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This is the second in a long series of stories in which our heroine, Kate, looks back on some of her more memorable sexual adventures as she tries to decide whether she is a slut.
It had been a long day of meetings in Chicago followed by a four hour flight back to San Francisco, so it was late, perhaps 11:00 p.m., when I walked in the door of my home in San Francisco. I had refrained from drinking on the return flight, as I was reading a new piece of fiction that one of the agents I dealt with regularly wanted me to publish. My publishing house was still small enough so that I could read everything we decided to publish. Control of that final decision to accept a property for publication was a prerogative I jealously guarded. I delegated most of the editing these days, but it was my house, and I wanted the final say about what we put our name on.
I set my bag and briefcase down in the kitchen, and I had just barely removed the cork from a nice little bottle of Sonoma Zinfandel when my cell phone rang.
“Hi lover.” It was Henry.
“Oh hi. Didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.”
“Well, a crisis came up in Palm Beach, and nothing would satisfy the nabobs except for me to get on a plane and go over there to deal with it personally. Honestly, sometimes I think they don’t know what telephones are for.”
“So you’re in Palm Beach tonight?”
“Right-o, and thrilled to be here. Where are you by the way? Cell phones are marvelous toys, but they don’t tell you where someone you’re talking to is.”
“I’m at home. Just got in from Chicago. I was just opening a nice little bottle of Sonoma Zin. I worked on the plane, so I thought I’d earned a drink.”
“Exactly,” he said. “I worked also, so I’m enjoying one of those tasty little rum concoctions they like to serve up here in Florida. They’re one of the few things I like about the place.”
“Yes, that and the scantily clad women and the generally raunchy atmosphere of that West Palm Beach neighborhood you like to stay in,” I said sarcastically. “I’m surprised you could find time to call.”
“Kate, Kate, Kate. You have so little faith in me. I admit there are some distractions here, but I was really hoping to hear another installment of your tales of your former lovers, like the one about the Pool Boy you told me last week.”
I ignored his comments about my lack of faith. What I really had faith in was his willingness to fuck anything he came across that he found attractive. However, I was no better, and he knew it. That was a part of our marriage accepted—in fact endorsed—by each of us from the beginning.
“Oh, you liked that story, did you?” I responded.
“Mmm. Very much. You really were being a nasty little slut with him.”
“What! He was the grown man who was screwing an 18-year-old girl every week for most of the summer.”
“Oh, bullshit, my dear. You seduced him, and you were proud of it.”
I laughed in response. “Okay. You’re right about that. I seduced him. He really was a remarkably good lover, although I was getting a little tired of the school girl costume by the end of the summer.”
“So pour yourself a glass of that Zinfandel and tell me about another of your lovers. Who was next after the Pool Boy?”
I poured a generous glass of wine as I thought about the question. “Next, after the Pool Boy probably wouldn’t be that interesting. There were a number of guys my own age who I slept with during my first couple of years of college, but they were far from memorable—better than doing without, mind you, but there was nothing with any of them that you would find particularly arousing or entertaining. In fact, while I remember them as a group, I really can’t remember which one was “next’ after the Pool Boy. Now that I think about it, “next,” might have been two or three of them at once. I did some of that when I was younger.”
“So who was your next lover ‘of interest’?” he asked. “I certainly don’t want to hear about boring sex. By the way,” he said digressing before I could respond, “boring sex. Isn’t that an oxymoron? I mean if it’s sex, how can it be boring?”
“Good sex is always in the eye of the fuckor and the fuckee. You know that. But let’s not dwell on that. I want to tell you about Professor Smythe. He was a Brit, like you, and he had a dirty mind, just like you, maybe dirtier even than yours.”
“Really? Most women I have known, I mean known in a carnal sense, have said I have the dirtiest mind they have ever known.”
“Well, I don’t want to be judgmental, but Smythe would have given you a run for your money. Listen and decide for yourself:
It was getting late in the spring quarter of my junior year, and I realized that I hadn’t been keeping up with the work in a seminar on 19th century English literature I was taking from Professor Smythe. I had skipped most of the lectures as well. Now, I could have taken a weekend bursa escort and spent it catching up on the course reading and still possibly squeezed a C out of the class, but my friend Louise had told me about how she improved her grade in a math class from an F to a B by giving the T.A. a blowjob every week for the last five weeks of the quarter. There was no T.A. in this class, so it would have to be old Professor Smythe. I wondered if he even cared about a blowjob at his age? What the hell, I thought. I’ll give it a try.
I put on the shortest denim skirt I owned and a worn tied dyed T-shirt, deliberately leaving my bra at home. My tits were bouncing nicely under the soft cloth of the old T-shirt as I walked across Sproul Plaza. Thinking about what I was going to do, that is, if I really had the courage to go through with it, was making me very horny. I looked down and could see that my nipples had stiffened and were very obvious through the thin cloth of the old shirt. I had thought about leaving my panties at home also, but at the last minute decided to wear a nice clean pair of white panties. Maybe Smythe would be like the Pool Boy and be turned on by them.
I sat for a while on a bench at the upper end of Sproul Plaza thinking about what I was about to do. I was unsure if I really had the courage to go through with it. I know I had seduced the Pool Boy, but now I was thinking about seducing a full professor who had formerly held an endowed chair at Oxford. Really, could I do this? But the more I thought about what I was trying to do and how I might go about it, the hornier I got, and the hormones released in my brain soon overcame my misgivings. I didn’t really have a plan as to how I was going to go about this, but what the fuck, I would think of something when I got into his office.
Eventually I got up and walked, my tits bouncing under the soft T-shirt, over to that old Victorian pile, Wheeler Hall. I was late for Smythe’s office hours by a few minutes, partly because of my indecision and partly because I was late for everything in those days, but I figured I would still catch him, and it would cut down on the risk of some other student walking in on us while I was giving the Professor a blowjob.
The door was closed when I got there, but I knocked firmly.
A distinctly British “Come in,” emanated in response, so I pushed the door open and walked in, carefully closing it behind me. Professor Smythe was standing at a bookcase on one sidewall of his office. He was a tall, skinny fellow with awkward limbs and a mass of unkempt fraying hair atop a face dominated by an aquiline nose that had a decided twist to it. He was in his fifties and not at all handsome. As I looked at him I again wondered if someone that old was even interested in sex. Boy, did I have a lot to learn about that.
“Professor Smythe,” I said. “I’m Kate O’Riley. I’m taking your seminar on 19th century English literature.”
“Yes, yes. I know who you are, but I’m not sure why, given how rarely I see you in class.” His tone was clipped and abrupt. Not a propitious start for what I had in mind.
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” I said, plowing forward, notwithstanding Smythe’s apparent bad attitude toward me. As I sat in the armchair facing his desk, I realized that giving some bullshit excuse about my absences was not likely to succeed, so I just decided then and there to abandon the story I had made up about my mother’s cancer, and move on to Plan B—sex.
He responded with silence, which easily translated to, “Okay, let’s hear your bullshit excuse, so I can say no, then you can leave, and I can I get back to my research.”
The silence hung painfully in the air for too long. Finally I realized the ball was still in my court. Lacking the courage to fully plunge ahead, I said, “I was wondering if there was something extra I could do to make up for my absences and my poor mid-term grades?” As I spoke I nervously crossed and re-crossed my legs and let my already short skirt ride further up my thighs.
“Oh. There’s a problem with midterm grades is there?” He said. He stepped away from the bookcase and moved toward me, picking up a notebook from his desk. Now he stood in front of the desk, just before me, as he consulted the notebook. He leaned back against the desk, silently flipping pages. “Oh my, yes. I can see we do have a bit of a problem here,” he said without looking up. After a moment he flipped the notebook shut with a snap. He looked up at me, tapping the notebook against his palm, and said, “Well, do you have some thoughts as to how we should address this problem?”
“Uhh . . . well . . .” God, I hadn’t expected him to be this direct. “Well, I thought maybe I could . . .”
“Come over here and sit on the couch and let’s talk about what the problem is,” he said as he flipped the notebook back onto the desk.
He walked across the office and reclined in a corner bursa escort bayan of the couch, his long tweed-clad legs crossed, and stared at me.
I felt frozen in my chair. This was a lot harder than I had imagined. It was nothing like dealing with the Pool Boy.
Smythe patted the seat on the couch and said, “Come on Miss O’Riley. Have a seat and let’s discuss the problem.”
I arose and walked timidly across the room, taking a seat on the couch as far from Smythe as I could.
“Now dear,” he said. “Tell me what it is about my class on 19th Century English Literature that you find so unpalatable so as to attend only every fourth lecture?”
I was silent, but I knew it was put up or shut up time, and just coming out and offering him a blowjob, didn’t seem like a good approach. So, by some fluke of the firing of the synapses of my brain, I decided to tell him the truth, or at least something close to it.
“Your lectures are fine, Professor,” I said. “It’s the subject matter that’s a problem.”
“Oh,” he said. “You mean you find Dickens boring?”
“Yes,” I said meekly, “and Jane Austin, and Louisa May Alcott, and Hawthorne, and even Melville.” I was getting into it now. “I mean why do all the famous ones have to be the boring ones?”
“Oh, so that’s the problem is it? You find the material boring?”
“Yes, yes!” I said. “I mean Hemingway could take one of their 600-page novels and boil it down to a 20-page short story without leaving out anything that mattered to the plot. I admit some of them have pretty good plot lines, but I just want to scream, ‘get on with it’ when I am reading, that is if I can stay awake.” I was getting into it now and without thinking about what I was doing I turned towards Smythe and pulled one knee up on the couch. It never occurred to me that as I did that I was pushing my short skirt up my thighs and exposing my so carefully chosen white panties to him. I mean, I know I had set out to seduce him, but now that I was getting into the substance of the discussion, I actually wasn’t thinking about sex.
“Has it ever occurred to you that the predominate mode of publication for these authors you find so wordy and boring was serialization in the newspapers of the day? They were getting paid by the word, my dear, and once they got their audience hooked, it was worth their while to stretch the story out as long as they could.”
“Oh.” As I spoke, I not only realized that he had a point, but I also noticed that he was staring at my exposed white panties. A shot of lust flew straight from my brain to my sexual core. Now what should I do? We’re talking serious literature, and he’s staring at my panties. Well, I came here to trade sex for a grade, so I better pursue it. God, what a dirty old man!
“So,” I continued, “a Dickens novel was kinda like a soap opera.”
“Yeah, ‘kinda’,” he said, mocking my grammar.
“I mean,” I said, ignoring his cheap shot at my speaking skills, “he got a plot started, got readers hooked on his characters, and then he just kept spinning out a new twist on the plot every week, careful never to bring his gravy train to an end.” As I spoke, I pulled up my knee that was on the couch, hooking the heel of my shoe on the edge of the couch. My skirt slid down to my hip joint, exposing even more of my panties. Somehow I was managing to keep thinking about literature while simultaneously focusing on sex and seduction.
The Professor was silent for a moment staring at my panties. Finally he spoke, “Uhh, . . . yes, exactly.” I had him!
“Well,” I said as I toyed with the edge of my dress, “I can see how that might have worked in a soap opera mode, but it is dull as hell to read all 600 pages of it at once.” I let go of the edge of my dress and slid my hand down the inside of my thigh until it reached my knee. I pushed my knee to the side, making my exposure of my panty clad pussy even more obvious.
The Professor continued his stare in silence, pulling on his chin as though he was thinking of something other than my white panties. Finally he spoke, “You know,” he said, “There is another category of 19th century literature, well, some people wouldn’t call it literature, but I suspect you would find more to your liking.” As he finished he dropped his hands to his lap in a nervous motion.
Is he stroking his erect cock, I wondered? I looked at him, my hand still on my knee and pushing it from side to side to make it obvious that I was showing my panties to him. Finally I asked, “What would that be?”
“I’ll show you. Go over to that bookcase on the far side of the room and get that red bound book on the third shelf. I hopped up and walked across the room, making a point of swinging my ass as I walked. I pulled the book and as I walked back I put a little bounce in my step to make sure my tits were bouncing. It was working. His eyes were glued to my chest.
I started to hand him the escort bursa book, but he said, “No, no. Why don’t you sit down as you were and read it aloud? Then we can discuss it.”
“Sure.” I made sure my hips swung as I walked back to the end of the couch, and when I sat, I again pulled a leg up on the couch and fully exposed my panty-clad crotch. I saw him nervously lick his lips as I sat pushing my knee back and forth.
“Just open anywhere in the book and read it aloud,” he said. His hands were still in his lap, and I was sure I could see a noticeable bulge beneath them.
I opened the book and began reading from the top of the page:
“Sister pulled her petticoats up exposing her down-covered sex. It was seeping cunt juices. ‘Well come on older brother. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a slippery tempting cunt before.’ I ripped my trousers away as my cock leapt to life and then I stood before my sister, stroking my engorged cock, my trousers pooled around my boots while she slid two fingers in and out of her dripping cunt. We looked at each other in silence as we masturbated. Finally she silently mouthed the words, ‘Fuck me.’ I dropped to my knees on the bed between her legs and plunged my cock into her cunt . . .”
I looked over the top of the book at the Professor. He was now openly stroking his erection through the tweed of his suit. “Why Professor,” I said, “Is this Victorian porn?”
As I spoke I reached down and began to rub my pussy through the soft white cotton of my panties.
“Yes,” he said. “That is exactly what it is. I thought given your aversion to Dickens and Jane Austin, you might like it better.”
“Umm, I do,” I said, continuing to rub my sex through my panties. “Shall I keep reading?”
“By all means” he said, continuing to rub his crotch.
As I continued to read, I pushed my panties aside so the Professor had a view of my pussy, uninhibited by the white panties. The material was graphic, and in the mood I was in, very erotic. My pussy was very wet.
Periodically I looked up from my reading to confirm that the Professor was continuing to masturbate through his trousers. Finally, I took pity on him. I interrupted my reading and said, “You know Professor, I’m sure that would feel a lot better if you pulled your cock out.”
The Professor said nothing in response, and I returned to my reading, not looking for another page or two at what he did in response. But when I looked up at the end of a page, he had opened his trousers and he was stroking a long, thin, hard dick.
I paused in my reading and lifted my hips off the couch, sliding my panties off my hips and down over my feet. As I resumed reading, my skirt was pulled up around my waist like a broad belt, and I had one leg stretched out on the back of the couch and the other on the floor. I shoved two fingers into my pussy and began to finger-fuck myself.
I read another page or so and then looked up at Smythe, who was continuing to slowly masturbate while he stared at me doing the same. “I think I should suck your cock,” I said. I set the book on the couch and pulled my T-shirt over my head. He was silent, staring at my tits and continuing to stroke his cock. I lifted my tits and held them out to him in silence as I waited for a response.
“Fuck yes,” he said almost in a whisper.
I stood and walked to his end of the couch and dropped to my knees between his legs. Smythe groaned as I began using both hands to jack his cock. It wasn’t too terribly thick, but it was long—at least eight inches and maybe more. It was a lot more cock than I had expected from a man as unimpressive looking as he was. I pulled my hands away from his cock, and it pointed straight at me, occasionally twitching on its own. We both remained silent.
I leaned forward and began to lick the head while I returned my hands to his shaft and resumed jacking.
After a long silence, punctuated only by heavy breathing, he spoke. Two words, spoken softly, “Suck it.”
I pulled as much of his long cock into my mouth as I could handle and then began to pump it in and out, with plenty of suction. I made sure I spilled lots of saliva on to the remainder of the shaft so that it was well lubed for the jacking I continued while I sucked on the upper part.
Smythe gripped the couch with both hands and leaned his upper body back while he pushed his hips and his cock toward me in rhythm with my cock sucking. I could hear his breathing speed up, and after a few minutes of sucking I felt his cock harden either further. He was about to cum.
“Fuck. I’m close,” he said. He pulled his dick out of my mouth and said, “Titty fuck me.”
I moved closer to him and sat up straight, still on my knees. Then I grabbed his cock, which was slippery from my sucking, laid it against my chest, and used my hands to squeeze my tits around it. He responded by using his legs and hips to slide his prick up and down between my tits. We didn’t last long. After just a few strokes he groaned and I felt a spurt of hot cum hit the underside of my chin. Two more followed which hit my cheeks. The rest of his climax dribbled from his cock onto my tits.
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