Give the Student What He Wants

I teach math at a Midwestern state college. It doesn't matter which one. It looks like most of the others, with some school buildings, dorms, bars, gas stations, and a grocery store, surrounded by acres and acres of open farmland. Most kids come here because it's far from home and it's a party school. It's not so bad to teach here, really, once you get over your disappointment that you're not going to have a fabulous career at M.I.T. One good thing about teaching at a party school – the students don't expect very much. Half the time they're hung over anyway.

I'm male, 42, divorced (no kids) and haven't had a significant other for a couple of years. Being a 40-something divorce isn't easy in a town like this. The women here are either under 21 or married. I don't have any scruples against a fling with either one, but the college girls aren't nearly as easy as legend would tell you, and come to think of it neither are the faculty wives. Besides, it's not so easy to find another job – a fella has to think of the risks.

So, I make do with Internet porn and my imagination. I keep myself reasonably fit – you never know when you'll run into Ms. Right Now – and anyway there's not much else to do. I think I'm good-looking, although no one would call me gorgeous.

I teach several sections of calculus-for-boneheads (excuse me, for business majors) class. No matter how good a teacher you think you are, this class will prove you wrong. The students just don't get it. Calculus and business majors mix like oil and water. The ones who do understand it are engineering majors. Poor me, poor me. I give a lot of quizzes instead of one or two exams. Take it from me, the exams are even worse.

So, let me try to describe what happened a couple of hours ago. I'm not sure I believe it myself, and I can't be sure how it will all come out, but I sure hope I'm right.

It's still January, and the new semester is just getting started. Yesterday, I gave the first quiz of the term. Today, I was marking them (no T.A.s at this college) and muttering to myself, as usual. My posted office hours began at 2:00, but I didn't notice because no one ever comes. Then they complain because I'm not available to help them.

Imagine, then, my shock when right at 2:00 somebody rapped on the door. I shouted, "Come in!" which hardly ever works, then got up to see who it was. A student! I recognized him from my late-morning class, but of course I didn't know his name. Good-looking kid, a little taller than me (5'10"), shoulders broad but not too broad. He probably outweighs me by 30 pounds. Curly, off- blond hair, dressed in the sloppy clothes that were practically the school uniform, students and faculty alike.

I didn't pretend to know his name. I know it now. I know a lot about him now, but this was two hours ago. Anyway, let's call him Jason, because that sounds like a good alias for this tale.

I stood at the door, doorknob still in my hand. "Can I help you?" I asked.

He looked kind of nervous, glancing up, down, everywhere but my face. "Can I come in?" he asked. "I need to ask you about something."

"Sure. You're in my 11:00 class, right? You sit in the middle row, over near the windows. Sorry, but I don't know your name."

"Yes, Professor, that's me. My name is Jason ___."

"You shouldn't look so worried, Jason," I said. The semester's just begun, we've taken only one quiz, so even if you blew the quiz, you've got plenty of time to recover."

"This isn't about the quiz," he mumbled. I'd sat down in my chair, and pointed to the extra chair. He came all the way in and sat down. I heard the click of the doorknob, which was set on automatic lock. That surprised me. There's no rule against shutting the door, but it's hardly ever done. Nobody wants to be accused of sexual harassment.

"Would you mind leaving the door ajar?" I said.

Jason looked up at me as if he didn't understand why I'd ask for such a thing. Then, as he got it, his smiled a little. "I'd rather leave it closed, Professor. This is kind of personal."

Oh, great. I hardly know this kid and he wants a father confessor. Not my job, not my desire, and definitely not a good idea. If he leaves here and shoots himself, I'll be sued. We have professionals for that kind of thing. I let the pause hang there, hoping he'd at least tell me what he wanted, so I could direct him to the student-stress counselor.

He just sat there, looking at me, directly into my eyes. His were unusual – blue flecked with brown. Like hazel, but blue instead of green. I was caught by his gaze, and somehow felt compelled to return it. I don't know how long we sat there, looking each other in the eyes. The room seemed to get a little darker and fuzzier. We weren't gazing like lovers. It was more like poker players, assessing one another, looking for the other's "tell."

After awhile his eyes moved a little, toward the clock. I felt I'd been released, but I also turned to look at the clock. I must have read it wrong before, because it said 2:20.

"Do you want to talk about your quiz?" I asked. My voice was a little shaky, which surprised me. The room light hadn't gone back to normal after our staring contest. His face was clear, but everything else was dim.

"Oh, no, Professor," he said quickly. "It's sort of about my quiz, but really I want to ask you about something else. You see, you seem so, . . . so,. . . non-judgmental."

"Well, thanks, Jason. I try to be that way. Most of the things other people think are really none of my business. But before you start, I need to tell you that I'm probably not the person who can help you – if you have personal problems, I'll be sympathetic, but can't offer advice. All I can do is try to steer you to the right place for real help." Here I went. If you don't shut me up, especially when giving (or not giving) advice, I'll drone on for a long time. I caught myself and stopped.

He smiled, a little. "That's okay, I'm not looking for advice. It's just that I– I– You seemed like someone who could relate to these daydreams I have."

Time to go! I tried to get up, but it didn't work. I felt glued to the chair. All I could do was nod, as if to say, "go on." Really I wanted to say, "get out." Could I even speak? What was happening?

"Well, Professor, it's like this. Is it okay to call you 'Professor?' Or do you prefer 'Doctor?'" When I didn't answer he went on. "You know that girl in the class, the one with the dark hair and the big, uh, uh, . . . cleavage? Everybody knows you do, because we see you trying not to look," he paused. "But don't worry. Nobody thinks you're a lecher. Sometimes she wears those low-cut tops. . . and it's hard to not look."

Where in the heck was this going? For a moment I didn't know who he was talking about, then suddenly I could see her, clearly, in my mind's eye. She was hot, for sure, and sassy. Tall – about my height, and proud of her C-cups and the body that went with them. Not supermodel-thin, but convex and concave in all the right places. I had made a point of learning her name, but right now I couldn't think of it. I hoped to God he wasn't going to ask me to do some matchmaking. What did he want?

Again, he locked his eyes on mine, and went on softly, miserably. "You see. . . I. . . when I look at her . . . I want to be her. I want to have big tits and sway down the hall and leave a trail of hard-ons. It's all I can think about in your class. I'm afraid I'll flunk, because I can't think of calculus, even at home. I'm stuck in this daydream."

I still couldn't move my mouth to speak, which was lucky, in a way, because I had no idea what to say. I wanted to tell him to take his weird fantasies to a good psychiatrist, but my mind wouldn't form the words. Instead, I just sat there, held in his gaze. He went on.

"The dream is really weird, because I'd still be me, too. She'd be my girl friend, and I would get off by watching the way she treated the other guys. When she really had one going, thinking he was getting somewhere, she'd drop him and humiliate him, then wink at me.

"Because – and this is the weirdest of all – all the time, she'd be my secret sex slave. She'd tease the boys I told her to tease, and give them exactly what I told her to give. And when she did it well, she'd be able to tell I approved, and she'd be so happy to have my approval that she'd cum a little right there in the hallway to celebrate. But just a little, because that's what I'd ordered."

He had my undivided attention. "And then, when we're alone together, we'd laugh for awhile, and maybe do homework, until I – Jason – decided it was time to fuck. 'Assume the Position,' I'd say, and she'd immediately drop to her knees with her head bowed. 'What is your pleasure, Master Jason?' she'd say, and I'd reply, 'Suck my cock, bitch, and do it better than last time if you don't want more punishment.'" He quickly added, "I'd never hit her or hurt her. After all, she's me, too! I'd order her to blow some geeky guy, or maybe the old school janitor, and bring me a picture as proof. She'd obey, and it would be easy, and we'd put the picture with our other trophies. I'd have all that power because of my power over her."

He paused again. I was no longer sitting in my own office. I was drawn into his fantasy, 100%. All I could see was his handsome face and shoulders. I still couldn't talk, but I didn't want to. What did I want to do?

Jason startled me by speaking again. This time, very softly. In real life I would have had to lean forward to hear his whisper, but I could hear him just fine. "Professor, I bet you've figured out why I'm telling you all this. You have the same fantasy, don't you? Don't you want to be that girl? I can tell when you're lecturing. You'll be trying to do some math problem and you'll stop. In your mind, you've become her. You're standing there, but you're really sitting down, enjoying the satin bra you're wearing, giggling to yourself as you feel the boys wonder if you're wearing panties. Watching the professor try to keep his mind on his job, but constantly longing for you. If you were that girl, you'd have all that power. You'd get really good grades! And you wouldn't even have to put out – you'd keep 'em all in heat, just by being who you are! They'd give you an 'A' just because– just because they want to please you.

"And you'd giggle again, and after class you'd tell your boy friend all about it. Me. Because that's my part of the fantasy, not yours. You can be the girl, but you can't be the boy. I forbid it. But you knew that already, didn't you? You knew even before I knocked on your door. You become that girl. You don't take over her body. Her body takes you over. You're her. Then you come to my room after class and we laugh about what a fool the professor made of himself over you – you made a fool out of your own self and can't do anything about it. And when I get tired of laughing, and I'm ready for sex, I say, 'Assume the Position!' and you drop to your knees and bow your head. Of course I don't care if you're ready. Finally I permit you to speak, and you say, 'What is your pleasure, my Master Jason?' And you humbly do whatever you're told."

As I sat there, captured by his eyes, I could feel my breasts beginning to grow. I didn't dare look. Slowly, without pause, they got bigger and bigger. They strained against my Oxford shirt, popping a button. Even though my average-sized cock was a bar of steel, as my tits grew I could feel my balls and cock fold up and get sucked into my wet, sopping cunt. The smell, of a woman in heat, rose up from my crotch. My new tits popped another button. They hurt – they were pressing against the edge of my desk, but I still couldn't move. My nipples were so taut that the breeze from a butterfly wing would have sent me into screaming multiple orgasms.

Jason moved, for the first time. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a lovely satin bra, from Victoria's Secret. "38-C" read the label. "You may move now," said Jason, "but only to remove your shirt and put on your bra. I'm a good Master – I don't want your boobs to hurt."

I tried to thank him for his kindness, but still could not speak. I did what I was told, but continued to gaze on my Master. I discovered that I was familiar with putting on a bra, although I could not remember ever having put one on before. The pretty new bra was practical, too. My tits stopped hurting. Once the bra was in place, though, I could not move my body. I gazed at my Master, anticipating his next command.

He stood, and placed his hands on his hips. "Assume the Position." I was released from whatever had held me motionless, so I complied immediately, on my knees with my head bowed. Once in the Position, I was again immobile. "Professor, from now on you are my bitch, until I get bored and discard you. In fact, your new name is Dr. Bitch. What is your name?"

"Dr. Bitch."

"What!!?"

"Dr. Bitch, Master Jason."

"That's better. Well, my cute little bitch, you have a chance to earn a great privilege. I will permit you to suck my cock. But only on one condition."

"Yes, Master. I shall do whatever my Master commands."

"Dr. Bitch, when I leave, you must get back to work. You will give me an 'A' on my quiz."

"But of course, Master. You deserve nothing less. You do not need to ask for such an obvious thing."

"Did you say, 'ask,' Dr. Bitch? Surely that was a slip of the tongue. I ask for nothing. Anything I want from you, I demand."

"I am very sorry, Master Jason. Of course you shall have all you demand. Can I please make amends for my mistake?"

"No. I don't have time. But I will keep my promise. You may blow me. Begin."

"Oh, thank you, Master. And please forgive my inexperience. I have never done this before."

"No talking. Just suck."

Suddenly I could move, and I looked up. Master Jason had stepped toward me so that the large bulge in his sweat pants was right in front of my face. I'd received plenty of blow jobs, but never given one. I reached up to his waistband and tried to pull it down. But it was tied! By his command, I could not speak to apologize, and for a moment I was afraid he would deny me this privilege. I looked into his face, and saw impatience, and contempt, but not cruelty. He would permit me to continue.

Quickly I untied the drawstring and hooked my fingers into the waistbands of his pants and his underwear. I pulled them down frantically, almost panting in anticipation. His cock leaped out of its confinement, pointing almost straight up. It reached almost to his navel. From my perspective, it looked about a foot long. And it was rock-hard. I almost wept when I realized the compliment. My Master's young cock was huge! And hard! For me! Overcome with gratitude, I reached for his balls and kissed them, then again and again. They could have been golf balls within their sac. All that cum – for me!

Carefully, but quickly, I worked my way up the long shaft, kissing every inch of it along the way. My Master had been circumcised, so the rosy-pink head was proudly exposed, waiting for my unworthy efforts. I hiked myself up straighter and marveled at the head of my Master's hard dick. It was huge. Another golf ball, or bigger. I kissed it lightly here and there, calculating the best way to suck him at that steep angle. I licked the head, then the whole shaft again. When I straightened up, this time, Master Jason grabbed my hair with one hand and my nose with the other. My feelings were hurt. He didn't have to grab my nose to force me to open my mouth. I wanted to suck, I just had to figure out how.

He must have sensed my unhappiness, because he let go of my nose and changed his grip so his fingers were tightly wound through the hair on both sides of my head. I knew what he intended, and was grateful. I opened my mouth as far as I could, just as he pulled my hair down so that my mouth was impaled by the huge, pink, hot shaft. I felt its head on the roof of my mouth, then the back, then at the top of my throat. My body wanted to gag, but somehow I had the self-control to prevent it. Even with his pride filling every inch of my mouth, my lips were several inches from the base. Just as I reached for that lower portion, to pump it with my hand, my Master pulled my head up until the head almost popped out of my mouth, then slammed it down again. This time I wrapped my lips around the shaft as tightly as I could, so that my lips alone would stroke his dick as he yanked my head up and down.

After a couple of times, though, my teeth grazed the sacred shaft. He stopped immediately and snarled, "Dr. Bitch, you idiot! Wrap your lips around your teeth. Make your mouth as much like your cunt as you can!" I could not speak to apologize, but obeyed instantly. He resumed moving my head up and down on his cock, by yanking my hair. After a while – too few beautiful strokes! – his dick felt hotter and thicker, and his rhythm picked up speed. Then he started bucking his hips, honoring my mouth by fucking it on my very first blow job. The bucking got harder and harder, to where he might have thrown me over on my back if he hadn't been holding my hair.

Suddenly he rewarded me with his cum. It gushed and gushed, with so much pressure that most of it seemed to fly straight down my throat, bypassing my mouth. I was determined to relish the wonderful taste, which, as his member softened from hard as granite to hard as a stick of wood, I was able to do. Gobs and gobs of his cum, swilling around my mouth like egg nog or something else sticky, sweet and unbelievably delicious.

He released my hair, but I didn't quit. As his body relaxed and his cock continued to soften, I sucked and sucked, inhaling every drop I could get.

I wasn't sure what to do when his immense, uncircumcised member became so soft that it popped out of my mouth. He was breathing hard, and seemed unable to give me my next command. So, I did my best to lick up all the cum on his crotch. Then I resumed the "Position," the only one I had yet been taught. I bowed my head and listened to his breaths. I wanted to ask, "Did I do well, Master? Am I worthy?" but I had not been given permission to speak. So I waited.

He didn't speak right away, but twined his fingers in my hair again and pulled my hair back, looking in my eyes. "You have a lot to learn, Dr. Bitch," he intoned. "But you're teachable." He pulled my hair upward. "Stand up."

Naturally, I stood, respectfully looking into his masterful gaze, hoping he would condescend to kiss me. But he did not and I dared not ask him. He let go of my hair and caressed my new boobs. I almost came then and there! But I sensed that I needed his permission to cum, so I fought the feeling.

Master Jason knew. He smiled, the small, contented smile of a man who knows he owns something of high quality and value.

"You can do better," he said. "If you follow through with my 'A,' you'll have the chance. Buy some K-Y Jelly and keep it here. If you ever get the mouth right, you can beg me to fuck your ass. I might even do it. You will not tell anyone of our new relationship, of course, but also you will not have sex or even masturbate without my express permission. If you want to cum, you'll have to earn it. Don't even bother to say, 'Yes, Master.' I know you'll do exactly as I say, for as long as I put up with you. But right now, take that bra off and give it back to me, put your shirt on, then sit down in your chair." My heart leaped, of course, at these words. Could I really be that lucky? And in exchange for such a simple demand! I removed the bra, and put on the shirt, but my tits still prevented me from buttoning it. I sat, rapt, expectant.

He looked stern, then grinned. As he did, my office was no longer so dim, bathed in the radiance of his smile. He stood by the door. "Thanks, Professor, for listening to my sob story," said Jason. "I'll just have to hang in there and study harder."