Shayleigh Needs Special Tutoring

Special thanks to FyreHeart, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.

* * * * * * *

What can I write about my husband, Jack -- or myself, for that matter -- that he hasn't already? Based on what I've been reading on his 'work' computer, I think you know just about everything by now.

This story isn't about him, though, which is why I've decided to take the reins and surreptitiously slip it into his Documents folder. It's about me and our beautiful sex pet, Shayleigh. He knows it happened, of course; he was there when I asked Shayleigh to fulfill this particular fantasy of mine. He just didn't have a front row seat when it actually happened.

I'm sure you've heard a lot about Shayleigh too. I want to tell you more. First and foremost, I want to tell you everything that Jack skips over for the sake of getting to the 'good stuff.'

I don't do that. If you want to skip ahead, there's a handy line of asterisks waiting for you somewhere. I won't be mad, just disappointed. If you're looking for a quick stroke, you might be disappointed too. This is my story to tell, start to finish. I'm in charge.

Shayleigh is a wonderful pet, but she's so much more than that. She's a wonderful person. Even if we'd never given each other a single orgasm, I would still think so. She's thoughtful, introspective, passionate about art and languages, and possessed of an infallible moral compass. If you disagree with that final assessment based upon what you've read elsewhere, then I think you might be in the wrong place altogether.

I told her as much one Sunday during our weekly safe word check-in. In fact, I tell her every week. She's such a loving, attentive, and obedient pet that it's hard for me to withhold my praise even on the other six days when I'm supposed to be a firm-but-loving pet owner who makes sure she gets the discipline she needs.

On that particular Sunday, it was especially important for me to communicate just how much I loved her, liked her, and respected her. I needed her to know that this fantasy of mine involved her and me -- or our sexy alter egos, to be precise -- doing things that we would never do in real life.

In real life, I'm an English professor at a local university. I take my job deadly seriously. No student gets special treatment. Every student gets help if they ask for it and are willing to work.

When Shayleigh and I began our relationship six or so months ago, one of the first things I made clear was that she would never take a class of mine ever again. Her response was pitch-perfect. I could tell she was disappointed, but she agreed immediately. I didn't have to explain it to her. She explained it to me, clearly and succinctly, to prove she understood.

When I broached the subject of my fantasy on that Sunday afternoon, Shayleigh's response was equally perfect. She took my hand, looked me in the eye, and spoke these words:

"I love you so much, Cat," she said. "I would do almost anything for you."

Believe it or not, it was the 'almost' that melted my heart. Shayleigh's not a slave. She's her own person -- more so now than ever before, in my opinion. She surrenders her privacy, sovereignty, and dignity to us during the week, but she does so of her own free will. She does it because it helps her to fulfill her own emotional and sexual needs. She never loses herself. She never loses her sense of right and wrong.

After I walked her through the outline of my fantasy, she melted my heart yet again. She didn't try to brush it off like it was nothing. A lot of lovers make that mistake. They make it all about themselves.

They're

too knowledgeable and experienced to be shocked or surprised.

They're

so open-minded that you never should have been hesitant.

They're

a little insulted you didn't trust them more and sooner.

Some of them mean well. They're trying to put you at ease by lowering the stakes. Shayleigh's far more sensitive and intuitive than that. When the time came to hear her thoughts, she replied simply, with love and acceptance.

"That sounds like a wonderful fantasy," she said. "I'm so happy you want to share it with me."

Jack squeezed my leg under the table. It wasn't sexual. Okay, it was sexual, but only because everything he does to me is a little bit sexual. Mostly, though, it was another silent affirmation of the happiness, love, and gratitude we both feel. We are so lucky to have found our Shay-shay.

It came as no surprise when our wonderful girl added a cherry on top. With a little lip bite and a slight squirm, she said:

"And I think I'd really enjoy it too."

Her only concern was where it would happen. I immediately reassured her that 'my' office would be my husband's, right here in our house. I'm willing to bend a few rules to have fun with Jack on campus; you'd be surprised how understanding people are about a legally married couple having some sexy fun after hours. I hate to say it, but a husband and a wife can get away with even more than other kinds of spouses, even here in this progressive university town.

A student, though -- even one that's not technically

my

student anymore? Never. Never, ever. That's why fantasies exist.

Jack was such a sweetheart. He rearranged the furniture and brought in a few stacks of my books for effect. He also made sure to collect all the naughty tools I'd need. Don't you worry about my husband being left out; he got plenty out of this experience after the fact. The very next day, Shayleigh and I told him the story together while all three of us were naked in bed -- well, give or take a collar and a few anal plugs. It made for excellent foreplay. Jack enjoyed it so much, in fact, that we had to have a little intermission. Afterwards I finished telling him the story myself; Shayleigh's mouth was busy licking a giant load cum from my well-fucked pussy.

* * * * * * *

It's late. Office hours were over long ago. I went home and enjoyed most of the rest of my day: a run, a shower, dinner with my husband, a few hours out of these work clothes.

My student, Shayleigh, made a real effort. She e-mailed me to make a special appointment and was willing to work around my schedule. I'm not entirely surprised she sought me out. She's clearly been having trouble focusing during class, and her first two papers were late. What struck me, however, was that both were top-quality work. None of my usual alarm bells for plagiarism went off. It was a genuine shame to have to knock them down from As to Cs.

She waited too long, though. Two Cs, and she really has no hope of getting anything much better for the course. Students who hand in late papers, moreover, never qualify for my discretionary grade boosts.

There's a knock at my door.

"Come in, Miss Thompson," I call out.

Shayleigh opens the door and enters meekly. She hunches her shoulders and tries not to make any noise with her footsteps. She's nervous and ashamed.

She's also very pretty. We professors don't say those kinds of things out loud. We develop excellent poker faces. Her beauty is undeniable, though, even though she's clearly not doing well.

"Thank you for seeing me so late, Professor Adams," she says.

"You're welcome, Miss Thompson," I say. "I do try to make accommodations when I can."

I'm sitting at my desk. I motion for her to take the seat opposite. She takes off her backpack and sits down.

I'm getting a very strange vibe from Shayleigh tonight. The quality of her papers had already piqued my curiosity; now that she's right here in front of me, up close, I don't think she's going to ask me to change her grades. I don't think she's going to give me one of the usual sob stories. Her body language still telegraphs nervousness, embarrassment, and shame, but that's not all there is to her story.

For some reason, an entirely different set of alarm bells goes off in my head. I think I'm genuinely worried about her.

"Miss Thompson," I say gently, "I don't mean to offend you in any way, but... are you okay? Did you need to talk to someone about something not strictly academic?"

If something really is wrong, then obviously I'm not the person she should have come to. When you work with teenagers and young adults, though, you have to set those thoughts aside. There's no telling why a student will reach out to a particular person. If they're in crisis, you need to reach back. You need to help first. The rest has to wait.

Shayleigh nods 'yes,' then she shakes her head 'no.' She's flustered. She's confused.

"I mostly just want to say I'm sorry, Professor Adams," she says.

I lean back in my chair. The alarm bells recede. As far as getting a grade bump goes, it's one of the least common gambits. Still, it's not unheard of. It's manipulative, but at least it's properly submissive. The student offers up their dignity as a sacrifice to the gods of academia. To borrow a phrase from my husband's profession, they throw themselves upon the mercy of the court.

"Now, Miss Thompson," I say, "one reason we have rules about late assignments is to remind students that education is not about pleasing or disappointing professors. It's about living up to one's own potential and learning personal responsibility.

"It's also about making sure everyone is treated equally, and fairly," I finish.

I make my voice properly stern. I've been told I'm quite good at it. When I get all dressed up in this academic monkey suit to boot, I can feel my authority radiating outwards toward my students. I even picked up a pair of glasses a few years back. They're not prescription, but they complete the look.

Shayleigh nods again. She looks up at me, and her eyes -- well, her eyes are something else. They're so innocent. They're so vulnerable.

They're so submissive.

My poker face holds, but my pussy's not quite as cooperative.

"I want to do better, Professor Adams," she says.

"Your papers were excellent, Shayleigh," I reply casually. "All you need to do is learn how to manage your time better -- and, again, I mean no offense, but I think you may want to talk with somebody about your sleep schedule and your diet. You do seem very distracted during class. You don't really participate, and that's not going to help your final grade.

"And yet," I continue, "if you were to share thoughts and insights like the ones from your papers, I'd expect your participation grade to substantially improve by the course's end."

Shayleigh starts bouncing her leg. She bites her lip. I know it's from nerves and embarrassment. I know it isn't meant to be sexy, but my pussy has its own opinion.

"I want to," she says, "but I'm so nervous. I can't focus. I'm just so..."

I cannot believe I'm going to let my pussy give me advice on how to handle a student. Honestly, what the fuck?

I do, though. I get up and walk around my desk. I place a hand on Shayleigh's shoulder. She acts like it's made of Icy-Hot; she jumps in surprise at first, but after a few moments she shudders. It's not a shudder of fear. She tries not to give herself away, but she just can't help it.

I make one last halfhearted attempt to be professional.

"I know all sorts of people on campus, Miss Thompson," I say. "I know people at the clinic, both on the medical side and the wellness side -- but I want you to know that you can talk to me too. I'm not going to turn you away. I genuinely care about how you're doing. Your health matters - so much more than one class."

"It's not -" she begins, but I shush her.

It's highly unprofessional. I've made my decision, even if my higher mind isn't willing to admit it yet.

"These things are hard to talk about, Shayleigh," I say. "I know. And I'm so glad you reached out to somebody -- to me. It was very brave. I'm just going to ask you some questions. You don't even have to talk if you don't want to. You can shake your head or nod. You can let me know in your own time."

Shayleigh tries to control her breathing. She notices her leg has been bouncing, and makes the effort to stop it. It's probably not the best idea. That energy is going to have to go somewhere.

"Is somebody hurting you, Shayleigh?" I ask. "Do you feel unsafe?"

She shakes her head 'no.'

"No, of course not-" she begins. I shush her again. I start rubbing her shoulder.

"It's okay," I say. "It's okay. I believe you. I trust you.

"Is it drugs?" I ask.

She shakes her head 'no' again.

I walk around and crouch down. I take my hand off her shoulder. I find her hand and offer mine. She takes it. Hers is clammy. It's shaking.

"Are you anxious, Shayleigh?" I ask. "Are you nervous? Do feel that way a lot? Even all the time, maybe?"

She pauses a moment, then nods her head 'yes' -- vigorously, at that.

"I just can't stop thinking," she says.

I rub her hand. Racing thoughts are a common symptom of anxiety, but I don't want to jump on that. I can sense she has more to say. I don't push. I know this next part has to come from her.

She meets my gaze again. The embarrassment and vulnerability crest.

"I can't stop thinking about

you

," she says.

As soon as the words come out, she's a mess of nervous energy. She looks everywhere except at me. She's so embarrassed that she probably feels like she's going to die.

My pussy tells me to claim her, right here and now. It makes a compelling argument that I'd be doing her a favor. I'd be giving her exactly the relief she needs.

I know I can't do that -- not yet. The higher mind doesn't exactly win, but it does set some terms.

"Shayleigh," I say, "that was a very brave thing you just said. I know it was so hard. I want you to know that I don't think any less of you, at all. Quite the opposite. You're clearly suffering, and you need help. You deserve help. I want to help you."

She looks at me again. Her eyes are pleading, but she doesn't believe I can help her. It's perfectly reasonable of her. I really shouldn't help her -- not with this. It's wrong.

"Now, Shayleigh," I tell her. "Obviously we can't talk about this outside of this room, but..."

I let her squirm for just a moment.

"...if you want to, you know, think about me, when you're by yourself, that's okay," I tell her. "There's nothing wrong with that. Everyone does it -- and if they don't, maybe they should. It can really help. And I wouldn't take that into account at all, going forward."

"I think it would help, Professor," she whispers, "but I've tried, and... I can't."

I take her hand in both of mine. I rub it.

"Do you mean that you can't have an orgasm, Shayleigh?" I ask her.

She nearly dies of embarrassment yet again. I let her work through it. Finally, she nods 'yes.' Then it all comes pouring out.

"It was fine before," she says. "I just thought I wasn't that type of person. I liked some people, sometimes, but it was nothing special. Then I saw you and I just... I just couldn't stop thinking about you. And then I tried to... you know... and I couldn't, and then I kept seeing you, three times a week, and you're my professor, and now I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't focus on my classes -- and god, trying to raise my hand during yours, I just-"

I finally shush her again. I keep rubbing her hand.

"Shayleigh," I say, "this breaks my heart. It does. Nobody deserves to suffer like this. And those papers... you could be such a good student if you could get the help you need."

I pretend to think something over. My pussy takes the win; it doesn't say 'I told you so.'

"Shayleigh, I want to help you," I say, "but I could get in so much trouble. I could get fired. Every single one of my students could have their academic careers disrupted while the school investigated me."

"No!" she whispers. It's beautiful. It isn't just lust. She really does care about me.

"It's okay, Shayleigh," I tell her. "It's just... we're going to have to come to a special arrangement. We're going to have to do some things so that we know we can trust each other."

"What would I have to do?" she asks meekly.

I hold my poker face. I know she wants me to tell her that she'll 'have' to have sex with me. That's not going to cut it, though. There's going to be more to it than that.

"Well, this is how it would work, Shayleigh," I tell her. "For your next two assignments, you'd go online, to one of those websites that sells college papers and essays; you'd hand in papers from there. You'd hand them in on time, or even a day or two early. You'd get very good grades on them, but I'd keep them in a special file."

She looks at me; she's a very smart girl, but this is new for her. She doesn't fully understand yet. The good news is that she's focused. I know she's listening. I know she's taking it all in.

"And you'd start raising your hand in class too," I continue. "There'd be no pressure. You'd be able to speak your mind without worrying, and your participation grade would go way up.

"By the end of the semester, you'd have a solid B-plus," I tell her. "That's a fine grade. Not a single door would close just because of that."

"But," she says, "I want to do well, Professor. For real. I want to learn."

I smile at her.

"I know you do, Shayleigh," I say. "If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't be making this offer at all. You're going to earn that B-plus the regular way. You're going to resubmit five papers over the next year or so, and you and I are going to work together until every single one of them is at least worthy of an A-minus, on its own merits - and, well, the first two are pretty much done."

Her eyes light up. God, she is a rare one. She's happy about the extra work. I think I made the right decision.

"I'd really like that, Professor Adams," she says. "But..."

"That's only two parts of our three-part arrangement," I reassure her. "I told you I was going to help you and I meant it. The third part of our arrangement, Shayleigh, is that you would let me become your special tutor."

Shayleigh nods. She doesn't know what she's agreeing to, but she wants me so badly. I don't merely see it. I feel it. There's no poker face on this one. Her whole body is a giant, beautiful tell.

"Now, special tutors have a lot more control over their students than regular professors, Shayleigh," I warn her. "Their students have to be very obedient. They have to follow instructions without hesitating or talking back. They have to trust. They have to accept that their special tutor knows what's best for them."

Shayleigh bites her lip again. All those negative emotions are still there -- as is the damage they've done over the past few weeks, depriving her of food and sleep -- but they're fading. They're being overwhelmed. She's hopeful. She's horny.

So am I.

"I think I'd really like that, Professor Adams," she says. "I think you could really help me."

"Do you want some time to think it over, Shayleigh?" I ask her. "This is a very big decision. I'm not going to sugarcoat it: if you agree to this proposal you'll be submitting to me. I think you know what that means. You wouldn't just be a teacher's pet. You'd be a

pet

. I'd have my special file on you. I'd own you."

I think I've made myself clear. It's always hard to tell with the girls, though. Even in this day and age, with literally everything available with a few clicks or swipes, some girls manage to stay naive. If I cared to make this offer to any boys, I imagine most of them would already be barking like dogs and burying their noses in my ass. They'd be taking my strapon up theirs, even if it hurt.

"I want this," she says.

My pussy screams in triumph; its language is moisture and heat.

I lead her to my computer. I show her what to do. She isn't due to submit another paper for a few weeks, but it's very easy for her to seal her own fate and get started on her special file right away. It only takes five minutes, maybe ten. She's given me her academic integrity. It's my collar around her neck until I get her fitted for a literal one.