Dear Professor Pervert

Assignment #4: Bring yourself to orgasm without using your fingers, hands, vibrator or other sex toy. Record the experience in your Masturbation Journal, following the usual guidelines. Your last submission showed much improvement—the use of imagery and language was excellent. Keep up the good work. Sincerely, Professor Pervert.

I click "close mail" and smile. The Professor probably thinks this one's going to be a challenge, but I already came up with the answer ten years ago—back when I was in college the first time around. Doing a "no-hands" is actually pretty easy. You bunch up your pillow, straddle it like a lover, and work your hips just so while you play with your nipples. It feels great, plus you get a good core workout.

Of course, I'll be required to confess that I'm bringing prior experience to the assignment, but I figure I can make up the lost points with an extra-steamy journal entry. I was pretty inhibited at the beginning, but the Professor's right. I am improving.

I stroll over to the linen closet and take out a towel. Today I have about two hours to complete the assignment and write it up. If I don't have my paper in his in-box by 9 pm London time, there will be "penalties." Afterwards I'll have just enough time to shower and get to campus for my real summer school class, "The Twentieth Century British Novel."

I pull off my oversized T-shirt and shimmy out of my panties. "Totally naked, above and below." That's what I'll write under "what were you wearing?" in the journal.

Next I fold the pillow and wrap it in the towel. I always get very juicy when I'm doing it for the Professor. I stretch out on the bed and push the pillow between my legs, resting on my elbows to allow for good access to my breasts, which "dangle like cones of white wisteria, tinted tender pink at the tips." The Professor will love that. He specializes in the Romantic poets and is partial to natural imagery.

I note the time on the clock above my bed, then cross my arms and begin to caress my breasts, my right hand cupping the left tit, my left hand stroking the right. My nipples feel soft and satiny and more sensitive than when I'm lying on my back, my usual position for self-pleasuring. I push my hips into the pillow, grimacing at the nubby texture of the towel against my tender slit. Maybe this isn't the answer after all?

Think, Tina, think. The rest will come.

It's the Professor's voice, smooth and deep, guiding me ever onward to new achievements.

I close my eyes and think.

A man steps from the melting red shadows behind my eyelids and stands at the bottom of my bed. His gaze is fixed on my naked ass. I can feel it, as bright and hot as a spotlight. I squirm involuntarily and that sweet, achy sensation of longing floods my belly. What is he thinking and feeling as he watches a horny slut masturbate just for him?

I begin to hump the pillow with slow, rhythmic thrusts. I can make out the man's face more clearly now--the lush, curly brown hair, the wire-rim Russian Revolutionary glasses. He is young--only two years older than I am and not even tenured yet--but he has enough of a snotty academic air that I yearn to rub away at that smug composure with every jerk of my hips. I want him so jealous of this pillow that he'll start begging me to let him take its place between my legs.

I pause mid-thrust and sigh. The sensation still isn't intense enough to bring me off. It might work if I could use my fingers to spread my labia and get direct friction on my clit, but of course, the assignment specifically forbids it.

I know you have it in you, Tina. Push a little harder. Show me how naughty you are deep inside.

"Yes, Professor," I whisper, into the air. I do want him to see me, not just my flesh, but my darker, deeper places.

The room shifts; the morning light filtering through the curtains turns to a harsh florescent buzz. Steel prison bars bisect the room, and my bed becomes a cot covered with a rough, gray blanket. I'm still humping a pillow, my bare buttocks aimed straight at the bars, but the audience has expanded ten-fold. A carefully selected squad of prisoners has been brought here to watch an over-sexed girl get herself off without using her hands. It's not clear if this is a reward or a punishment for these hardened criminals. I know the guards are sadists. They've told me that if I don't come this way in twenty minutes, the whole crew of correctional officers will get to fuck me on the sagging sofa in their employee lounge in ascending order of cock size. They warned me with a leer that the biggest one, Harry the Horse, has a dick that would put a baseball bat to shame.

The stakes are definitely higher now.

I rock my hips faster against the damp towel. The prisoners' eyes bore into my flesh. They're bad guys, lifers. They haven't had a woman in decades, and their soft howls of frustration ricochet off the concrete walls. With a fearful glance over my shoulder, I see their huge, swollen cocks are protruding from their flies. Some pump themselves frantically, heedless of the grinning guard. One pushes himself through the bars, fucking the air, as if he can enter me that way if he tries hard enough.

"Boys, you've got five minutes to finish your business, then its back to your cells," the guard barks. Then his voice turns to sugar with a touch of poison. "You, too, sweetheart. Five minutes or you know what we've got waiting for you."

"I've seen enough assholes in this joint. Make her flip over and show us her cunt," a hoarse voice grumbles.

I hear the crack of a fist landing on flesh, a bellow of pain.

"What you see is what you get," the guard growls.

The men moan and grunt like beasts as they hurry to empty their balls. My head is bursting with lewd sounds, the rasp of dick flesh being rubbed in spit-moistened fists, the rhythmic knocking of hips against the bars that keep me cruelly out of their reach.

One man stands back, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, his fly firmly zipped. He is watching me, but he's also watching them watching me. It's the Professor. Even in this place, as far away from twining ivy as you can get, he's still the one in control.

My nipples are as hard as little pebbles now. When I flick them with my fingers, electric jolts jump straight to my pussy. I'm gyrating like a stripper, sliding my cunt down over the pillow, then jerking back up, like my ass is tethered to a spring. Though I'm usually quiet when I masturbate, I realize I'm making sounds, too: deep grunts and harsh bellows to harmonize with the bang-bang of the headboard against the wall. But I'm going to make it in time. I can feel the orgasm begin to grow, a throbbing knot in my gut. And the prisoners are right there with me. With a collective groan, they shoot their wads through the bars, spraying my ass with a sizzling fountain of spunk. The odor fills my nostrils, hay mixed with something harsh and tinny, the nastiest, naughtiest smell on earth. It's all I need to push me over the edge. I ride the pillow like a bucking bronco, screaming myself hoarse as I climax, each contraction harder and sweeter than ever before.

As the spasms fade to a flutter, I check the clock. Length of session: Twenty minutes from start to finish. I collapse face down on the bed and listen to my pounding heart. So far, so good, but this is just the beginning. It's never really over until the Professor gives me my grade.

***

"Isn't that Professor Perkins over there? And you've got his table, Tina. Lucky bitch."

Pam and I had a lot in common. We were both education majors with a minor in English lit; we both worked weekends at Chez Jacqueline. Of course, she was twenty-one. I was eight years older and far too worldly-wise to gush over an attractive young assistant professor.

"Those must be his parents," I said, eyeing the other members of his party: a slim, well-dressed older woman and gray-haired guy who looked more or less like the professor with thirty years on him. Chez Jackie's was the best restaurant in town and we often waited on our teachers and their families. I was curious to see how Perkins would act when he was off-duty. In class he was affable but no-nonsense—forget about getting an extension on a paper from him.

To my surprise he was positively charming in the candlelit glow of the dining room. He remembered my name and introduced me to his folks with a jaunty, "Tina's without question my best student this semester."

"I know Pam gave you a free dessert when you said that to her last week, Professor, but I'm a tougher nut to crack." I grinned at his dad, who winked back.

"Damn. Because this time it's actually true," Professor Perkins joined right in.

Mom smiled, too, and did a little back-and-forth glance between her son and me that made it clear the professor wasn't currently attached, but Mom was hoping he might find a nice girl soon and she might possibly be yours truly. Which almost made me laugh out loud because I was far too busy getting my life back together to waste time lusting after my professor. Okay, so I did occasionally let my mind wander during class. I'd picture the professor naked and try to guess what his cock looked like erect. Long and slender or thick and florid? Ramrod straight or curved to the left as any P.C. professor's should be? Once or twice I even imagined what it would be like to ride him and watch his face as he came. But I did that with every professor, including the old silver-beards and--during really boring lectures--even a few of the women.

But I should've remembered that Mom always knows best.

I was heading back to the kitchen with a tray of dirty plates when Professor Perkins stepped out of the hallway by the restrooms.

"Excuse me, I know you're busy," he stammered. "But I wanted to let you know I turned in the final grades for your class yesterday."

My stomach did a somersault. Why would he look so nervous unless he had bad news? Yet I'd gotten an "A" on the midterm and very complimentary comments on the final paper: Your argument is tight and compelling, the writing smooth and flowing—a true pleasure to read.

The professor smiled as if he read my thoughts. "Don't worry, you did very well. I mentioned it because I'm now ethically allowed to ask if you'd like to get together for coffee or something."

Could it be that while I was fantasizing about Professor Perkins naked, he was returning the favor? Maybe I'd get to see what his cock looked like after all.

"Thanks, Professor. Actually, a bunch of us usually go over to the tapas place for a drink after work around eleven. You're welcome to join us tonight—if your Mom and Dad give you permission."

He blushed--I was starting to like this shy suitor side of him--but recovered quickly and gave me a grin. "I'm sure I can talk them into relaxing my curfew tonight. After all, there's no school tomorrow. See you later, then, Tina."

I had to admit I felt a little thrill as I watched him stride back to his doting parents. Professor Perkins had me in his power all semester. Now I was turning the tables.

Or so I thought.

***

Assignment #5: Go to the woman-friendly adult store south of campus. Ask a saleswoman for advice on anal toys. Confess your level of experience—beginner, dabbler, veteran ready for a challenge? Purchase the item she recommends as well as a bottle of lubricant. When you return home, insert the toy in your anus and masturbate. Record the experience in your Masturbation Journal, following the usual guidelines. Your last assignment earned "A" for the journal entry, which was nicely paced with evocative imagery. However, I gave you a "B-" for practical execution. The point of these exercises is for you to attempt something you haven't tried before. I expect you to obey this rule in the future. If you accumulate enough demerits, it will be necessary to discipline you appropriately. Sincerely, Professor Pervert.

Ah, yes, assignment #5. That's why I'm here in this strange pose: sitting on my bed with my back against the headboard, my legs spread wide. It's the only position that lets me keep the butt plug in place while I diddle myself.

Naturally, I bought the beginner's size, a flesh-colored silicone gadget about the size of my ring finger with a bulge in the middle like a swollen knuckle. The bottom flares out into a rectangular base to keep the device from slipping all the way inside. That's what the butch-looking saleswoman at the sex store explained to me. Fortunately, buying the thing was not as embarrassing as I feared. The woman was so nonchalant, it was like we were discussing lipstick instead of anal sex toys. That is, except at the very end when she handed me the brown paper bag and said, "Enjoy!" with a big grin as if she could see exactly what I'd be doing with my purchase before the afternoon was through. I blushed beet red and rushed out of the store.

To be honest, I probably do make as lewd a picture as anyone could imagine. I'm dressed in the scarlet waist cincher and thigh-hi's I bought for Assignment #3 which only accentuates all the bare, juicy parts of me. The air brushes my exposed pussy like cool fingertips, and my nipples are standing out stiff and red. Yet I can't say I'm all that turned on by the assignment yet. For one thing, I'm not sure I bought the right size plug. It was definitely a challenge pushing it inside me—I was poking the slippery, lubed-up thing around my butt crack for a full minute--but now that it's there, I can hardly feel it. I'm more excited by the idea that I did this naughty thing just for the Professor.

Not that he's here to see me. Yet.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Suddenly the summer sunlight fades to a single green-shaded lamp glowing in the autumn dusk. I'm sitting on a leather sofa in the same slutty get-up, legs open, asshole impaled on a strange little silicone bowling pin. Across from me sits the Professor in a wingback chair, flanked by tall bookcases jammed with erudite tomes. With his eyes alone he issues the command: Touch yourself, Tina. For me.

My hand dips between my legs. I start to strum. My finger makes a rude clicking sound in the wet folds, and I blush, knowing he hears and sees it all.

"Are you enjoying this?" he asks, his voice as soft as a silk scarf trailing over naked flesh.

"Yes, Professor," I admit shyly.

"Just 'yes'? That's a vague answer," he snaps. "I want you to be specific about what you find enjoyable. Is it that X-rated toy you shoved up your ass so greedily or the fact I'm watching you masturbate?"

My throat constricts with shame, but I manage to croak out an answer. "Both, Professor."

"Indeed? I must say I'm enjoying myself as well. But I think we're both disappointed you bought the small one. Next time I want you to get one of the long, fat monsters that made you cringe when you saw it on the shelf. While you're at it, get yourself a big dildo--with veins and a suction cup that sticks to a chair so you can ride it. And another one for your mouth, too. You'd like that, wouldn't you, to be all filled up in every empty, aching hole?"

"Yes, Professor," I whisper. That's the only answer I can ever give him, but in truth I'm not sure I agree. No plastic cock--no matter how huge or swollen--can satisfy me as well as his hot, probing gaze.

"Shall I send you back to the store right now to tell that dyke you're enjoying your timid little butt plug very much, thank you, but you crave something bigger and nastier?"

My heart leaps in my chest. "No, please. I'll do anything for you here in your office, but please don't make me do that, Professor."

He laughs softly. "Your cunt muscles contract very nicely when you're frightened. Which gives me an idea for something we can do here to remedy the situation. At my command, I want you to squeeze your muscles around the toy as tightly as you can and hold it until I tell you to release. Will you do that for me?"

"Yes, Professor," I gasp, my buttocks slipping on the leather of the sofa, already slick with my sweat and juices.

"All right then. Squeeze."

I clutch the butt plug, panting softly. I'm starting to ache back there, but the Professor only watches me squirm, silently, for what seems like an eternity. Finally he deigns to utter the words I'm desperate to hear.

"You may release."

I breathe out. An intense tingling sensation radiates from my asshole, up through my torso, down through my shivering thighs. My jaw drops open an involuntary moan of pleasure.

"Spread your legs a little wider," he orders coolly. "It makes your pussy lips push out so I can see your hole. You're so slick and swollen today, Tina. I think anal play agrees with you. Once more now, squeeze...."

I grip the toy again, gritting my teeth.

"... and release."

The Professor is definitely on to something. My asshole's on fire, the flames shooting higher, licking at my throbbing clit. My finger dances over my stiff little girl-cock sticking out shamelessly, all hard and hungry for the Professor to see. I'm going to make it. I'm going to come in front of him with this obscene rubber toy jammed up my ass.

"May I...have...an orgasm, Professor?" I'm too distracted by the sensations to remember if this was part of the assignment.

"Of course, Tina, I always like to see my students bring their work to a satisfying conclusion. I would indeed like you to come—but only at the precise moment I give the order. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Professor." I obediently slow my clit finger to coasting speed. But will my cunt submit as easily to his command?

"Come for me, Tina," he tells me. "Now."

With a grunt, I attack my clit with frantic jabs and squeeze the toy with all my might and—oh, god, it's happening—a wave of burning heat fans through my belly, erupting from my throat in a series of barking cries, as my back bangs against the headboard and my anus milks the butt plug in helpless, rhythmic spasms.

When it's over, I slide down onto the bed and pop the toy out, wrapping it in a waiting tissue. Total time for the session: thirty-five minutes. In my journal entry, I'll tell the Professor about his "help" of course, but I'm not sure words will do justice to the quality of my orgasm—a detailed description of which is a strict requirement for each assignment. It was definitely different. It seemed to start deeper inside me, a secret explosion tucked back against my spine. Yet there was something else I couldn't quite name, a hint of exotic spice in a familiar sweet. The only way I can really be sure I'll get a good grade is to try it again and take more careful notes.

I laugh to myself. Strange how my lover is thousands of miles away, but I'm having more and better sex than I've ever had in my life.

***

After our first "date" for drinks, things moved fast with Professor Perkins. After all, I'd already met his parents. Within the week, I saw his cock, too. It was average in length, but thick, and it turned a lovely rosy color when it got hard that made me think of a strawberry Popsicle, my favorite flavor.

Professor Perkins—I was calling him Jonathan by then—was pretty good in bed, too. At first he was slow and careful, as if he were studying my body to get an "A" in "Tina's Sexual Response 101." But soon enough we were rutting like wild animals. After the sex, we had some pretty intense talks, too. Jonathan told me about his romance with a colleague that didn't survive when she left him for a job on the East Coast. I told him why I dropped out of college the first time: to follow my boyfriend, Devon, on his pilgrimage around the world. Our first year together was the most magical year of my life. The next five were the worst. It was all about Devon's drinking until one day I realized I was giving my life to a man who didn't know me, who didn't even see me at all.

"I love to look at you," Jonathan said, stroking my hair. "And I want to know everything about you."

He was certainly saying and doing all the right things. In fact, it all seemed too good to be true. It was. A minute later, Jonathan told me he was leaving for London the following Monday and would be gone for six weeks to do research at the British Library.

Okay, a few dates and a few fucks didn't really give me any claim on him, but I felt deserted by the bastard all the same.

Still the first week apart wasn't so bad. We emailed every day and Jonathan hinted during a Skype call that he'd love to take me hiking around Wordsworth's Dove Cottage in the Lake Country—next summer perhaps. Could a guy get more sweet and Romantic than that?

In fact, it was my dirty mind that lead us down a darker, more twisted trail. It all started innocently enough with a naughty dream.

I was lying on the floor of Professor Perkins' office wearing an old-fashioned schoolgirl's kilt and white blouse. The Professor himself was stretched out on top of me, but he didn't really have a body. He was just a hot weight pressing me down, making my flesh feel all tingly and melted. I couldn't see his face either, but I felt his hand stroking my cheek and his voice slipping into my ear. Your final paper was so good it made my cock hard for two weeks straight.

Which, of course, didn't make any sense. I mean, how could a ten-page paper on "Ode on a Grecian Urn" give anyone a boner for one minute not to mention two weeks? However, the dream got me so turned on, I lay in bed playing with myself and thinking about Jonathan until I had a very wet, loud orgasm. Even after that I was still horny and missing him terribly. That's how I got the idea to send him a provocative email.

In retrospect it was mild stuff. I told him about the dream and how I "pleasured myself" when I woke up. Then I said, tongue-in-cheek, that I was looking forward to August when I could feel his "pulsating manhood" in my "turgid sex."

After I sent it, I was a little worried he'd laugh or be offended, but instead he called and said in that low, syrupy voice guys get when they're shy but turned on at the same time, that he enjoyed my email and was going to send a reply soon.

I couldn't restrain a giggle of triumph. Last spring I never would have imagined I'd inspire Professor Perkins to send me an X-rated email.

But that wasn't quite what I got. The subject line was simply "Comments on Your Essay." In a formal, professor-ish tone, he told me my paper would be stronger if I gave more context for the self-pleasuring—what I was wearing, how long it took, and specific techniques I used to reach satisfaction. He suggested I draw my reader into the scene through the use of vivid detail and avoid clichés such as "pulsating manhood." He concluded that my work showed promise, but there was much room for improvement.

My face burning with embarrassment and disbelief, I fired back a reply. "Dear Professor Pervert, I didn't realize I was going to be graded on my effort. Maybe you should write out the assignment with a list of guidelines so I can do better next time?"

A few hours later, I found this in my in-box:

Assignment #1. Spend at least an hour pleasuring yourself without bringing yourself to orgasm. After one hour, you may enjoy a climax. You'll be keeping a "Masturbation Journal" which will be graded on style and content. At the top of each entry record then time of day, length and location of session, what you are (or are not) wearing as the session unfolds. I'm looking for an accurate and thoughtful essay that explores not only physical sensations, but your thoughts, feelings and fantasies while you are masturbating. Fresh images and honesty are key elements of the exercise. The assignment is due within four hours. Late papers will be penalized. Sincerely, Professor Pervert.

"The nerve!" I sputtered at the computer, shaking with anger. For a minute, I was too worked up over his audacity to notice he'd gotten me worked up in other ways: my panties were soaking wet.

***

After I got an "A" for the butt plug scene, I was really looking forward to Assignment #6, but instead I received an email as terse as an old-fashioned telegram: "Coming home early, have to run to catch the flight. Can I see you Saturday afternoon? J."

In spite of my excitement, I spent most of the morning worrying about what I'd say when I greeted him on my doorstep. "Hey, Dr. Perkins, thanks again for reading my kinky fantasies about doing sex shows for convicts and sodomizing myself in your office"? Fortunately, conversation was low on our list of welcome home activities. The instant he arrived we were kissing and ripping off each other's clothes and, within about a minute, fucking like crazy.

Now we're twined together in the afterglow, and Jonathan is telling me how much he missed me and how I'm even more gorgeous than he remembered. Not that I don't like the adoration, but it's a bit cliche. Secretly I find myself missing another man, with more exacting standards, who has apparently decided to stay back in London.

As if he's read my thoughts, Jonathan clears his throat. "By the way, I, um, enjoyed your essays very much. I know it would be different in person, but I came up with some new ideas. It's totally cool with me if you'd rather not, but maybe some day we could...?"

My pulse jumps.

"Try Assignment Six?" I whisper.

He nods, blushing.

"I'd like that very much, Professor. In fact, I'd be up for a lesson right now."

His cock stirs against my thigh, and I feel a change in other parts of his body, too—a squaring of the shoulders, a confident lift to the chin. My heart is pounding now, with the power of it. Because I'm the one who's made this happen, with my words and my desire.

"Very well, Tina, I want you to get up and stand by the bed." His voice is slow and smooth, just as I imagined. "No, don't put on your robe, I want to look at you just as you are."

I crawl out of bed and stand before him. I can't meet his eyes, but I feel them, warm and glowing on my bare flesh. I've never felt so beautiful, so seen.

"You like to be watched doing naughty things, don't you, Tina? You like to do things no good girl would ever dream of."

"Yes, Professor," I whisper, my voice trembling.

"In fact, you want to masturbate for me right now, isn't that correct?"

"Yes, Professor." I slip an unsteady hand between my legs and start to rub my clit for him. Except this time he really is watching.

"Your reports were excellent, but I must say I'm enjoying the live performance. Now, for our next assignment I'll be asking you to do some new things that circumstances didn't allow before. I will push you, and stretch you, but I know you have it in you to get top grades."

I let out a soft moan. Images swirl through my head: my body bent over his desk in his office on campus, the Professor behind me, probing my ass with the lubed-up knob of his dick. Me on my knees, hands bound behind my back as I suck and suck his strawberry Popsicle prick. I know there will be challenges, even humiliations, but any fear is lost in a sweet, soaring hunger to learn more about all the things our bodies and minds can do together.

"I'll try my best, Professor. If I may say so, sir, I'm glad you're back."

"All thanks to you, Tina. You are without question my most inspiring student. Now listen carefully to my instructions. As you know, I will take points off for sloppiness."

The only proper answer is to nod, obediently, but I can't help smiling, too. He is home, my dear Professor Pervert. I can't wait for class to begin.