When I spoke to you earlier today I neglected to mention that I was naked, except for two strategically placed poker chips. And sunscreen, of course.
How I envy those two strategically-placed poker chips! Or perhaps I envy even more the layer of sunscreen that coats your entire body. Hmmmm...
The rules to Mafia seem most fascinating. …
Off to AC on Tuesday afternoon, returning laaaate Weds, but I shall be thinking of you every time that I announce to my fellow players that I am “pushing all-in” as we poker players say.
Dear Young Lady,
Thoughts of your naked body were indeed distracting whilst I was playing poker in Atlantic City!
Am very much looking forward to seeing you on Saturday night. Playing “Mafia” with you and your friends will surely be fun, but I am even more looking forward to playing “Stern Professor and Eager Young Coed” with you later on at my place.
Congrats on your big win, that's so impressive! I would like to think I played a small, yet pivotal role in your success. So I'll think that, evidence notwithstanding.
Dear Young Lady,
I think we might be able to reach a mutually agreeable plan for extra-credit work that would improve your grade for the semester. You would have to be extremely diligent and thorough in your side work for me, as the thing I have for you to work on is very hard indeed, but I feel confident that if you apply yourself you can truly earn that “A” we both know you deserve.
My emails with Dean had degenerated to ridiculous innuendo and it looked like this would lead to some role playing. I had always dismissed the idea as silly, but when I read the words “stern professor and eager young coed” I felt a tingle at the back of my thighs. My cunt tightened reflexively and suddenly the idea of role playing did not seem so silly.
I thought of our second date, when, in Dean’s bedroom, he taken me over his knee and commented, “Now you have an older man who knows how to discipline you,” and I’d sort of swooned. And I imagined Dean as a professor and me as a student. In my mind, he was seated at a desk in a windowless office, but his office was also the bedroom I was familiar with, a messy room where outdated issues of The New York Times go to die.
I pictured standing in front of him, seated at a desk: “Professor? I’ve come to see you about some extra credit work, like we discussed.”
“Ah, yes. Sit down, Miss…”
“Yes, Miss Vereker.” [He would be an unreconstructed elbow-patch wearing guy, and would not deign to call me Ms., as I prefer.] Dean, looking more grizzled than he does in real life, and not wearing jeans, would peer at me over his glasses. I, naturally, would be wearing a plaid skirt and knee socks, as is required in these fantasies. I might even be sporting saddle shoes, though that could be going overboard. “So, you’d like to improve your grade?” He would rifle through his papers. “Ah, yes, your midterm…”
“Yes, I was very disappointed.”
He looks back up at me, gravely. “I can see why.”
I blush. “It’s very important to maintain my GPA,” I say softly.
Unfortunately, this was not to be. This was the weekend before Halloween, and we went to a costume party. I went as Death, and Dean went as a mafioso, complete with a violin case and a stick-on mustache that gave him a strange resemblance to Mr. Potato Head.
By the end of the party I had a terrible headache. Then, in the cab on the way back to Dean’s apartment, I broke out in a cold sweat and vomited copiously. I hate throwing up; it hurts. Also, it’s not the most attractive thing you can do on a date.
At Dean’s, I melodramatically dragged myself up his stairs, drank some Coke, then vomited into a wastepaper basket. Dean left a message with a friend, an ER doctor, and rubbed my back. I fantasized that emergency services would turn up, inject me with painkillers (so I wouldn’t throw them up), and cure me immediately. Then I threw up what was left in my stomach and gargled with Listerine. I stopped sweating, and the kindly ER doc called back. “It hurts when I swallow,” I whined.
“It sounds like a virus,” the ER doctor diagnosed. “It should just run its course.”
“Tell me a story,” I said to Dean, and he obliged by telling me about his driving test, which naturally led to some innuendo about stick shifts. Then I fell asleep.
In the morning I felt better, but didn’t want to kiss Dean for fear of giving him my virus, though chances were I’d already infected him. But I kept thinking about the role playing we hadn’t done.
We are in his office again. At Professor Dean’s command, I have shown him my underwear. “You should be wearing white panties. They’re much more ladylike,” Professor Dean shakes his head as he puts me across his knee.
“Yessir,” I say breathlessly. “Should I take these off?”
“Hmmmph,” he says, thwacking my ass thoughtfully. After a few smacks, he stops. I am breathing hard. He sits me back on his knee, his thigh pressing up close to my pelvic bone. “Why young lady,” says Professor Dean, astonished, “Are you wet?”
I try to squeeze my thighs together and don’t say anything. Dean pushes me to my feet. I stand facing him, and then he puts his face close to my pussy, his lips rubbing against the cotton: “You are all wet,” he announces.
I feel my pussy clench. “Did I tell you that you could get wet?” he asks softly, lightly tapping his fingers against my underpants. I remain silent. “Did I? Young lady?” I shake my head, looking at the ground.
Very slowly, Professor Dean peels off my panties, and I squirm when the air hits my hot, damp skin. Professor Dean leans in even closer, and breathes right on my clit. I let out a squeak.
He immediately stops, and gazes up at me. “Young lady,” he says, sternly-but-fairly, “You’re going to have to behave yourself.” I am embarrassed. His mouth hovers just millimeters from my lips as he examines my pussy. “Hmmm,” he says thoughtfully. “I see.”
“What? What do you see?” I’m shaking now. Dean looks up at me and cocks his head, prompting me. “Sir.” I add.
“I see … you obviously … ” and here he draws back and slips a finger inside me. I’m so wet there is almost a splash. I sigh, and sway a bit on my weak knees. Dean draws his finger out and slips it into his mouth, sucking thoughtfully, like he’s tasting a wine. Then he takes it out and looks up at me for a moment before returning to gaze intently at my pussy. “I see that you need a lot of cock,” he murmurs, and flicks his tongue at me gently.
Dean and I lay sandwiched together, my stomach pressed against his dick. I stroked Dean’s cock as I imagined Professor Dean manhandling me, and eventually Dean pushed me onto my side and squeezed my right breast. I trailed my fingers along the underside of his dick.
He stood up and crossed to the other side of the bed, to the drawer where he keeps the condoms. I slid my legs open wide and slipped my middle finger against my underwear, enjoying the friction of the cotton against my clit. I gazed at Dean as he tugged the condom on, then rubbed myself a little more.
He climbed back into the bed and lay on top of me, spreading my legs wider and pulling off my bikini underpants. I caught his eye and held his gaze; he grimaced as he fitted himself inside me. “Good?” I prompted him as he sank inside me.
“Yeah….” he said, and pushed against me. “Oh, Lily.”
He leaned to kiss me but, fearful of my virus, I turned and gave him my cheek. He kissed each side of my mouth, then my cheek, and my forehead, and I wrapped my legs around his back. “Oh, yeah,” I sighed as his body wracked mine. “That’s good.”
Then he kissed my mouth, lightly, and I pushed against him as he fucked me. “You like that? Baby?”
“Lily,” he said. “Lily.”