The Professor's Pet

September 1986-3

A strangled bleat squeezed through my lace-stuffed, taped-up teeth, and I lurched helplessly upward beneath my oh-so-spirited rider. A head-to-toe convulsion overcame me, focusing at last in my boiling groin. A far more powerful orgasm than I’d ever yet dreamed of experiencing then suddenly shot a more prodigious ejaculation than a sheltered little twit like me had ever managed yet right up into the forbidden territory of my more-than-just intimidating new authority figure.

Her response was entirely predictable. And yet it was still less extreme than I’d feared – at least at the time. I was then too witlessly expended to grasp the given clues about the endless decades of madness that stretched ahead of me…

The second she felt the hot wet slap of my ejaculate, Dr. Teasel barely bit back a scream of purest fury. She immediately quit pumping, leaned back, and then slapped my face repeatedly with all the limited leverage available to her.

“You worthless piece of s**t!” she venomously hissed. “You bad, bad, naughty boy! I could have come another five times! What the f**k did I tell you!”

Slumping spent and quivering uncontrollably in aftermath, I was still aware enough to be terrified of her entirely explicable outrage. And yet once again I somehow found it within myself to be captivated by her towering dudgeon. Do you know the old phrase “You’re beautiful when you’re angry”? It’s meant to be both condescending and disarming. But I suddenly found whole worlds of other meaning in it.

To me, the sight of a woman in authority looming over me, seething with outrage, preparing to inflict the direst of punishment, suddenly pushed buttons and pulled levers deep inside me that I was helpless to resist.

She had the Psychology degree, and not me. And surely she could have easily linked this aberrant reaction to my own f****d-up upbringing, one that was rife with undeserved corporal punishment at the hands of my stern, unbelievably buxom, and yet obviously unbalanced mother. All I knew was that I suddenly felt both cowed and devoted: limitlessly remorseful and at the same time inexplicably filled with both a craving for punishment and the simultaneous driving need to do whatever was necessary to regain the favor of the iconic female who was, as always, the most important person to me in the entire world…

Again: was it this inherent weakness, or my doctor’s drugs and manipulations that made me what I was finally to be? Or was it neither (unlikely) or (most probably) both factors? Who knows? All I know is that unbeknownst to me at the time, that one moment was the most crucial turning point of my life.

“I’m so sorry, Professor,” I tried to stammer out, but of course her panties and tape prevented that. No matter. She surely would have accepted no apology.

“Clearly, I’ve misjudged you!” she icily snapped, and suddenly the death of our unbearably needy relationship seemed a doom I couldn’t possibly endure. I suffered terribly on the rack of my remorse for several long minutes then, as Dr. Teasel at first plucked a box of tissues from her desk, slid off of me and then used these to staunch and catch the slithering mess of my offense.

“You are going to pay for this for the rest of your life, I promise you,” she grimly intoned as she did so. Then she straightened her clothes and once again left me bound and gagged as she moved to her desk.

There she tore free a scrap of paper and scribbled something short onto it.

Next she accessed her purse again, and for the second time in that unbelievable hour she uncaringly exposed me to irrefutable evidence of criminality. This time she produced a slim obsidian six-inch handle, pressed a button, and a shining silver blade shot lengthwise out of it. Carrying both paper and highly illegal switchblade, she moved back around to confront me.

Suddenly struck with a much more mortal fear than before, I squirmed in my bonds. But my cold-hearted lover-teacher merely reached down and sliced the tape securing my wrists to the chair. Then as I sat there numbingly rubbing them, she thrust the scrap of paper into my suddenly tingling right hand.

“That’s my address, boy. Be there Friday night, at seven-thirty sharp. And don’t eat dinner. In fact, no food at all after noon. Got it?”

Still bewilderingly benumbed, I nodded. Then I tentatively raised my hands to my face, and began peeling away the tape.

“That’s another thing,” she added severely.

“You will launder those panties and promptly return them to me. Jerk off with them all you must, but I want them back pristine clean and without a single frayed thread on Friday night. Understand?”

By now I’d extricated them from my mouth, and was able to submissively respond.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now get the f**k out of my office. And I don’t want to even cross glances with you until Friday at seven-thirty. From now on you will sit in the back of the class. And if you ever give a single hint to anyone about what’s going on between us, you’re f*****g dead. Do you understand me boy?” She shook the knife threateningly at me.

“Completely, ma’am!” I humbly mumbled. “I’ll be unbelievably quiet and completely discreet.”

“Good!” she sneered back me. “Now get the hell out of here!”

Head still swimming, my prick somehow once again twitching, I stood up, pulled my sweats and boxers back up around my waist. I stowed the suddenly wonderfully precious panties in my backpack, and then quietly scuttled out of her sight.

3.

For the rest of that week I tried to get on with the normal freshman business of settling in and adjusting to life at college.

There was my new head coach to get to know of course, a former elite player in the world-renowned English leagues named Ryan Borders. To say that he was a strict disciplinarian was slighting him. He lost no time in informing me that missing practice would simply not be tolerated. I thus spent most of Wednesday afternoon running wind sprints and charging up and down the stadium steps as punishment for Tuesday.

His hand-picked staff took a similarly dim view of such dereliction, and I was subjected to a lot of not-so-fatherly advice and derision. Luckily for me though, my new teammates were far more willing to give me the benefit of the doubt.

The story of my ‘little problem’ in Chemistry class had swept through the locker room with much attendant hilarity. And adolescent men being what they are, dirty jokes and ribald ripostes about what appropriate penance Professor Teasel had exacted from me were far too accurate for comfort.

I was forced to play this all off with grim assurances that she was the meanest, coldest b***h in the universe, and that anyone who tried to stick a d**k in her would quickly find it frozen stiff and then broken off like an icicle. I spun a miserable tale of extensive, mind-numbing filing work to be done, and despite continued jokes this was accepted readily enough.

None of us knew each other well enough yet to detect a lie yet after all. And my persecution at the hands of our hard-ass coaches was generally met with a spirit of commiseration.

I wasn’t the first freshman on the team to run afoul of them after all. And many of the well-respected upperclassmen had stories of woe to tell that made mine seem trivial. So in spite of my secret situation, things with the team were so far going all right. And after a similar bit of s**t, life in the dormitory wasn’t turning out too badly either.

My roommate was a guy named Sid Bradley. He was from California and a football player, so we really didn’t have much in common. Worse, we had nothing but contempt for each other’s taste in music. He favored mindless current pop, while I was a blues and jazz fusion man. But other than this we got on all right, respecting each other’s space and going out of our way not to needlessly antagonize each other. The rest of the guys on our floor were the usual mix of this and that, and the dorm as a whole was the usual testosterone-fueled circus. Blaring stereos constantly competed with each other, people were charging up and down the halls and raising hell at all hours of the day and night, beer and booze flowed by the barrel and the sweet scent of m*******a smoke drifted out from under locked doors despite the towels stuffed underneath them.

Naturally I had to put up with my share of ribbing here too – it seemed that within a week the whole school knew about my abnormally large equipment. People took to calling me ‘Snake’ James, and ‘Benny the Club’ and such, and outside the dorm I was the subject of much female whispering and giggling. Some of the more brazen girls were casting me speculative and even challenging looks, which alternately made me giddily heady or frankly uneasy. And of course in addition to all this there were still new teachers to get used to, far bigger class sizes, increased expectations, plus all the usual challenges and freedoms involved in living away from home for the first time.

I actually enjoyed this more than anyone. People who were homesick made me shake my head in incomprehension. It was frankly fabulous being away from my b***h of a mother. And I could finally truly sympathize with my long-gone father.

I would have left her years ago too, had it been a possibility. And with no siblings and only my high school friends and teammates to leave behind, college was a whole new world of limitless opportunity. Until then I’d been reveling in it. But now suddenly I couldn’t keep my mind off the blackly fascinating Professor Teasel.

I still had trouble even believing that Tuesday afternoon had occurred. And my anticipation of Friday night left me so simultaneously excited and uneasy that I had the butterflies almost constantly. Consumed by the momentous loss of my virginity, and of course being unable to brag about it to anyone, I spent hours spinning mad fantasies about what it would be like to actually be sharing my demanding professor’s bed: how she would continue rule over me, pitilessly dominating, extorting orgasm after orgasm, but would then eventually soften, allowing me to rub my face in those tantalizingly pointy breasts, suckle at one distended n****e after another, and finally watch disbelievingly as she somehow managed to fit my hugely swollen c**k-head into her hungry mouth and expertly give me my very first ever blow-job…

Naturally I just had to masturbate, and at every opportunity. Indeed I had my stern new lover’s permission, and even suggestion-bordering-on-order that I do so.

I’d never been any kind of fetishist before. But fingering those lacy white panties, smelling the scent she’d left on them, was far more than proof that I hadn’t simply dreamed the whole encounter. It was also compulsorily arousing. Unfortunately, privacy is at a premium in any dormitory. One can’t just jerk oneself off whenever one wants to while sharing a tiny box with an almost total stranger, buried of course in a buzzing hive of similar tiny boxes of full of likewise total strangers. But at least I knew Sid’s schedule, and by skipping breakfast or slipping back in on my free periods while he was away at class allowed me to lock the door, extract the precious panties, free my raging member and give it the dozen or so quick jerks that were all I suddenly required.

Mindful of Dr. Teasel’s orders, I could only gently brush my erection a few times with that delicate lace, before draping it over my face. Smelling her then as I worked myself was more than titillation enough. In fact, as I said, it utterly consumed me. As Wednesday turned to Thursday and then beyond I was sounded out on all kinds of activities for Friday night: fraternity rushes, team parties, and even the offer of a date from one Lea Wilson, a sophomore with a reputation as an incorrigible slut. Naturally I lost no time in turning them all down. What my own plans were I refused to divulge, leading to some upraised eyebrows. I didn’t care. All I cared about was using those panties while I had them, and dreaming about seven-thirty Friday evening…