Doctor Agbani, the Senior Professor of Classics at The Queens College, sighed deeply as she scrolled the Ethical-Eco Pleasure Co's website, occasionally clicking 'open in new tab' when she saw something she liked. Usually, one of the clit stimulators, like the little purple one that was buzzing away under her kilt, would do the trick but today she was having trouble 'getting there'.
In another tab she had the university intranet site opened, specifically to profiles of PhD candidates who'd be working under her this year. At the moment she was considering a short-haired student, with large breasts, who identified as 'non-binary'. When she was the student's age, she would have called them 'butch', maybe they still did, but she liked the more flexible & yet more specific labels the newer generation of queers were using to explore & explain their sexuality & genders.
Her marriage was fairly 'open' with only a few rules (one of them being no emotional attachments, another being that they get their partner's permission before doing anything) so she usually picked one or two of that year's female PhD candidates to fool around with. A lot of the faculty dipped into the student pool, & the trick was to find ones experienced enough or savvy enough to understand it wasn't going to be a love connection so there was less risk of drama. Anything that made the university look bad would have you looking for a new job.
She adjusted the throw-pillow she'd squished against her pussy, which she was using to try & increase the pressure of the little vibrating toy. She just couldn't seem to get wet enough today. She looked over at the silver-framed picture of Lou, then back to the website. She'd pay for express shipping. Her cunt was craving more than just clitoral stimulation now, she wanted to ride something hands-free, she wanted penetration. She debated between a dildo with a suction cup which she could mount on her desk, or a vibrator with a remote control. Her long nail hovered over the mouse, perhaps a machine, were they too loud? She wondered... but a knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
She ignored it. A second knock. "Office hours ended 20 minutes ago." She called out firmly. A third knock, loud, insistent, it rang 'arrogant'. She sighed deeply & stood up, the throw-pillow falling to the carpet. She reached into her panties & held down the button on the little silicone device to stop it, but left it there, the kilt would cover it & as soon as she dealt with whatever nonsense this was she'd try again. ANOTHER knock. The nerve. She stormed to the door, flicked the lock & threw it open.
Oh great, it was Farleigh Naylor-Cromwell (called 'Fink' by his 'friends'). In her heels Tamara loomed a head & shoulders above the entitled first year. He'd always made her think of a cross between Daniel Radcliffe & that gingernut who'd been in the same movie. Bright orange hair like Prince Harry & an ego to match. He pushed past her into the office, complaining about the latest mark on 'his' Herodotus piece. She'd been 99% certain he hadn't written it when it had come across her desk. She doubted he'd even written his own personal statement when he'd applied to Oxford, but for first years, especially the ones from 'those' families, she mostly ignored this aspect of the system.
At least, if the degenerate spawn of the aristocracy were able to get pushed through their first year, the school would find it easier to milk their families for financial & political support. Not to mention, it helped with their cultivated air of prestige to have a few 'good names' in each group of enrollments. But, they seem to get lazier every year. Tamara sometimes flirted with the idea of teaching at one of the lesser known (& less pretentious) universities but DAMN, Oxford paid well, looked after the professors & offered amazing opportunities (& professional respect).
She flicked the lock on the door as he sauntered in & rolled her eyes at his back. He had barely paused for a breath in his diatribe. Whiny little git she thought as he droned on. He plopped himself down on the chair in front of her desk - Jesus Christ - did he really just casually drop the phrase 'my father & the Vice Chancellor' in his complaint? It was basically the equivalent of 'do you know who I am?' Farleigh wasn't an unintelligent boy, despite his obnoxiousness, he was just lazy. She was fascinated to hear him mis-gender the VC as he waved his family's connections around like a threat. She guessed the family connection was real, even if he'd probably never personally met her.
Still... she considered him. He wasn't bad looking as far as men go (she considered herself a 'gold-star' lesbian). She guessed wealth & youth did the heavy-lifting. He was over 18 but still boyish, slightly androgynous, a little like the butch prospect she'd been considering from the PhDs. It would absolutely just be physical, no risk at all of emotional confusion, men were simply not her thing. She hadn't gone back to the leather chair she'd risen from to answer the door, but had leaned her tall, graceful body against the stately oak desk, perching her ass on the edge as she eyed him.
The boy seemed to be gearing up to mansplain something to her. Her! A 48 year old esteemed Doctor, & head in her field. He'd never DARE if she were a white man & not a black woman, but people like Tamara were used to this kind of microaggression (not to say it didn't make her livid, but she knew when to ignore it & when to pimp-slap a bitch). She interrupted the bitch as he took a breath.
"Mr Naylor-Cromwell," she said with her authoritative voice, "perhaps you have a point." As she spoke she flipped open the wool kilt, exposing her high-waisted black panties. She reached in, pulled out the little purple toy so he could see it & turned it back on, making sure the vibration was on high before she slipped it back in & gyrated until it found the comfortable spot. She deliberately leaned back, closed her eyes & let out a slow, low moan of pleasure.
The room was suddenly so silent that the only sound was the buzzing from her clit. She rocked a little on the desk, enjoying the peace. When she finally opened her eyes again Farleigh had pitched a tent in his trousers, the bulge was larger than she'd expected for such a short guy. His face was beetroot red under his mop of ginger hair & he seemed unable to blink. She reached over & removed his wire-framed glasses. Funny, she mused, I thought all the rich kids had laser eye surgery these days. Maybe they were just for aesthetics. She folded them closed & put them on top of her 'in' tray.
His breath was slow & loud. "Would you mind standing up for me dear?" She asked him.
"Yes mum, I mean, no mum" he stammered, standing up. She stood up as well, looked him up & down & made a show of examining his prominent erection. She motioned toward it, "May I?"
"Of course, mum," he replied, suddenly incredibly polite, respectful.
She slid her elegant black hand into his pants, standing so close to him that her large, full breasts were at his eye-level. She felt her left nipple graze his cheek, he swayed a little, & she wrapped her palm around the shaft of his dick. Large, hard, she squeezed it a bit & he groaned. It would do. She felt a fleeting pang of guilt that she hadn't checked with Lou first, but she couldn't imagine there would be any real issue when she told her about it tonight. It would be more like she'd used a toy.
