mick111
03-11-2011, 06:50 PM
Confessions of an Academic Predator
Chapter 1
My name is Doctor X. I have chosen that pseudonym primarily because the stories I am going to tell you are graphic, and if the details ever got out I would probably be arrested, definitely fired, and forced to change my name/profession/state of residence. It’s not that I am embarrassed or ashamed at what I have done… far from it. Rather, the moralistic society of today tends to frown on such normal actions as rape, sodomy, intergenerational sex, forced impregnation, and mental manipulation. You see, in my world, women are disposable, little more than objects to support and satisfy my personal needs, and I take great delight in using them as sexual objects and, if I begin to tire of their presence, disposing of them.
A tsk-tsking Puritanical-type would call me sick; I call myself an Academic Predator. Academic Predators are those men (and a few women) who have achieved some level of power in a university or college, and use that power to satisfy their every carnal desire. And the university campus is the ideal place to target victims; most of the student body is transitory (they are around at most for only a few years) which avoids sticky entanglements, there is a wide variety to choose from (indeed, if you hunt long enough you can find a cunt for every sexual fetish in the world), and most are young girls away from home for the very first time (and uneducated in the ways of what is decent and what is indecent in male/female relationships). As a Predator working on and living near a major university campus in the northeast, I have found the ideal hunting ground to feast, and for over ten years I have worked my way through a vast pool of coeds, some willing and some not, but all of whom end up taking my seed inside of the.
Some would call me a psychopath; others would call me a devil, or evil incarnate. To me, that is just more Puritanical moralizing bullshit. If I must actually peg my psychological state, I would have to say that I am borderline sociopathic. There is a vast difference between a psychopath and a sociopath, mainly in motivation and ultimate actions. I have found it best if you look at it through this interpretation. Say someone steals your leather jacket, and you complain about it. A psychopath would respond, “Yes I did, and now my neighbor’s dog is telling me to cut open your stomach and eat your entrails.” Conversely, a sociopath would respond with “But you weren’t using it!” Sociopaths are primarily concerned with their own needs, desires, and pleasures, and I believe that most Predators are indeed sociopaths. I call myself borderline primarily because I can actually comprehend the mental states of my targets, essentially understanding what motivates their actions, and I can best manipulate my relationship with them in order to maximize my fulfillment. Don’t get me wrong… it’s not as if I don’t care for the cunts who fall under my spell. On some level I suppose that I do love them, at least as far as I actually can love someone or something beyond myself. At worst, I only care lightly – even the cunts who are one-shot encounters, whether a quickie to slake my occasional lusts or those who I rape (and abuse – there’s nothing like a little bondage and torture to get the juices flowing!), are somehow justified in my mind as recipients of my love. But on the large scale, it’s all about my needs, and if my cunts get their needs fulfilled as well then that’s just incidental.
So, if the risk of exposure and censure is so great, why did I decide to write my memoirs? In truth, I am doing so because I am offended at the quality level of today’s academic pornography. For years I have read numerous stories on the internet, each one purporting to be true, that claim to relate a true tail of a sexual encounter between a college professor and one of his students. Normally, they go something like this… Coed A (who is alternately a cheerleader, a gymnast, or a professional stripper with a waist measurement in the single digits and a bust measured in the triple), dressed in an outfit that would get her arrested on the set of a porn video for indecent exposure, goes to Professor B (who is vague and undefined) because she is failing his class. She simpers and whines and begs (“Oh, Professor B, I just have to pass this course!”), all the while thrusting out her 78HHH jugs in his direction. Vague-and-undefined Professor B tells her what she needs to do to pass (“Well, A, I can pass you if you suck on my cock!”), which she does, with gusto. Before you know it the coed is spinning like a top on her professor’s dick (which is usually the size and shape of a fire hydrant), all the while promising to bring her hot, slutty friends to join in the fun, before he plasters her to the ceiling with 3,000 gallons of jizz that shoot out of his prick like from a fire hose. Fade out, next story, who cares?
Reality doesn’t work like that, and here’s why. First, any professor with any sense will avoid the simpering, “I’ll suck you off for a good grade” bimbos like the plague – they are a dime a dozen, and each one of them is all talk, no action. (And we’ll just ignore the fact that if any bimbo actually follows through, they can – and frequently do – blackmail the target of their affections.) Second, I have yet to encounter a cunt on campus that actually HAD massive jugs who didn’t also weigh over 400 pounds. Third, most professors aren’t that well endowed. It quickly becomes obvious to any reader that the author of “The Professor and the Desperate Coed” story posted online is neither a college professor, a coed, or even probably in college. Chances are that they have never actually been physically intimate with a woman either, based on their caricature of the sex act.
Most academic cunts on campus are normal. They are of normal height, normal weight, normal tits and ass and pussy. They come in all shapes and sizes, but they readily fall within the norms for human females between the ages of seventeen and forty-five. Their tits aren’t gargantuan, their pussies aren’t still tight after kids, and their waistlines tend to fluctuate with the season and the diet. I have seen cunts with stretch marks, and cunts with flawless alabaster skin. I have played with tits ranging from 32A all the way up to 38DD. Tall and short, thin and round, blonde, brunette, and redhead, I have had them all… and after a while, they all start to look the same. This might be what contributes to the development of the Predator, both the ready access to all manner of female pulchritude and the fact that, with a little work, you could have exactly what you want for as long as you want to have it. To a Predator, your average college campus is like a grocery store… there is a wide selection to choose from, you can try new things, and everything can be obtained for the proper price. Best of all, there is always new items stocked on the shelves, while old items (i.e. used-up cunts that are no longer of any great value to anyone) are “discontinued” and leave the store.
Most Predators have their own particular “favorite” type of cunt (my particular derogatory phrase for a coed who sleeps with her professors, whether willingly or not), a particular archetypical coed that they tend to pursue above all other types. There are Artsy Predators, who prey on the stereotypical Art Chick cunts who tend to congregate around the (duh) Graphic Arts Departments. Some are Jock-Strappers, who tend to pursue the athletic cunts. Porcine-Porkers tend to prey upon the fatties; Lap-Doggers tend to be lesbian Predators who go for the über-militant feminists; and Greekers chase after sorority cunts. Predators come in all shapes and sizes, and all have particular likes and dislikes. As for me, I don’t have a particular “type.” There are some cunts I have no interest in pursuing… for one, fatties turn me off quicker than a cunt who wants to marry me. Black cunts (the “Niggeristas,” as I sneeringly call them in my head) don’t particularly interest me, because while they might have decent figures when young (most only pork out in their late twenties) they are all incredibly loud, they don’t shut up, and they are about as discrete as raping your sister on national television. Granny cunts are too old and can’t keep up with my demands, so they are nominally off the target range (although once or twice I have stumbled across a couple of cunts who were fifty-plus years old, and after a little manipulation were more than happy to let me fuck them). Other types I do not actively pursue but I might have a dalliance with if the stars align the right way, such as Cheer cunts (uber-hot and easy to bone, but too popular to be discrete), Feministas (too easily offended and usually too strong willed, but delightful to rape, especially if you can somehow convince them that their assault is their own fault), and PITs (Presidents-in-Training – cunts who are so focused on their studies as a means to accomplish some specific life-goal that they don’t even acknowledge anything outside of their singular focus. By the time they realize that there is more to life than their goals [like my spurting cock], they have left the university far behind and are out of my reach). Other than that, I tend not to discriminate when it comes to cunts… although I do tend to insist and target those who are very feminine. What can I say – I’m a sucker for the girly type. Nothing gets me hotter than short skirts, fitted blouses, makeup and jewelry.
Now that you know a little bit about me and the way that Predators operate on campus, you will understand why I have chosen the particular cunts that I have opted to pursue, and why I do things in my particular manner. Most are short term, sexual encounters undertaken to drain a Predator’s balls, teach some little bitch a lesson by crushing her soul, or for the sheer thrill of having complete sexual control over another human being. However, each Predator has a small stable of regulars, the cunts that they repeatedly use. At the start of the new semester, I had one regular cunt, a needy, damaged MILF by the name of Carrie, who I used primarily as an oral receptacle for my spunk (although I have recently expanded my games with her, pushing her limits in order to see just how far she might actually go in the name of pleasing me). Her story is especially enlightening, and if you pay attention to the way that I pursued, obtained, and used her, then you can learn how relationships actual work on the modern college campus.
Carrie was one of the typical cunts that I encountered, stalked, and obtained, and perhaps the one with whom I have had the longest “relationship.” For a little over two years, she has sucked me off almost every day that school is in session, and while we have “messed around” in other ways during the holidays and summer break, both she and I tend to prefer her oral services. Most guys think that the best way to take advantage of a cunt is to force them to take their cocks in their pussies, but the truth is far more primal – the best way to use a cunt is to have them on their knees in front of you, taking a hot, sticky load of your jism across their pretty little faces, making them a sticky, humiliated mess. I was fortunate to have found one such cunt in Carrie. I first ran into her in my Intro course about three years ago, when she was twenty-eight; now, at thirty-one, she still looks smoking hot, and if anything my attention has encouraged her to improve on what God gave her. It took several years of patient work on my part, but eventually I managed to get her full life-story. The work was long and frequently tedious, and consisted of me listening to her bitch about her life; an important point-of-fact for the burgeoning Academic Predator, in order to get ANYWHERE with ANY cunt, you HAVE to be patient and put in the talky-listeny time!
In terms of her classification, Carrie is what I like to call a “Fallen Angel,” or a cunt whose life took a detour, crashed, and burned, and by the time she encounters me she is lost, confused, and open to manipulation. Carrie had been born to a wealthy family, and had naturally grown up spoiled rotten by an absent daddy and an alcoholic mommy. The only thing she had going for her were her genes; back in the mid-90’s, she was 5’4” tall, weighed an even hundred pounds, and had tits that seemed to defy gravity. She had some level of Greek, Italian, or maybe even Turkish – some south-eastern Mediterranean – blood in her, making her hair a thick, curly black wave, her skin ever-so dusky, and her figure naturally curvy. Naturally, she had never bothered to develop any sort of intellect, and had skated by on her looks, graduating from high school as a solid C student (I later found out that she had made sure to only take classes taught by horny old goats, who probably were mesmerized by her cleavage). She admitted to me that she had done a bit of boat-show modeling and some low-grade catalogue work after school as a pretext of self-support, and though she didn’t know it, I also discovered that she had done some nude modeling... (God, the internet is a wonderful tool for research! Needless to say, I have that photo as the wallpaper on my computer at home.) By the time she had hit twenty, she had gotten married to a stockbroker, dreaming dreams of a life of supported ease.
The reality she ended up with was four kids, an alcoholic husband who slept around with anything street-legal under the age of twenty, and a hard smack in the face whenever she complained. Her husband didn’t care what she did, as long as the kids were taken care of and that she would spread her legs upon his command. I discovered that it was through the rape-method that her brats had been conceived – the eldest when he raped her on their wedding night, the next when he raped her in her old bedroom while they visited her parents over the holidays, and the youngest twins were conceived after a night of drunken rage, sodomy, and tears. By the time she hit her late-twenties, her husband was sleeping with a series of eighteen-year-old interns who worked at his office, and one of her biggest complaints was that she had to sleep on sheets that reeked of sex and other women (and when she complained, asshole hubby beat her bloody and forced her to lick the sheets clean – including the other woman’s pussy juices). Three years ago she had enrolled at school (with, as with most Fallen Angels, dreams of independence and pride dancing in her head) at twenty-eight to better herself, she had gotten to the point where she believed that all men only wanted her as a receptacle for their sperm, and felt “betrayed by love” and “destined to die without knowing love.” (I kid you not; the drama queen actually spouted that trite bullshit once.) She arranged for a babysitter for the kids – some homely girl that she knew, probably the only friend she ever had and the only other woman who would have anything to do with her – and had enrolled at my college.
I first noticed her sitting in the back of my Intro course, and I had her number in about three seconds. Physically, she was still something of a stunner; she had long, curly black hair that fell in waves down her back, large brown eyes framed by long, dark lashes, flawless skin (except for a few small stretch-mark wrinkles cut here and there on her chest, and some worry lines around her mouth and eyes), and 38C tits that were still perky, even after her kids. She was a bit thick around the hips, but that was understandable considering that she had squeezed four brats out of her cooze. She dressed like a woman who wanted to be noticed, with expensive leather boots, skin-tight jeans, and a thin, white, ribbed wife-beater that seemed molded over her lacy, underwired jugs, with a light-blue man’s shirt tossed over her shoulders to complete the ensemble. However, if her clothing attracted people’s attention, her attitude certainly drove them away. She slouched in the back with a defeated, somewhat haunted look, like somebody who half-expected their mortal enemy to come charging through the door at any second to kill them. I knew in an instant that she was being abused, primarily because of the black eye she had almost completely covered with makeup (if I hadn’t possessed the experience that I had, I would have missed it). Though I didn’t know it at the time, that morning asshole hubby had forced a little violent morning delight on her, and as she sat in class her stomach was still roiling from the two squirts of spunk he had forced her to swallow.
Being a Predator is a lot like being a spy… there are some cardinal rules that you must follow in order to both thrive and continue you extracurricular activities. These come in two flavors – information that will make it easier for you to find likely target cunts to fuck, and UNGODLY important facts that are critical for you to know so you don’t wind up fired, in jail, or worse!!! Here is a particular useful bit of information - abused cunts are incredibly easy to score, primarily because they are desperate for some non-threatening male attention which, eventually and almost universally, will turn into sexual desire. Though they may think in the initial stages of your “relationship” that you are just a “nice guy” who wants to befriend them, as your time together grows and their home lives continue to be abusive, they will start entertaining thoughts of a relationship with you… which will naturally turn into dreams of sexual satisfaction at your hand and no one else’s. With only a bit of effort, you can convince them to perform obscene acts on you… and further convince them that it was their idea in the first place.
I didn’t make my move the first week, nor during the second. Instead, I ran the course in a business-as-usual manner, running the class, lecturing, assigning short papers, and grading. Carrie’s papers were nothing spectacular, and indeed showed that she was not the sharpest knife in the drawer as some of her sentences were truly excruciating to read. The other students’ papers got only cursory glances, but I paid close attention to Carrie’s. Out came the red pen, and I made sure to mark every single little mistake I could find on both grammar and content (and even included a couple of points that only a PhD grad student would have been aware of). The third paper I handed back included a little written note that merely read SEE ME PLEASE.
After the sixth class (the end of the third week), she showed up at my office during conference hours, looking miserable. As she sat in my comfy chair and whined about how difficult the course was, I took a quick survey. She still dressed sexy, although now it was a tight, vaguely see-through blouse, and it looked like Mr. Hubby had blackened her other eye. I waited until she looked like she was going to start crying, and quietly interrupted.
“Carry, I don’t think that this is about your papers, is it?”
She looked confused and taken aback. “Wha… What do you mean, Dr. X?” she asked, her chest heaving (!) and the corner of her eyes filling with tears.
“I think that there is something else that’s bothering you,” I replied, leaning forward to place a fatherly hand on hers. “I think that the reason you are struggling is that you are having some problems at home. Is everything all right?”
She hemmed and hawed for a few seconds, and then started sobbing. I crouched by the chair and put my arm around her shoulders, and she buried her face into my chest as she practically howled tears of anguish. I let her cry on my shoulder for a few more minutes until the storm started to settle, then sat across from her while she poured her hear out. I learned a good deal about her situation on that day; how she had reached thirty years old without having accomplished anything (pretty much true), how her looks were going (they weren’t, but Predators shouldn’t build up their target’s self-esteem too much in the beginning), about how she was stupid (probably or probably not – remember, I wasn’t too concerned about her mind!), and about how her husband insisted upon raping her every few days. In fact, she admitted that was how she gained the latest shiner – the night before our meeting he rolled on top of her, and when she complained of a headache he hit her until she spread her legs, quaking and sobbing tears of pain and fear as he used her as a sperm donation cup. She claimed that she would have left him years ago, except that he had threatened to deny her visitation rights with her children (which she could live with) and that he also see to it that she would not get a cent from any divorce decree. She cried that she had to put up with it because she was unable to make a living on her own, primarily because “… I’m such a stupid fucking cunt, Dr. X!” Finally, through some truly monumental drama-queen tears, she wailed about how her life wasn’t worth living, and how she should end it all.
That was what I was looking for. It took me almost an hour (fortunately, I had already taught all my classes that day and had nothing else on the agenda), but I managed to calm her down. I reinforced the idea that she was a worthwhile person, that she wasn’t stupid, and that her husband didn’t deserve her. We talked for another thirty minutes about her life, and I gave her just enough of a boost so that she started to feel as if she could maybe, POSSIBLY, handle the problems in her life. Finally, I worked with her a bit on her papers, showing her the errors that she made, and by the time she left my office I had her convinced that she could possibly pull a decent grade in my class after all.
And that was it. I didn’t make any sort of move that day (although I will admit to glancing at her chest when she wasn’t looking – her tits seemed to defy gravity!), but I had laid the groundwork for the future. I lightened up a bit on her next few papers, raising the grade ever-so-slightly, and dropped the “PhD level” complaints completely. For the rest of the semester she came to my office after every class, and we spent an hour or so talking about her life (well, she mainly talked… I merely listened, nodded sagely, and provided positive reinforcement to her), followed by about fifteen minutes of discussion about her class work. Thanksgiving break was a test of sorts, a self-evaluation on my progress – my school only has classes in session on Mondays and Tuesdays, so she actually missed our usual Thursday talk. The following Tuesday she showed up almost as soon as the day started, trying to play it cool by telling me how pleased she was to see me again, but she actually gave me a hug by way of greetings… and the fact that her rock-hard nipples practically cut through her thin silk blouse as they pressed against my chest like little tacks told me that she was almost ready.
By the time that the semester was over, I had worked with her more than any other student, and it was pretty obvious to me that she was totally under my spell. Our office discussions became much more intimate, and we talked about some of her desires – most of which seemed to revolve living a totally different life with someone else, kind of like a “life reboot.” Every visit she scooted a bit closer to me until the final weeks when she was practically sitting close enough to grope, with her knee occasionally rubbing against mine, laughing a bit too much at my jokes and giving me a front-row view of the vast crevasse that was her cleavage, and practically steam-pressing my shirts with her breath. She also started doing little things that she thought she needed to do to try to get my attention… I noticed that when she followed me back to my office after class, somehow one or two more buttons on the top of her blouse popped open than had been undone during my lecture, and when she dropped by for a visit “just because she was in the neighborhood, ” she would always pull her shoulders back, thrust out her chest, and look at me through her thick, dark lashes when she knocked at my door. Once, during one of our after-Thanksgiving meetings, she thought she was being clever by hiking her skirt up a little higher each time she thought my back was turned, pretending that she didn’t realize that she was giving me a view of her creamy thighs and delicately flowered panties.
Then the end of the semester finally arrived, and it was time for the one-two sucker punch I needed to perform to guarantee that she’d be back. Carrie knew that we wouldn’t be able to see each other for the next couple of weeks, and she had evidently decided to dress for seduction – the jeans she wore were so tight that I could tell she had forgone the panties in favor of a g-string, the undone buttons at the top gave me glimpses of her smooth breasts and lace bra, and her three-inch stilettos practically screamed “fuck me!” She had gone to the beauty salon the previous day, and her hair was a flowing black wave that just kissed the top of her rounded, heart-shaped ass, her makeup was subtle, and her perfume was a soft, delicate flowery scent. She followed me back to my office after the final exam, and I gave her a small present – a cheap scarf, on that I picked up at the college bookstore with the university’s logo on it. Let’s be honest – the scarf was a commonplace item on campus, and between end-of-semester sale prices and my faculty discount I paid less than five dollars for the thing. However, Carrie she squealed when she unwrapped it, acting as if I had presented her with a diamond necklace and promptly wrapped it around her neck.
“Oh, thank you, Professor!” she said with sparkles in her eyes as she stroked the fabric, rewarding me with a small kiss on the cheek. Then she got a bit sad. “I’m sorry, Dr. X,” she pouted, looking at me through her eyelashes (while simultaneously jutting out her chest at me). “I didn’t get you anything! Oh, I feel so bad!” Her body language was so blatant that I could tell exactly what she was thinking as she fidgeted in front of me, her fingers playing with the scarf – He’s so nice! If he wanted to feel my titties, I would let him, she decided. I’d even let him touch my butt!
“Don’t worry about it,” I replied dismissively. Pointing towards the scarf, I added “You earned that… and your grade.”
“Do you think I did well?” she asked, hopeful… and just slightly crestfallen that I hadn’t taken the sexual bait that she was dangling.
“Well, I have to grade the finals,” I replied. I flopped the tests onto my desk, flopped myself into my chair (playing up the exhaustion angle just a bit), and added “But yes, I do think that you passed this course with flying colors.”
“Oh, thank you, Dr. X!” Carrie giggled and threw herself into my lap, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a tight hug, wriggling her ass as she brushed one tit against my torso and giving me a terrific close-up view of her flawless skin. She practically glued her body against mine, and spread her legs slightly as if to invite my fingers to do a little exploring under her dress. I have to admit, she smelled good, a combination of baby powder, lilac shampoo, and hot pussy, and I had to fight to keep my cock from stirring and giving her the wrong idea too soon. Easy now, fella, I told myself. Get her ready and willing. When she makes the first move, THEN you can come out of hiding.
When she pulled away and stood up, she tilted her head slightly, half-closed her eyes, and parted her lips, leaning forward slightly. I knew what she wanted – Carrie had seen far too many romantic movies, and in her mind we had come to the halfway mark in which the romantic heroine (herself, natch) and her Prince Charming (moi) shared a moment of deep yet platonic love, and I knew that in the back of her mind she desperately hoped that I would kiss her. Not fucking likely, I thought… in order for my plan to work, I had to build her up, encourage those feelings and take her to the very edge, but to not act too soon! I stood (forcing her back) and moved towards the door, all business. “Well, Carrie, you have a wonderful Christmas break,” I said in a friendly tone.
“Oh,” she said, looking a bit disappointed. “Okay. You have a great Christmas break too!” She plastered a smile on her face, and with a little wave she bounced out of my office. I knew she was disappointed a bit, wondering at the way she had acted in my office, and very confused, but I didn’t press the issue… there would be a far better outcome in January, especially if her break was as bad as I knew it would be.
Still, as I watched her leave my office out of the corner of my eye, I noted the wriggle of her ass and the way she was stroking the scarf I had given her, and I knew that before too long she would be servicing me – and best of all, she would think that every degrading, degenerate, obscene thought in her head were all hers.
Christmas break was all work for me. My extra-curricular activities with the cunts at school took up much of my time during the semester, so summer and holiday breaks are the periods in which I catch up on my reading, my research, and publishing. The five weeks between the end of the fall semester and the start of the spring were productive, and I got a lot accomplished. (Three years ago I was just on the cusp of being granted tenure, and I was still on the publish-or-perish treadmill.) I had given Carrie a B+ in my course, so I knew that she would at least return to my office in order to thank me… where the fun would really begin.
Best of all, I managed to use my access to the university’s computer system to get all the information I possibly could about Carrie, including her birthday, home address, social security number, and activities record at the school. You can tell a lot about a target based upon the facilities that they access on campus, and what they purchase at the bookstore. A cunt that spends all their money buying greasy food in the dining hall and doing nothing else will fall prey to the Freshman Fifty. (Most people say they only gain twenty pounds, but that’s not true… most gain almost fifty, and pork out. Not my cup of tea, but whatever. Other Predators tend to go for the chubbies, but in truth they never really did anything for me. Give me a tiny little hard body any day!) Conversely, a cunt that buys tees and shorts, eats only salads, and logs into the fitness center every day is likely a gym rat, and while they may be physically hot, they also may tend to fall on the dykey side – which might not be too bad, especially when you want to teach them a lesson about which gender was truly the more powerful. Still, there are some drawbacks to the system (especially for targets living off-campus).
Carrie’s record was sketchy. She had bought a tee shirt, some sweat pants, and some books at the bookstore, had logged into the fitness center for a few dozen sessions (maybe an average of three times a week or so), and had eaten a few meals on campus. Unfortunately, this didn’t give me a whole lot to go on, so I had to do my legwork the old-fashioned detective way. It wasn’t hard to track her down one Thursday afternoon just before Christmas – I just waited outside her house (big, imposing, expensive, and cold-looking), watched as she bundled herself up (looking almost top-heavy in the big bulky parka that she wore, but still wearing the scarf I got her, a development that was a definite plus) and got in her car (a Lexus, believe it or not). As she pulled out of the driveway I moved into traffic behind her, staying hidden a few car lengths back, and followed her as she bustled about doing errands.
She went to the grocery store, a toy store (probably gifts for the kids), and the gas station, all boring and mundane tasks. Then things got definitely interesting. Following her a few cars back, I watched as she drove to the university and parked in the deserted lot behind the building housing my office. I pulled quietly to the side, quickly parking and shutting off my engine as I watched her, knowing that she wouldn’t know I was around. At first she just sat in her car… I saw her move, but then she settled back with both hands on the wheel. Then she got out, closed the car door, and leaned against the vehicle, staring up at the building with this haunted, scared look. As I watched she fondled the ends of the scarf with her left hand, and then slipped her right inside of her parka as she gazed off into space. The cold air made her breath mist, and as I watched her breathing became more rapid and her face flushed. A quick glance at the mostly-darkened building confirmed my suspicions – she was playing with herself, probably rubbing her nipples through her shirt, while she gazed longingly at my darkened office window. Bingo, I thought with smug satisfaction. When a cunt starts fantasizing about you while masturbating, it is only a few short steps to an actual sexual encounter, and I knew that Carrie was almost ready to become one of my regular stable of cunts.
After a few minutes she shook herself awake and hopped back in her car. I picked her back up on the main roads, and followed her back to her house. I parked and watched the house for a few hours that evening – it was mostly quiet, but thoughts of Carrie splayed out in front of me, begging me to rape her, kept me both warm and entertained. Then things got interesting… I watched asshole hubby pull up and stagger through the front door about eight that evening, and though the blinds were closed several minutes later I could see their silhouettes in one of the upstairs windows. First Carrie walked past (there was no mistaking THAT shape!), then asshole hubby, then the two of them back and forth. It looked like they were arguing. That was confirmed when hubby smacked Carrie once, twice, three times, threw her down, and bent down out of sight. Looks like it’s Carrie raping time, I thought with a grim smile as I started my car and drove home. Pretty soon that will be me – but SHE’LL be the one begging for it!
Sometimes, if you let the universe unfold in its own way, serendipity takes a hand. That evening such an event happened to me, expressing itself through a wicked thought, just a tiny something designed to give her an emotional poke. I dug up a bland, generic holiday card and got to work. The card was nothing special, just a Christmas wreath on the cover, and the words Best Wishes for the Happiest of Holidays inside. I added a personal touch, writing “Carrie, have a Merry Christmas! I hope to see you in the spring!” I signed my name, sealed the envelope, jotted down her address, affixed a stamp and, using an inkpad, faked a smeared postage mark. Late at night, long after the rest of the sheep had fallen fast asleep and I knew that I would not be observed, I drove back to Carrie’s house and dropped the card in her mailbox.
The next day I was in my office (the rest of the building was totally cleared out for the holidays, but as a faculty member I had a key which I used to my advantage) and waited with the lights out, reading by the dim light of the winter day, just killing time until what I knew was going to happen actually did. Sure enough, from my window I watched as Carrie drove up in the early afternoon and parked. I sat. silent, in the high-backed, high-armed upholstered chair that I kept for students to sit in during conferences, and watched as she walked up to the building and tried the door. She was out of sight but I knew that she would find it locked, and after only a couple of seconds she reappeared, stared up at the building (I knew that she couldn’t see me because of the reflections on the windows), and then went around to the front, where I had strategically unlocked one door to give her access. In a few minutes she was outside my locked office door, tapping quietly. “Dr. X, are you in there?” I heard her ask, practically whispering in a vain attempt at discretion. She gave another knock, a bit louder this time. “Dr. X?” she called. I held my breath, knowing that she had no idea I was there. I heard some rustling, and watched from my chair as she slipped an envelope under my door, then walked away.
Patiently, I waited. I watched her round the building, unlock her car and open the door, then settle in behind the wheel. It was only then that I exploded into a blur of motion. If I had developed Carrie as I believed that I had, I knew that I only had a few minutes to spare before she came back. I grabbed the envelope, was happy to see that it wasn’t sealed shut, and then dashed to the department secretary’s office. Using the photocopier, I duped the four-page letter she had written, then stuffed the pages back into the envelope and resumed my hiding place in my darkened office, making sure to place the envelope in approximately the same spot to which it had slid when Carrie slipped it under the door. Sure enough, only two minutes later Carrie was back at my office. I watched as her fingers slipped through the crack at the bottom as she maneuvered the letter back out, then I heard the soft clop-clop-clop of her moving down the carpeted hall. From my office I watched as she again left the building (shaking her head while she did so), got into her car, and drove off.
Once she was gone I felt safe enough to take a look at the message that she considered sending me but had ultimately decided to not. It was exactly what I thought it was, and it was then I knew that I had her. The letter was hot… First she started out thanking me for mentoring her during the semester, and for all the talks that we had. Then she thanked me for my kindness, and listed my glowing features as a teacher. She admitted that she had feelings for me, and that she wondered what it would be like to “make love” to me. “In truth, Dr. X,” she wrote, “I fantasize about you constantly. When I’m in the shower washing myself down there, I pretend that you’re touching me. I pretend that it’s your manhood instead of my fingers while masturbating in bed.” A few lines later Carrie bared her soul to me, relating one of her deepest fantasies. “And then when you came home and saw me in your bed,” she wrote, “you wouldn’t have to say a word, I would already be naked and ready. Oh, how I dream of taking your seed inside of me! I long to drink from your mighty shaft, X, and to swallow every sweet drop that pours forth.” Then came the best part… “I can’t wait to see you in January, when I will take you in my mouth and drink deep of your love. Carrie.” She even signed her name with a little heart over the “i.” She’s mine, I thought. I wonder how far I’ll be able to push her.
The third week of January started the new semester. I had avoided all contact with Carrie – I knew that she had stopped by my office a few times, but I never let her know that I was there when she timidly knocked at my door. I knew that her mind was doing most of my work for me; once, while hiding in my office, Carrie had stopped by. She lingered for a few minutes, and through the door I heard hear breathing, a heavy rasping that culminated in a little groan, and then heard her move away. From my window I watched her walk back to her car, her dress billowing in the breeze as she strutted away, and when I opened my door I could smell the delicate odor of pussy juice hanging in the air. There were even a couple of fresh droplets on the carpet in front of my office, all of which told me that Carrie had been fantasizing about me, and had fingered her juicy little twat outside my office door.
During the second week I posted my office hours, and I knew that Carrie had seen them. Therefore, it came as no surprise when she stopped by my office an hour before office conference time began. The holidays had not been kind to her. It was apparent that asshole hubby had used her as a punching bag somewhere around New Years Day – the black eye he had given her was barely visible under her makeup, and her split lip had almost healed. Still, I could tell that she had made an effort for me; her makeup was exquisite, her hair perfectly styled, and her nails manicured. She had dressed very provocatively (and, I might add, very foolishly for the freezing-cold season), in high-heeled strappy sandals, a short, skin-tight black skirt that fell halfway up her thighs, and a white blouse one size too small that strained across her jutting tits. In a sop to the cold she had pulled on her parka, and was wearing my scarf around her neck. (I also noticed a couple of bloodstains on the ends, which told me that hubby had smacked her around outside their home as well as in the bedroom.)
Out of the corner of my eye I watched her timidly move up to my open door. She paused for a second, then seemed to steel herself. She straightened her skirt, surreptitiously tweaked her already stiff nipples, and only when she had screwed up enough courage did she knock. “Dr. X?” she almost whispered.
“Why Carrie! Hi!” I said warmly, feigning surprise. “Welcome back!”
A change came over her at my warm, encouraging response. Her eyes filled with adoration, and she smiled widely. “Hi Dr. X!” she chirped, as she bounced into my office, unconsciously thrusting her chest out even further and licking her lips. “How was your Christmas?”
“Fine, fine… Busy, but it was just fine.” I moved my briefcase off the comfy chair and waved. “Come on in.”
She closed the door behind her, and took off her coat and scarf. The top button on her blouse threatened to shoot across the room as she wriggled her shoulders, and I watched her nipples through the sheer fabric of both bra and shirt. As she sat her skirt rode up so that I could see the tops of her nylons and the garter-belt clasps holding them up. I could feel waves of sexual desire radiating from her, could SMELL the juices of her quim flowing, and when she thought I wasn’t looking she licked her lips once more and glanced at my lap.
“So,” I asked, knowing full well the answer, “how was YOUR Christmas?”
The haunted look flickered across her face for a split-second, and I knew it had been a bad one. “Nn.. Not too bad,” she lied. “Listen, I wanted to give you your Christmas present.”
“Carrie, you didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I wanted to!” she said eagerly. From her purse she brought out a small, book-shaped package wrapped in holiday paper. She leaned forward, offering me the gift and a view of cleavage that seemed to plummet down for miles.
I leaned forward, took the package, and looked into her eyes. For a second she froze, and then in an instant she lunged forward, jumping out of the chair like it was on fire, wrapped one arm around my neck and gave me a deep, open-mouthed tongue kiss. Her other hand dropped away from the gift and started rubbing my cock through my pants.
I pulled away, feigning shock. “Carrie!” I said in a surprised voice.
She moved forward and pressed her body against mine, pushed me back into my seat and sat in my lap, her long legs straddling the arms of my office chair. “Dr. X, you’ve been so good to me,” she rasped in a husky voice as she rubbed her panty-clad cunt against my stiffening cock. “You listened to me, and accepted me, even when I was a stupid fucking cunt.” She took my hands in hers and brought them to her tits as she kissed me deeply once more, rubbing her hands over my chest as she explored my mouth with her tongue, then slid off my lap until she knelt between my legs.
“You were there for me, all though the dark times,” Carrie added as she undid my belt and unzipped my pants. “You listened when no one else would.” She pulled down my pants, and my stiffening twelve-inch cock sprang free. With a moan of pure longing, she added “I’ve dreamt about this for months. I want to do this. No... I NEED to do this!”
Grasping my erection, Carrie ran her tongue around the head of my cock, her hand slowly pumping up and down along the shaft. Then she took the tip between her bright red lips, and slowly impaled her face upon my rod, her tongue constantly swirling around. I’m pretty thick, so she had to open her mouth wide to take me inside her mouth, but between the swirling tongue and her saliva I slipped in pretty easily. She could only take four inches of me inside her mouth before the tip of my cock bumped up against the back of her throat, so she used her hands to make up the difference.
A warm languidness filled me as I laced my hands through Carries silky-black locks. Her head bobbed up and down as she gobbled on my prick, and I could feel the pressure in my balls starting to build. “Carrie,” I groaned. “I… I’m going to shoot…”
With a sucking pop her mouth came off my cock while her hands continued to jerk me off. “Do it,” she moaned. “Jizz my cunt mouth. Coat my tongue with your seed!” She refastened her lips to my prick like a lamprey, sucking like a pro, as she worked my shaft.
With a groan I tightened my grip on her hair, knowing that I was going to pop any second. One glance down was all it took – the sight of the twenty-eight year old coed sucking me off, her black mane bobbing as she serviced me with her mouth, sent me over the edge. Grunting, I twisted my handfuls of her hair, holding her head down as I spurted once, twice, three times into the back of her throat. She moaned with ecstasy and her brilliant brown eyes rolled into the back of her head as she swallowed my load, her tongue still moving as I poured my jizz into her mouth, drawing every single drop out of my balls. Easily, I shot what might have been my heaviest load ever between those ruby-red lips! As I drained my balls I let go of her hair, sinking back into my chair, spent.
The best part of the show was yet to come. As soon as I stopped spurting, Carrie leaned back. With her head held backwards and a proud look in her eye, she opened her mouth, letting me see my jism pooled between her lower teeth, her tongue floating like a life raft in a milky-white ocean. As I watched, she closed her mouth and her eyes, moaned a little moan of sexual pleasure, and her throat moved as she swallowed. Then with a proud look in her eyes she opened her mouth again, letting me see that she had eaten every single drop of my smoky-sweet load.
“Carrie… That was… That was amazing!” I feigned in a surprised tone of voice, continuing the illusion that this was all her idea.
She blushed and looked embarrassed for a second, and then a dark look fell over her face. “You want to fuck my pussy now, don’t you,” she said sadly, a quiet declaration of fact rather than an inquiry. She stood up, her eyes looking dead, and started to pull her skirt up, ready to service me with her cunt in the same manner as she serviced Asshole Hubby.
Over the holidays I had thought intently about the subject, and had come up with what I thought was an ingenious plan. “No, Carrie, I don’t,” I said forcefully. I stood up from my chair (my cock dangling limply from my open fly), and took her hands in mine. “You’ve been… Well, you’ve been abused… down there… far too much. I don’t think that I can add to your pain.”
“Really?” she asked, at once hopeful and relieved.
“Yes.” I turned her around and walked her backwards towards the comfy chair. “Your cunt has been used far too much as a sperm dumping ground. YOU’VE been used as a brood-mare far too often.”
“Yes I have!” she agreed. The blush was returning to her cheeks, and her eyes were as big as saucers as she drank in my words.
“You’re more than simply a birthing machine,” I continued, pushing her back into the chair. “You’re a woman, with needs, and desires.”
“I am,” she practically moaned. “Oh, God, I… I ache… Down there…”
“You deserve sexual pleasure,” I stated as I took her left leg and placed the foot on the cushion beside her. “You deserve an orgasm,” I added as I did the same to her right leg. She was sitting in the chair, the high back up to her shoulders, her legs splayed wide. She had neglected to wear panties, and her twisted, dark-red cunt lips gleamed in the light spilling in from the window. “I want you to have an orgasm,” I continued as I ran the tips of my fingers down her thighs to the tops of her nylons, caressing the sensitive flesh just beside her dripping quim. “But I can’t give that to you. Not after… Not after what you’ve been through.”
“Oh God, yes,” she moaned.
“I can only watch, Carrie, I can’t do it for you.” I squatted in front of her, my gaze locked on hers, stroking my stiffening cock. “Spread yourself, Carrie,” I added. “Spread your pussy, and let me see inside of you.”
With a groan she slipped her left hand down between her legs and levered open her cunt, showing me her inner pink. It wasn’t the tightest quim that I had ever seen but it certainly was the wettest, and as I watched gleaming pearls of girl-juice dripped down to pool in her vulva. “Oh God, Dr. X,” she moaned, “I’m so wet! I want to cum so badly!”
“Then do it,” I whispered. “Rub your clit. Cum for me!”
As I watched her right hand shot between her legs, working the small, pink, rock-hard nubbin perched at the top of her cunt. She grunted as she rubbed hard once, twice, three times, and then a deep growl emerged from deep in her chest as she furiously frigged her pussy. I stroked her thighs, then got up and moved behind the chair. Her eye rolled back into her head as I placed my stiffening cock at the crux between her neck and shoulder, and I slid my hands down over her sweat-stained blouse to fondle her titties. “God, this looks so hot,” I whispered in her ear as I thumbed her rock-hard nips. As she moaned with desire, I made a small suggestion. “Finger yourself, Carrie,” I commanded. “Fuck your cunny with your fingers! Plunge those fingers deep inside yourself!”
I thought that she would only slip in one or two fingers, but Carrie surprised me by cramming all the fingers of her right hand deep inside her stretched, slick cunt while continuing to work her clit with her thumb. The sound her hand made sliding into herself was exquisite, a combination of slurping and sucking as her cunt greedily gobbled up the foreign objects being shoved inside. With the gentlest of pressure I moved my hands apart, and three buttons on her blouse gave way, shooting across the room to clatter quietly on the floor. As she grunted and growled like an animal I pulled her shirt open to her belly button and slid it off her shoulders. Her bra straps followed, and the lacy cups fell away from her tits, leaving her exposed to the world. I played with her nipples, tweaking and rolling them with my fingers, as she practically fisted herself right in front of me, her hand making a slurping sound as she pumped out and a wet, splashing sound as she shoved her fingers back into her quim all the way up to her knuckles.
I stood behind her egging her on as she pleasured herself. “Do it, Carrie,” I hissed. “Fuck yourself! Fuck yourself with your hand! God, you are so hot doing this, it’s making me hard again! Fuck your pussy with your fingers, fill yourself up with your love! Fill yourself up with MY love!” She was grunting like an animal, a deep, guttural sound that emanated from within her very soul. She whipped her head to the side and buried her nose in my pubes, inhaling deep of my musky scent. I grabbed the back of her head with my hand and held my cock steady as her tongue flicked in and out from between her lips, tasting me. My hard-on was raging again, so I pumped my shaft as she fucked herself. As I felt the pressure in my thighs starting to build again she grabbed her left tit and squeezed.
And then she crashed into her orgasm, probably the first that she had had with a man in decades, and she came hard. The grunting got louder, and I could sense her entire body tense. With one final shove she buried her four fingers into her cunt, her pussy lips stretching wide to accommodate the plunging digits, and her thighs snapped shut around her wrist. She buried her face in my pubes and screamed a muffled scream, and then she lifted her ass off the cushion and threw her knees wide, pushing her cunt forward as her entire body shook. With an obscene sucking sound she yanked her fist out of her quim, and thick, sticky ropes of girl-cum spurted out of her twitching, swollen pussy to spatter on the floor. She continued to work her clit with her cum-stained hand, and each stroke forced more of her pearly-white juices out from the deepest part of her body, splashing to the floor, dribbling onto the cushion of the chair, staining her nylons. I watched her eyes roll back into her head from the force of her orgasm, and the sight sent me back over the edge. I sprayed my seed over her chest and tits, thick ropy strands of jism that dribbled down her belly, stained her shirt, spattered on her wadded-up skirt, and onto her still-pumping hand. My jizz combined with hers and dribbled down between her legs, pooling at the entryway to her shitter and dripping onto the cushion.
Carrie fell back into the chair, her entire body twitching as the aftershocks of her orgasm continued to rip through her body, panting as she had just completed a marathon. The last few drops of my sperm dribbled into her hair, and I stroked the side of her neck as she basked in the afterglow of her pleasure.
“You did it, Carrie,” I whispered in her ear. “You came. And you got me off while doing so!”
“I did,” she replied weakly. She tilted her head back and looked up at me with adoring, tear-stained eyes. “You helped me get off. Oh, God, it was so good!”
“Yes it was, wasn’t it?”
She seemed to slowly regain consciousness, and then realized her situation. “Oh, God,” she moaned, “look at what I did! Look at the mess I made! I am such a fucking filthy slut!”
Yes you are, I thought. Aloud, I sternly said “Now you stop saying that! There’s nothing wrong with what you did. You were just following my orders.”
“Yes! That’s right, I was!” she quickly replied, grasping at the thin justification for what she had just done. “But… But what about the mess I made in your office? ” She jumped out of the chair, looked around desperately for a second, then whipped her jism and sweat-stained blouse off her body to mop up the girl-cum on my floor. “Oh, God, oh, fuck, I am such a worthless cunt,” she muttered as she desperately tried to clean up.
“Carrie! Stop that this instant!” I ordered in my most commanding voice. To no great surprise she did, kneeling on the floor with her tits hanging out, her cunt exposed, her ruined blouse wadded up in her hands. I stood next to her and stroked her hair as she tilted her head back and gazed up at me with a look that combined adoration, fear, and lust. Tentatively she lapped at the head of my cock, almost absent-mindedly cleaning off the last few drops of my seed. “Don’t worry about the mess. We’ll clean it up together.
And we did. While Carrie waited in my office I ran to the restroom and got a huge wad of paper towels. When I returned she had made some progress at cleaning herself up; her skirt, though stained with her sweat and my jizz, was pulled back down, and her bra was back at work in its supporting role. Still, there was only so much that she could do – it was obvious to anyone looking at her that she had been at hard physical exertion, and her hair was a sweat-matted mess. We cleaned my office as best we could, then I helped Carrie get herself presentable enough to go back out in public. (There was still a small lock of hair between her shoulder blades that was matted with my spunk, but I devilishly decided that was a discovery she should make for herself.) She solved the blouse problem by pulling on her parka and zipping it up all the way, and with her scarf wrapped around her neck nobody would ever discover that she was actually topless beneath.
She stepped forward and kissed me at the door to my office, a long, deep kiss that was mostly tongue. “Will…” she gasped quietly, “will you let me do that again, Dr. X?”
“Of course, Carrie,” I replied. You are damn sure going to be doing that again, you little cunt, I added silently to myself.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for that.” Another kiss, and she left.
That was the first time Carrie performed for me. It would take another year and a half before I got her properly trained, and she has finally gotten to the point where she is willing to do just about any sick, degrading, obscene act imaginable, if only to please me. The funny thing is that I have only recently begun to actually fuck her pussy! Well, it was a long time coming… but the wait was well worth the effort.