calls a petite brunette. I tend to dress simply though not casually, rather classy if not classical.
Not being the hottie of the classroom has its advantages. I'd hate being the D-cups tall blond that attracts the whole football club, trailing them behind her, always admired, always criticised. And since she's the prettiest, she's due to be with the captain, who is, like most of his team, on steroids - all I heard was that his nickname is "floppy-dick", not really the kind of guy I want in my bed.
The advantage of being the classical classy girl is that boys don't hover around me all the time, but when I'm going out, if I want, I just have to shake my little bum and I get to pick the pretty boy I want to end the night with. The guys I usually pick are about my age, not too sporty, I definitely have a preference for blue eyes, and I tend to instinctively pick well-endowed specimen, their size compensating for their lack of manners.
But as my bestie says, it's just sex for cleansing. Although I am sexually very active, not being able to spend a day without at least having two orgasms, these boys never manage to satisfy me. However, they don't make me fantasize, and if some of them have managed to make me moan and even cum, when I close my eyes at night, there is a man that has obsessed me for the past three years.
He got me at "Good morning class!" It was the first introductory lecture in my first year. Professor Hunt had the reputation of being charismatic, appreciated by most if not all students. When he strolled sell-assured in the theatre, all eyes were on him. Tall, square shoulders, brown hair, tanned skin and... blue eyes.
He stood in front of us and started lecturing. We were all fascinated, literally entranced by his speech. Some of the girls were squirming in their seats. I was simply hypnotised. His speech was a lullaby, his every move I scrutinized, I could not take my eyes off of him. The two hour class passed way too quickly. When Prof. Hunt concluded his introductory class, we all reluctantly left the theatre.
As the first semester advanced, I was amused to notice some girls wearing deeper and deeper cleavages, shorter and shorter skirts, as if to attract the professor's eye during lecture. And I admit it, although I never went for cleavage and short skirt, I made an effort to look good and I progressively moved from the last row to the first during the semester.
But most of all, I started having indecent thoughts about amazing professor Hunt. Every lecture was a bliss. And although I worked my ass to have the best grades, my way of pleasing my adored lecturer, I often sidetracked on one detail or the other. The first detail was eyes - I love blue eyes. But his had something more. A glitter of amused intelligence that made me melt, literally. Whenever his stare fell on me, I felt butterflies in my belly - there was something half way between discomfort and desire building within me. Sometimes, I'd just stop taking notes and stare at his lips: rich full lips on a rarely shaved face. I started wondering how it'd feel to be kissed by these lips. And his hands - long manicured fingers.
Then one Monday morning around the end of first term, my mind wandered further and I started imagining these lips all over my body. I freaked myself out at first - how did I dare having such thoughts, but this moment of guilt disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. When I got up after that class, I had taken nearly no notes, my panties were drenched and so were my trousers. I was glad they were black and I had a long coat to hide any evidence of my arousal.
I rushed home immediately after that lecture, locked myself in, threw my schoolbag and coat in a corner and jumped on my bed, not even taking my shoes off. I desperately needed to fantasize, to imagine his lips on me, all over me, accompanying my thoughts with my hands. Soon one hand was under my blouse, caressing my nipples, the other had found its way in my panties and I was fingering madly, reaching an excruciating orgasm in a matter of minutes.
What had I just done? I had rushed back from class to make myself cum thinking of my lecturer. Guilt was consuming me. It got worse the next Sunday. To get my mind off that weird track, I went clubbing and brought a pretty boy home. He was nice, caring, good enough not to ask me to go down on him. But every caress, every kiss led me to wonder how Prof. Hunt would do, feel. And the shattering orgasm I had was not so much due to his lovely cock, but to the thoughts of what Prof. Hunt's cock would feel deep inside me.
It is strange to become obsessed by someone. It's even stranger when you have a weekly date with him. Well, it is not a weekly date, just a weekly class. But each class was punctuated by a wet panty. Each class had me rush home afterwards to release my agonising desire. And each term I made sure to chose Prof. Hunt's course. But also each boy I shagged, I shagged Prof. Hunt in my thoughts. Each night I'd make myself cum for him before going to sleep, each morning I'd wake up wet from my dreams of him.
But a Prof is a Prof and there was no way I'd try anything on him. Sure, some of the girls made all sorts of effort to buy better grades from him, tempting him in his office at the end of each term. But from what I'd heard, he'd never given in. Why did I have to fall for Mr. Unreachable?
In second year, I accidentally discovered Literotica. It did not really help, to be honest, but I discovered erotic writings about students and professors, babysitters and fathers, so many mature stories of young women with more experienced men. I felt less lonely. But most of all, it fed my fantasies. Of course, I'd imagine the experienced man as my dear professor. So I started collecting those stories. I'd copy the one that I really liked on my flash drive alongside the erotic manga that I used to read.
In third year, we were much fewer students, and, to my delight, classes were not in theatres anymore but in a small class for the dozen of us. More promiscuity to my Professor Hunt - that was great and maddening. He'd walk up and down the alleys and come see every single of us. The first time he leant over me, I thought I'd faint - his delicate perfume, his radiating heat, that was way too much for me. That day, I rushed even faster back home. There, I literally ripped my clothes off, grabbed my beloved purple dildo and filmed myself with my phone while I was thrusting it furiously deep inside my pussy. I had such a shattering orgasm that it took me an hour to recover and be able to go back to college.
As days and weeks went by, I kept reading mature stories to feed my fantasies, I took photos and films, I even wrote a letter to my dear professor. I pondered for a long time whether I should send it to him and finally decided to post in on Literotica. All that stuff was gathered on my flash drive - I thought it was the safest place to keep these stories, photos, videos and writings, hidden among my lecture notes. I sometimes lent my laptop and did not want to take the risk someone finding them on my hard drive.
Until that stupid mistake. Or was it a Freudian slip? It was my last class with Prof. Hunt and I spent that whole hour fiddling my flash drive. Not that I intended to give it to him, just that it reassured me to have it between my fingers (and it kept my fingers busy). At the end of class, I placed it back in my schoolbag and left to rush home as usual. Not so much as usual, it was my last lecture with my dear professor, in the last term of my last year. I'd probably never see him again. The subsequent moment alone in my bed sounded like a farewell to my three year fantasy. It was an intense, powerful, splendid orgasm, but in a way it was fairly painful.
After that wonderful climax, I went to my desk and search for my flash drive in my bag and started panicking. I wanted to read through my letter again to enjoy the graphic details I had given on how I would have treated my dear professor, given the opportunity, but my flash drive was nowhere to be found. It must have fallen from my schoolbag when I left class. Oh my god, I just hope no one found it. I rushed to the department but all offices and classrooms were closed, the corridors were empty. Finally, I found a handwritten note on the notice board. Professor Hunt had found a flash drive in his class and the owner was to get it back from him the day after.
I was becoming mad. My head was about to explode. What had I done? What kind of trouble was I heading for. Just a few days before graduation day. I tried to reassure myself, thinking that Professor Hunt was someone honest and he would never search through a found flash drive. I went home and that night, I did not manage to find sleep, worried as I was. And that night, for the first time in three years, I did not get aroused by thoughts of my dear professor. Every time I pictured him, I'd see my decline, my doom.
In the morning, I reluctantly went to college. The corridors were full of students in their best attire queuing in front of teachers' doors in order to negotiate better grades. I therefore ended up queuing in front of my dear professor's door. When my turn came, I entered his office. He was at his desk, as sexy as ever. I was ashamed, intimidated. When he looked up, he seemed all surprised to see me.
