There was broken glass everywhere.
One mug,
I thought.
One fucking mug threw glass all over the goddamned room.
I was trying to concentrate, I really was, but the problem wasn't just the glass (I mean, the glass was certainly an issue as I was having to do some ballerina-esque fucking tap-dance so I didn't get cut) it was the whole absurdity of the situation. There was nothing I could tell myself that would help me believe that this fucked up ordeal was in any way normal, or healthy, or sane. College had never been my thing, and this time around was my third endeavor; it still wasn't really my thing. At least the first time I had been young and single. That had provided me endless amounts of free time and the enjoyable perk of being able to fuck anyone who consented with little to no remorse.
Back then post-coital remorse had looked something like a modicum of shame borne of the realization that the bump in the sheets beside you was a hell of a lot larger than you'd thought it was the night before; that the pride in having bagged a beauty was actually going to be the shame of having fucked a pig, a point your roommate would be sure to dwell on for weeks or months to come. The second trip to college, although I was married, came without kids. For that reason I could somewhat commit myself to it even if the impact of fucking a freshman was far more serious than it had been in the past. This time though, there were the kids to consider. I had one toddler at home with an attitude bigger than herself and another on the way. There was no time, no freedom and overwhelming amounts of marital guilt keeping my genitals neatly pursed away in some distant land of my wife's choosing.
When had I gotten so fucking old? It was hard, no, impossible to tell. Things had started out well enough until family commitments had forced me to slide in each of my classes, little by little, the semester quietly sneaking away from me in no time at all. I had lost the ability to catch up leaving me with little or no options for another crack at academia next semester. So, there I was, in that tiny little office, a broken mug causing every hair on the back of my neck to tingle as I poised myself gingerly on the balls of my feet trying so desperately to focus on the task at hand without tearing a hole in my foot in the process. I knew it was useless, I'd have better odds of paying attention to a poetry recitation in a war zone than I would to this teacher in this room at this university, but I knew I had to try.
I firmly planted my feet, new determination rushing through me. I gritted my teeth against the pain as crystalline shards of souvenir shop wares dug deep within my soles. I thought not of the pain nor of the terribly arduous and mundane task at hand. I thought instead of my family and the shithole hovel we currently lived in. I thought of job prospects made rich by the presence of an arbitrary piece of paper signed by some fucking dean with a god complex seated high in his tower of poorly funded academic supremacy. I knew that if I could steel my nerves and finish this test I'd be well on my way to a better life. I focused on that and hammered away, committed to get the work done.
With renewed vigor, I found simplicity in these actions. They evolved from some dreaded task into routine motion, as normal as writing one's own name. I gave it all the effort, every ounce of strength I could muster, and through these actions an observation arose: she approved. My teacher, previously scowling at my lackluster efforts now wore a look of approval on her face. More than approval, she seemed ecstatic. She gripped the edges of her desk as I worked, her gaze boring into me, seemingly saying "get this right if you want to pass." I was sweating now. I made to wipe my brow and stopped.
Better just focus on keeping a rhythm.
The nerves inside of me made my stomach churn. My muscles were tight and an anxiety rode electric down my spine causing spasms from my neck to the the back of my balls. I was getting close. Harder and harder I worked, her look of ecstasy shifted into pure, savage, erotic bliss. She was moaning out loud and though the sound of her revolted me intensely I found that I too was grunting with the efforts of my labor. My dick thrust in and out of her, wet from sweat and pussy combined. Each pull elicited a gasp, an anticipatory breath before Id drive the whole thing home again. She was almost crying now on every thrust, the force of my body sending visible shockwaves through her extra flesh. The slapping sound of sweaty skin against a large naked ass was loud in here, the cheaply plastered walls fully annunciating each and every syllable of our fuck.
"Gra... Grab..." She let out a deep, uncontrollable and rattled breath. "Grab my fucking tits."
I did as I was told. In all fairness, her tits were the best part of her. I enjoyed their feel beneath my grip. They were large but her nipples were small. The areolas barely visible beneath my fingers as I pinched and tickled each beautiful nip. I leaned over her without being told and took one in my mouth. I breathed in as much of that boob as would fit and licked furiously at the flesh that filled my mouth. I dropped my right hand, now relieved of its duties, and moved it to her hip. Slowly I teased as my hand moved closer, just barely grazing that tender flesh that exists at the union of tummy and hip, closer still to her pubic hair and down to her clit. She was close, I could tell, and if I was honest so was I. I rammed her harder and harder still. Each push and pull was a statement in an act. Each violent entry said,
I hate you,
