Assignment #4: Bring yourself to orgasm without using your fingers, hands, vibrator or other sex toy. Record the experience in your Masturbation Journal, following the usual guidelines. Your last submission showed much improvement—the use of imagery and language was excellent. Keep up the good work. Sincerely, Professor Pervert.
I click "close mail" and smile. The Professor probably thinks this one's going to be a challenge, but I already came up with the answer ten years ago—back when I was in college the first time around. Doing a "no-hands" is actually pretty easy. You bunch up your pillow, straddle it like a lover, and work your hips just so while you play with your nipples. It feels great, plus you get a good core workout.
Of course, I'll be required to confess that I'm bringing prior experience to the assignment, but I figure I can make up the lost points with an extra-steamy journal entry. I was pretty inhibited at the beginning, but the Professor's right. I am improving.
I stroll over to the linen closet and take out a towel. Today I have about two hours to complete the assignment and write it up. If I don't have my paper in his in-box by 9 pm London time, there will be "penalties." Afterwards I'll have just enough time to shower and get to campus for my real summer school class, "The Twentieth Century British Novel."
I pull off my oversized T-shirt and shimmy out of my panties. "Totally naked, above and below." That's what I'll write under "what were you wearing?" in the journal.
Next I fold the pillow and wrap it in the towel. I always get very juicy when I'm doing it for the Professor. I stretch out on the bed and push the pillow between my legs, resting on my elbows to allow for good access to my breasts, which "dangle like cones of white wisteria, tinted tender pink at the tips." The Professor will love that. He specializes in the Romantic poets and is partial to natural imagery.
I note the time on the clock above my bed, then cross my arms and begin to caress my breasts, my right hand cupping the left tit, my left hand stroking the right. My nipples feel soft and satiny and more sensitive than when I'm lying on my back, my usual position for self-pleasuring. I push my hips into the pillow, grimacing at the nubby texture of the towel against my tender slit. Maybe this isn't the answer after all?
Think, Tina, think. The rest will come.
It's the Professor's voice, smooth and deep, guiding me ever onward to new achievements.
I close my eyes and think.
A man steps from the melting red shadows behind my eyelids and stands at the bottom of my bed. His gaze is fixed on my naked ass. I can feel it, as bright and hot as a spotlight. I squirm involuntarily and that sweet, achy sensation of longing floods my belly. What is he thinking and feeling as he watches a horny slut masturbate just for him?
I begin to hump the pillow with slow, rhythmic thrusts. I can make out the man's face more clearly now--the lush, curly brown hair, the wire-rim Russian Revolutionary glasses. He is young--only two years older than I am and not even tenured yet--but he has enough of a snotty academic air that I yearn to rub away at that smug composure with every jerk of my hips. I want him so jealous of this pillow that he'll start begging me to let him take its place between my legs.
I pause mid-thrust and sigh. The sensation still isn't intense enough to bring me off. It might work if I could use my fingers to spread my labia and get direct friction on my clit, but of course, the assignment specifically forbids it.
I know you have it in you, Tina. Push a little harder. Show me how naughty you are deep inside.
"Yes, Professor," I whisper, into the air. I do want him to see me, not just my flesh, but my darker, deeper places.
The room shifts; the morning light filtering through the curtains turns to a harsh florescent buzz. Steel prison bars bisect the room, and my bed becomes a cot covered with a rough, gray blanket. I'm still humping a pillow, my bare buttocks aimed straight at the bars, but the audience has expanded ten-fold. A carefully selected squad of prisoners has been brought here to watch an over-sexed girl get herself off without using her hands. It's not clear if this is a reward or a punishment for these hardened criminals. I know the guards are sadists. They've told me that if I don't come this way in twenty minutes, the whole crew of correctional officers will get to fuck me on the sagging sofa in their employee lounge in ascending order of cock size. They warned me with a leer that the biggest one, Harry the Horse, has a dick that would put a baseball bat to shame.
The stakes are definitely higher now.
I rock my hips faster against the damp towel. The prisoners' eyes bore into my flesh. They're bad guys, lifers. They haven't had a woman in decades, and their soft howls of frustration ricochet off the concrete walls. With a fearful glance over my shoulder, I see their huge, swollen cocks are protruding from their flies. Some pump themselves frantically, heedless of the grinning guard. One pushes himself through the bars, fucking the air, as if he can enter me that way if he tries hard enough.
"Boys, you've got five minutes to finish your business, then its back to your cells," the guard barks. Then his voice turns to sugar with a touch of poison. "You, too, sweetheart. Five minutes or you know what we've got waiting for you."
"I've seen enough assholes in this joint. Make her flip over and show us her cunt," a hoarse voice grumbles.
I hear the crack of a fist landing on flesh, a bellow of pain.
"What you see is what you get," the guard growls.
The men moan and grunt like beasts as they hurry to empty their balls. My head is bursting with lewd sounds, the rasp of dick flesh being rubbed in spit-moistened fists, the rhythmic knocking of hips against the bars that keep me cruelly out of their reach.
One man stands back, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, his fly firmly zipped. He is watching me, but he's also watching them watching me. It's the Professor. Even in this place, as far away from twining ivy as you can get, he's still the one in control.
My nipples are as hard as little pebbles now. When I flick them with my fingers, electric jolts jump straight to my pussy. I'm gyrating like a stripper, sliding my cunt down over the pillow, then jerking back up, like my ass is tethered to a spring. Though I'm usually quiet when I masturbate, I realize I'm making sounds, too: deep grunts and harsh bellows to harmonize with the bang-bang of the headboard against the wall. But I'm going to make it in time. I can feel the orgasm begin to grow, a throbbing knot in my gut. And the prisoners are right there with me. With a collective groan, they shoot their wads through the bars, spraying my ass with a sizzling fountain of spunk. The odor fills my nostrils, hay mixed with something harsh and tinny, the nastiest, naughtiest smell on earth. It's all I need to push me over the edge. I ride the pillow like a bucking bronco, screaming myself hoarse as I climax, each contraction harder and sweeter than ever before.
As the spasms fade to a flutter, I check the clock. Length of session: Twenty minutes from start to finish. I collapse face down on the bed and listen to my pounding heart. So far, so good, but this is just the beginning. It's never really over until the Professor gives me my grade.
***